Sadly, it won’t work out between us. Dan’s already madly in love with my friend Mike, and besides, I kind of want to see where this thing with Rand goes. Oh, well. We’ll always have Astoria, Dan.

(Oh, and psst! If you want to read more of his adventures, check out his blog, Speak of the Daniel).

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One of the things I love about travel is that it’s always an adventure. And like any great adventure, the best journeys are full of exploration, discovery, and surprise (just not the “Surprise! We sent your bags to Tbilisi!” kind of surprise).

It was during one such adventure that I uncovered what was possibly the most delightful surprise in all of my (rather limited) experience as a world traveler.

My first time in Italy was also the first time I ever heard of a place called Cinque Terre. It happened two summers ago while my boyfriend Mike and I were vacationing in Florence. Mike had assumed the task of putting together a list of potential daytrips. Having spent a college semester in Florence, he was fairly well acquainted with the city and surrounding region. I, on the other hand, was clueless …

Dan: “Hey, Mike, is Florence very far from Tuscany?”

Mike (with a sigh): “No, Dan. Not very far.”

Dan: “Cool. Maybe we can check it out while we’re here.”

Mike (to himself): “Well… at least he’s handsome.”

Pictured: Florence. Also pictured: Tuscany. Mind = blown.

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To me, “Cinque Terre” was just another Italian-sounding name on Mike’s list. I vaguely recognized the other names on the roster. There was the place named after the brownish crayon. And the other place from that movie with Cher. (I know. The culture just oozes out of me). But the name Cinque Terre failed to ring any of my oh-so-worldly bells. All I had to go on, really, was Mike’s cursory description of “five picturesque coastal villages linked together by a series of scenic hillside hiking trails.”

Great. Sounds lovely. Sold.

Now, even though the words “hillside” and “hiking” and “trails” were right there in the description, my imagination conjured a slightly different image. I envisioned something akin to a long, leisurely walk along the sea; a village-by-village stroll down some gently winding path that played the role of charming alternative to paved road and rigid walkway. We’d meet carefree couples on tandem bicycles, playful pups chasing tossed rubber balls, and barefoot children racing each other to the next gelato cart (that’s a thing, right?). The idyllic serenity washed over me just thinking about it.

But, in a manner predictable to no one (except, you know, anyone with access to a weather report), this sunny fantasy began to dissolve the morning of our departure. The heavy rain clouds that chased our train all the way from Florence to Monterosso were threatening to wash away any hopes of an enchanting outdoor excursion. Not a promising omen, but we pushed forward anyway.

Arriving in Monterosso around lunchtime, and in the midst of a drenching downpour, we ducked into a small cellar-bistro for both food and shelter.

We just followed the blue arrow.

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Resigned to the nasty weather, we reluctantly prepared to scrap our day of breezy seaside exploration. The disappointment was palpable, and the rest of our afternoon looked pretty gloomy. But it wasn’t all folly – the food was outstanding.

All kinds of awesome.

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A mere hour later, Mike and I emerged from our windowless eatery squinting in the glare of a newly clear sky. Suddenly, the street was teeming with sunglass-clad villagers. From seemingly nowhere, dozens of sunbathers and surfers had taken to the nearby beach. The grey, cloud-draped surface of the Mediterranean had turned deep blue and now stretched all the way to the horizon. For Mike and me, it was a gay-cation miracle. “Game on,” we declared.

Monterosso, lookin' pretty sexy after the storm.

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Our ensuing hike – and I do mean hike – began much as I’d imagined it. As we strolled toward the outskirts of town, everyone seemed to be making the most of this picture-perfect summer day. But as we started up the trail, we began to realize what we were getting ourselves into: “Um, where are all the bikes? And the dogs? And the children? And why is this trail getting so narrow? And rugged? And steep? And when did it get SO DAMN HOT today?”

Neither of us was prepared for what soon felt like a treacherous expedition. Ninety-plus minutes of slippery rocks, muddy slopes, prickly overgrowth, ancient and near-vertical stairways, and sparse shade from the unforgiving August sun proved an unexpected challenge. I know. We were hardly scaling Kilimanjaro. But this hike was a far cry from the graceful waltz down the beach I’d anticipated earlier. It was like expecting a side salad and then being run over by a produce truck. But on the plus side, the coastal scenery was breathtaking. Also, Mike took off his shirt.

It was at the end of this trek that we stumbled across my incredible surprise. Having burned through every carb absorbed at lunch, we approached the next village, Vernazza, sweaty, exhausted, and parched (because some fool decided that lugging clunky water bottles along the trail would be an unnecessary burden). But I found myself instantly revived by the sight I beheld from the hillside overlooking Vernazza.

A bit of preface: A year or so before our trip, I was thumbing through some random magazine when a full-page ad caught my eye. I have no idea what it was advertising, but it was the image that grabbed me: A tiny, picturesque village nestled on a rocky seaside outcrop. A cozy, boat-filled harbor lapping at the town’s central square. And a pastel rainbow of quaint facades softly glowing in the setting sun. I’d never seen the place before, and had no idea where it was. But I remember being amazed that such a place existed somewhere on Earth. It looked, for lack of a better word, heavenly. But it seemed so small and obscure and unattainably perfect that I couldn’t imagine ever actually finding the place. Part of me even doubted the place existed at all – just a Photoshopped mirage, perhaps. This enchanting image escaped my consciousness soon after.

As I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, the picture was of Vernazza – the very real village I was now gazing into with unbelieving awe. There it was, right in front of me. I had discovered my vision of Heaven on Earth without even looking for it. It was like suddenly finding that one great song whose name you never bothered to learn, but had spent ages shuffling around in the back of your head. (This also happened to me recently, and it was a genuine thrill. I’m a man of simple joys).

In a near-ecstatic trance, I just stood there, taking it all in. I explained to Mike what I was so worked up about, and fortunately, he had the presence of mind to snap some photos of me and my new special place. We were still thirsty and exhausted, but Mike got it. He gave me all the time in the world to savor this magical moment.

Now, as a world traveler, I’m a relative novice. And I know nothing of the future travel adventures that await me. But fairly I’m certain that this one moment will forever place high among my all-time greatest travel experiences.

Dan and his special place.

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After one long last gaze, Mike and I wandered down into the village for much-needed water and much-craved gelato. We poked around a few of the little shops, and sat for a while on the beach. It was a rejuvenating respite. I was still basking in my surprise elation, while Mike was basking in gelato-filled contentment.

When it was finally time to move on, one of us asked the other if we were ready to make our way down the rest of the trail, and through the remaining three villages.

The look on both of our faces said it all. Not a chance.

We hopped onto the next train, and made our way back to Firenze.

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Vernazza and Monterosso suffered a major landside and significant damage in the fall of last year. The towns have recently reopened, after months of rebuilding (which is still ongoing). The local businesses there need tourism revenue now more than ever to get back on their feet – as if you needed more of an excuse to visit the Cinque Terre. 

Fortunately, Angela has decided to share some of her wisdom with the rest of us slackers. Here are her tips for any traveler who wants to see the world with their little one along for the ride. (And yes, she manages to make it all look easy. She has a sickening knack for that sort of thing.)

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Hear ye, hear ye, all brave parents venturing into the great unknown with offspring in tow! I’ve been there and back … and lived to tell the tale. Here are the convictions I brought home as souvenirs. If you’re a fellow jet-set mom or dad, I humbly offer them up to you.

Let us remain strong in our conviction to give our children the experience, education, and memories that only travel can bring.

Live long and travel! (That’s for you, Geraldine.)

We’re as exhausted as she is. We're just better at not admitting it.

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1. Recognize that travel doesn’t necessarily mean “relaxing” any more.
   Long gone are the days when we could go out for a late dinner and drinks, sleep in until noon, sightsee, and do it all over again. Now we have people relying on us—people with minute-by-minute needs. That doesn’t mean, however, that we can’t still carve out relaxing moments.
   

   Sunset cocktail, anyone?

   -

   For instance, each evening at 5:00pm, my daughter and I would have a “sunset cocktail hour.” I’d pour her a sippy cup of milk (and me a glass of wine), and we’d lounge on the deck, enjoying the view together. What started out as a way to keep her sated before dinner while I took a breather became one of my favorite memories of the trip.

   You simply need to get creative. Relaxation is still possible, even if it’s no longer prevalent.

   

   My villa-mate shares a rare restful moment with her 3 month old.

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2. Ignore the naysayers.
   My husband and I were committed to taking our daughter to St. John, a pilgrimage of sorts. It would require two 5-hour flights each way. That was out of our hands. Our first flight was a red-eye. That was out of our hands. We simply hoped beyond hope that our 18-month-old would be tired enough to sleep. Unfortunately, that was out of our hands, too.
   

   She is the one who will not be tamed ...

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   As soon as we sat down on that first flight (our daughter was happy and quiet at this point, mind you), the person one up and over in 26E—a petite, black-haired witch of a woman—repeatedly peeked from beneath her sleep mask to give us the stink-eye. Let me tell you: That doesn’t do much to calm your nerves when you’re already edgy about your toddler’s upcoming 12+ hours of travel.

   

   This isn't what her mask said. But it should've been.

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   Two hours later, when our child was screaming bloody murder, wouldn’t you know it: 26E leans over and starts offering suggestions of what we should do. Then I jumped over my husband, ripped off her mask, and crammed it into her pursed, thoughtless little mouth.

   Okay, I only did that in my head. But the lesson is: There will always be naysayers. People who balk at the idea of you taking a trip at all. People who grumble on the airplane. People who roll their eyes at the restaurant. Ignore them all. Or smile. Or shove something down their throat. But whatever you do, don’t let them deter you.

3. You can do more than you think you can.
   It was the last day of our trip, and I found myself swimming with a car seat in the ocean. Yes, you heard me right. See?
   

   When I envisioned a family trip, this was definitely not a part of it.

   -
   Our daughter had puked on the winding road to the remote beach. We pulled over, and my husband’s trigger-happy gag reflex threatened to double our troubles. I sat, horrified, staring at my daughter for a few frozen seconds, during which I formed a plan. The coup de grace of this plan? A half-mile hike to and from the ocean for a morning car seat swim. Half an hour later, we were having fun in the sun—and a good laugh. The only evidence of our challenge was a car seat drying out on the beach, much to the hilarious astonishment of passersby.

   When it comes to traveling with a newborn, infant, toddler, child, teenager, or any combination of the above: you CAN do it. We saw a couple 5- and 7-year-old boys and 2-year-old twins. Those poor parents were outnumbered 2-to-1! And guess what? They were STILL having fun. You’d be amazed what you can do when it’s required and what can turn out to be fun (or at the very least funny, if only in retrospect).

4. Cheer each other on.
   Leaving the beach after the car seat incident, a darling older woman placed a hand on my elbow (contrary to Geraldine’s Florida encounter, this is still a kind gesture). Then she looked me in the eyes, and said, “You’re doing great.” I needed that. And when a kind stranger goes out of their way to tell you that, you believe it.
   

   You don't need to be this ecstatic about it. Just a little pat and "good job" will do.

   -

   Similarly, on the first plane home, even after sitting next to our crying, over-tired baby for hours, our seatmate assured me, “You guys are doing a great job.”

   Wow. So much relief, power, and confidence transferred through such simple words. Going forward, I’m going do this for other parents, too. The effect has much more potential for positive results than the sleep mask glares of Miss 26E.

   Remember to cheer on your spouse, too. Just knowing someone is in the same boat and sees and appreciates all you’re doing can make a huge difference on your outlook.

5. Be flexible.
   

   Our (almost criminally) adorable travel-mates.

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   We rented a house with two other sets of parents, friends of ours, each with 3-month-old babies. In case you don’t have kids and don’t know this (or have them and have forgotten), infants and toddlers are on completely different schedules. Infants sleep and eat every two hours or so, and all they require for a bed is two arms. Toddlers, however, are conscious of certain expected times for food and sleep. They’re also far less likely to doze contentedly while a parade of cruise-ship-bound snorkelers flap past your beach tent.

   

   Miracle upon miracle, Szaba sleeps! Baby Faris shows his support.

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   Granted, we did our best to make our daughter comfortable, but we weren’t willing to sacrifice rare vacation experiences to get her back home in her Pack ‘n’ Play at 11:00am. By being flexible and sticking with our group of friends on beach days, my husband and I could take turns, one watching her while the other checked out a bale of sea turtles with a snorkeling buddy, for instance.

6. Recognize that flexibility has consequences.
   As good as a child may be, there will be moments when all this flexibility catches up with them: a meltdown at a late dinner, a “Get this sand off of me!” tantrum on the beach, you get the picture.
   

   Moments before Szaba’s fancy restaurant meltdown. Notice the look of parental survival mode creeping over my husband’s face.

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   Contrary to what you may feel in that moment—heck, you might be tired, grumpy, and hungry at that point, too—your child isn’t trying to ruin your vacation or make things harder for you. It’s simply their way, as human beings who can’t personally make sure their needs are met, to communicate what their needs are. They have no choice but to depend on us as parents (even to their own annoyance at times). Keeping calm is the best tool in your arsenal. They can sense frustration, and that only makes things worse. Remember: You’re on vacation! Meet their needs as best you can, take a fresh look at the beauty all around you, and carve out some happy time (alone or with your spouse) to regroup and reset.

7. Downgrade your cleanliness standards.
   

   If you knew what was happening in this picture, you wouldn't think it was so cute.

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   This one is a hard one for me, I’ll admit. But when your child is writhing on the airplane floor in a sleep-deprived fit and finds—and then, oh god, proceeds to eat—a cookie she dropped hours before, there’s not much you can do but go with it. When your child decides it’s funny to scoop up chlorinated, bug-speckled pool water with her shovel and drink it, it’s already done. Go with it. Sure, it’s gross, and you’d never catch me doing those things, but they’re kids. They’re clueless. They’re resilient. They’ll live. And you’ll save yourself a lot of unnecessary stress by resigning yourself to that fact.

8. Give your electronics a vacation, too.
   

   "Words With Friends" ... over the Intenet ... with friends right beside you.

   -
   Sure, it’s tempting to keep that camera poised for the next scrapbook-worthy moment or to text your Facebook friends each vacation play-by-play. But if these devices are your focus, you’re missing it. If you don’t live in the moment now, when are you going to? Realize, revitalize, relax. Step away from those battery-powered temptresses. Embrace the rarity of this fleeting moment. See the joy on your baby’s face when she’s learning to kick in the pool. Hear the creak of the hammock, rocking in time with the ocean waves. Feel the sun on your skin, igniting old hopes and shedding light on new ideas. Witness what it is to be alive, and be thankful for it all.

   

   All the work was well worth it for a few moments with my baby like this.

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9. Congratulate yourself on a job well done. 
   Being a parent can be tough. Traveling can be tough. Put the two together, and you have a daunting challenge. BUT IT’S WORTH IT. I would even argue that it makes you a better parent. So get out there! See the world! Don’t be afraid. You and your child are destined for many amazing, funny, gross, and unexpected things out in this great big world of ours. Life is a pilgrimage, and vacations are some of the most memorable, triumphant moments along the way.-
10. Start planning the next trip.

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Want to learn more about Angela’s trip? Read her full post about tips for visiting St. John on MyCastleHeart.com!

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I am a fairly new New Yorker, having moved here in the middle of June from Philadelphia, and before that I was living in Switzerland for a while. Having grown up in small-city Virginia, I have been used to fairly homogeneous surroundings (I’m not saying that’s a good thing, I’m saying that’s what it is). Since I’ve moved to New York though, I’ve become enthralled with the variety of people around! I started this Instagram pictures series a few months ago on Google+, and Geraldine loved them so much that she asked me to write this guest post for her.

Some of the subway photos may come across as creepy, but I think they give us an interesting view into the world of New York City. The shots of the protesters at Occupy Wall Street will hopefully help put a face to the people that you see on the news.

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Occupy Wall Street
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The protesters down in Liberty Square were peaceful when I went down there on the afternoon of October 8th. Shouts were rising from back in the square and music was playing, but everyone was calm and peaceful. Here are a few shots of what I saw.
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The American Dream is the American Plight

"The American Dream is the American Plight."

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And that government, of the people …

"... And that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth." - Abraham Lincoln

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“Everyone pays their tax” March

"Everyone pays their tax, everyone but Goldman Sachs" was their cry.

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Who would Jesus foreclose on?

Protesters and NYPD marched alongside each other. The sign says "Who would Jesus foreclose on?"

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Life on the NYC Subway
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The Reading Girl

I saw this girl reading in the subway late on evening. She was first standing by the door with her book in her hand, looking around sheepishly in between times of being engrossed in her book. Then she sat down and I noticed that she was actually sounding out the words to herself as she was reading. I was quickly overcome with how beautiful of a scene it was, so I had to take a photo. Living in New York, it can sometimes become easy for me to be disillusioned with a lot of the world I see around me, but this girl restored my faith in humanity. Read on, girl!

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The Suit Reading

I’m often overcome with curiousity about the vast differences between so many of the people I sit across from. When I start my journey in Union Square I usually get a very homogenous crowd, with guys like this dressed in suits reading the newspaper. When I get down to where I live, it is a predominately black crowd, which I love.

The diversity keeps the city beautiful.

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The Elderly Gentleman With the Hat

I frequently hear about the death of the newspaper, and how the newspaper is increasingly going online. On the New York subways, however, I frequently see people reading the newspaper on their way into work. I happened to catch this gentleman reading his newspaper on the way into Manhattan in the morning. But people of all styles read the newspapers in the city in the morning. As much as life changes, life stays the same.

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The End of an Error

This poor chap slept, leaning on the rail, with his bag tucked under his arm. The bag’s message, which is hard to decipher in the photo, contained a picture of George W. Bush and stated “The End of an Error”.

Are you kidding me? That’s hilarious. Only in New York.

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“Mommy, when’s Mothers Day and Father’s Day?

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These two were rather rambunctious on the subway, which normally annoys me, but the little guy stole the show when he turned to his exhausted mother and said “Mommy, when’s Mother’s Day and Father’s Day?” She replied, “Not till next year”, sounding absolutely exhausted. “Ok”, said the little guy, “I’ll make you a card next year then.”

D’awww!

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That’s it! I hope this has given you a different look into the people and happenings of New York City. If you want, you can follow me on Instagram (dohertyjf) and keep updated on them as I post!

Today’s guest post is by my dear friend Dan Thies, and I consider the fact that it finally came to fruition a huge accomplishment … for ME. Because it has taken me literally months (perhaps years) to persuade Dan to guest post on my blog. But his reply was always the same:

“Blah blah blah something blah blah blah blah.”

Yeah, I know. He makes a compelling argument, right? So I continued badgering him (giraffing him?) until he finally agreed. And now that I’ve seen what he can create – a post littered with puns, corny jokes, and photos of monkeys – I know that it was TOTALLY worth the wait.

Now if he’d only update his own blog, too.

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When embarking on your very first guided African safari, be prepared to answer this seemingly fair and simple question: What animal are you most hoping to see on today’s outing? If asked, please know that your safari guide is not conducting an opinion survey; that this question is not to be answered subjectively. This is a serious, pass/fail quiz, and there is but one correct answer.

On my first safari, in South Africa’s Kruger National Park, I failed this test miserably. Though I clearly heard each person before me shout “lion” to the safari guide’s approving nod, I still got this one embarrassingly wrong. The annoyed sighs and disgusted sneers of a couple dozen Belgian and Dutch tourists said it all. By foolishly blurting “giraffe,” I might as well have been announcing that I hated both waffles and windmills. Our guide shot me a glare that seemed to say, “That’s enough outta you, wise guy.”

These good folks were there for some big, ferocious-feline action. Nobody gives an ess about a few tall, gangly leaf-eaters. My absurd, American crazy-talk was not to be tolerated on this excursion to Lion Town.

Crazy, giraffe-lovin' American.

It’s not that I don’t care for huge, killer cats. My lame interest in non-lions aside, I actually think they’re pretty badass. But I also try not to be so single-minded in my pursuits.

Plus, I had already seen a lion earlier that day. While out exploring the park on our own, my friends and I spotted this sleepy gent:

Can you see me?

Given that he wasn’t doing much, and was barely visible in the thick, shady brush, the encounter proved only mildly exhilarating.

But anyway, having shrugged off the shame of my apparent “giraffe” gaffe, I was totally stoked for our three-hour safari adventure to begin.

Kruger National Park is home to sizeable populations of exotic wildlife we Americans might recognize as sports mascots (go, Zebras!) and symbols of certain political parties (vote Hippo!). Its differences from the familiar urban habitats we call zoos are subtle, but many. For one, the resident animals can roam the park freely, while humans are confined to packed safari trucks and fenced-in rest camps. Also, the animals are quite adept at feeding themselves (so stay alert, and sign this legal waiver).

And the park is as big as New Jersey, making quality photo ops with its fifteen hundred well-scattered, mostly nocturnal lions something of a hard-won prize (see above).

Luckily, there’s plenty of non-lion awesomeness to take in at Kruger. Did I mention that the very first animal our group spotted, the moment we pulled out of the gate, was, wait for it… A GIRAFFE!

Dan: 1. Everyone else: zip.

Also, you get to learn neat, little-known animal facts. Did you know that warthogs have no necks, and have to kneel on their front legs to reach the ground for food?

Oooh, piece of candy!

Or that a few dung beetles can reduce a fresh monkey turd to a mere pavement stain in just minutes?

(Monkey poop photos omitted. You’re welcome.)

Yes, there were monkeys everywhere. They could be seen frolicking and foraging (and doing other things) all over the park – even right outside our cottage:

Hey, man. Can I bum a banana?

But as cuddly and playful as these critters may have looked, restricting any direct contact with humans is something park officials are deadly serious about:

Noted.

Oh, and speaking of hilarious primates:

Baboons!

At one point, we saw a whole troop of these guys sprawled lazily across a quiet stretch of road. Looking rather docile, they could just barely be bothered to make way for our slowly passing safari truck. But then, a large alpha-baboon came charging down the road. He was barking what we guessed were baboon orders for, “Move your puffy, red asses! There’s a predator nearby!” The male sentinels quickly lined each side of the road, rigidly poised at full attention, while the now-alert females gathered around to shield the young. In an instant, these suddenly intimidating baboons were prepared to take on any threat. This was some serious monkey business.

And so was this.

But our biggest thrill/scare in the park involved a near miss with a perturbed elephant. While watching with nervous awe as this very large bull knocked down a whole tree…

Timber!

…our guide assured us that such a show of force was not aggressive behavior. This hungry fella was only trying to get at the tree’s sweet top leaves. There was no need to worry without these more telltale signs of aggression: Shuffling feet. (Wait, he’s totally shuffling his feet). Flaring ears. (Um, flappin’ like Dumbo over here). And wild, threatening trunk gestures (Oh. Shit.)

In a sudden, terrifying moment, the elephant charged. He came at the rear corner of the open-air truck – right where my boyfriend Mike and I sat particularly exposed (to the elephant, pervs). In a minor panic, Mike yelled, “GO! GO! GO!” to the driver, who then revved the truck’s loud diesel engine. The noise seemed to startle the elephant, and he backed off as the truck peeled away.

Back off mah tree!

Once at a safe distance, a Belgian woman turned around to tease Mike, telling him, “Don’t be such a baby.” Because, you know, there’s really nothing to fear about a pissed off, five-ton pachyderm. Especially when you’ve got a couple of nice human buffers to shield you. (Earlier, the same woman had apologized for accidentally spraying a toxic plume of insect repellent into the faces of a Dutch couple, saying, “You know us Belgians. We are always trying to kill the Dutch.” She was a class act.)

Our equally tactful safari guide figured this was a perfect time to describe the gruesome manner in which angry elephants dispatch their victims. It seems that some elephants, not satisfied with a quick, crushing stomp, prefer a more “trunks-on” approach: “Oh yes, he will wrap his trunk around your neck, and remove your head from your body.” Real nice, safari guide.

Relieved.

We didn’t spot any lions that evening, but the big payoff did finally come early the next morning. We piled into another safari truck, this time with a very jolly group of older Germans. What began as three hours of bird watching (apparently, Germans are nuts for exotic birds) culminated when we were directed to a site where some lions had just been spotted. After making our way up a long, narrow dirt road, we finally found the site (and the other truckloads of gawkers) where these cool cats sat completely oblivious to the excitement they had generated. There they were, just chillin’ on the rocks, like it was no big:

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What? We were here the whole time. Where have YOU been?

Well played, lions. Well played.

Naturally, this brightened my day exponentially. I hope it does yours as well. I will be back tomorrow with lots of crazy stories about … I don’t know. Something. In the meantime, enjoy the work of one of my former co-workers, and marvel at how someone would be crazy enough to hire both of us.

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Hi. My name is Philip. Geraldine and I used to work together once upon a time. On her second day in the office she baked brownies with peppermint patties in them. That was the day I knew I needed to be her friend. Fun fact you might not know about Geraldine: when we all got laid off, she was in Italy. Yes, the seeds of the Everywhereist were planted even then. The company actually had to lay her off a week later because she was on vacation. Well played. Anyway, in a move calculated to ensure that she never receives another accolade for blogging, Geraldine has allowed me to write a guest post.

My dear wife is from Tokyo and her whole family still lives there. We paid a visit recently and since I failed to write a guest-post the last time we were there (to my eternal shame) I was determined to get one in this time. It was our eighth trip there together in the 13 years we’ve been married, and the second with our now 4-year-old daughter. That being said, you’d think I’d have some unique insight or profound cultural observation to make. And you’d be wrong. For today, I present…

Bathrooms of Japan!

1. My decision to blog about toilets (and their environs) started with this beauty:
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   This is a public men’s room. In a park. Did it smell like human waste? No. Was the floor upsettingly damp? No. Was there some sketchy dude camped out in the corner? No. Did it have an adorable vase of wildflowers between the sinks? Yes. Yes, it did.
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2. Staying on the theme of sinks for the moment, I was — like some absurd country bumpkin — blown away by the simple genius of this contraption:
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   All of your handwashing needs in one tidy unit. I think we’ve all been in that bathroom where you need to wash your hands again after you let yourself out. Not so here. Besides, the bathroom was immaculate.
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3. Astro-turf in your hand-dryer?
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   Why the hell not? I actually rubbed it for a while (the astro-turf, you pig), so charmed was I by the notion. Most places don’t have towels or even hand dryers (which is why I now carry a handkerchief) but this joint went the extra mile.
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4. A friend of ours actually has one of these in her house, but this one is from a restaurant:
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   Wash your hands while it fills the tank. Now that is eco-conscious. Note: I flushed twice so I could get this picture. Sorry, Japan.
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5. If you stay around Tokyo, you don’t face this problem very often. But when you get out into the country (as we did for a few days), you will be faced with the dreaded “slipper.”
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   This is a traditional Japanese toilet. Very low. Squatting required. Having no practice with these I’ve always held out for more familiar apparatuses. I just don’t know how you use them without getting your pants wet. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg of my confusion. Moving on…
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6. I guess nobody’s perfect. This was the one remarkably unpleasant bathroom I stumbled into on my nearly-three-week visit.
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   Not only did it smell like the smoke from every cigarette in Tokyo was being pumped directly into this one bathroom, but if you need a sign to tell you this… what in hell is wrong with you?
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7. This place is an astounding monument to human digestion:
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   The only thing more amazing than its high ceilings, abundant natural light and gleaming fixtures was the fact that this is a highway rest stop. Neither raccoon nor conservative legislator on the hustle in sight.
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8. A lot of things in Japan are written in English, which is very helpful for those of us who still don’t know much Japanese despite having every opportunity to learn. Sometimes, however, you are greeted by a bathroom door that provides very little useful information:
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   This has happened to me more than once and despite my vow to at least learn the characters for “man” and “woman”, my brother-in-law had to rescue me on this one. FYI, that is “woman.” Learn it. Don’t be like me.
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9. If you’ve ever heard stories about modern Japanese toilets, they are all true. They are like carnival rides and best friends and time machines rolled into one. This is the control panel from the one in my in-laws house.
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   I had to be shown where the “flush” button was. Though I am too scared to press the others, I am tempted by their seeming promise that a stream of water will lift you off the seat and to a brighter tomorrow.

That’s that. Thanks for reading. Now, go forth and do your business.

He looked at me warily, and reminded me that the girl I had been talking to, the one so full of moxie and so quick with the clever retorts, might have been an elaborate work of fiction. I kept this in mind when I found out she and her family were stopping through Seattle, and wanted to meet up for lunch.

“She might be a balding man named Herb,” I told myself. “He might think that Kate Hudson is a talented actress, and he might enjoy Stephen Colbert unironically. ” It might be an awkward, unmitigated disaster.

It was not. She was exactly who she claimed to be, and more.

By the end of the afternoon (one largely spent quoting Anchorman) I realized that I could no longer refer to her as “a girl I’ve been talking to online”, but simply started calling her “my friend Deanna.”

She’s recently moved across the planet from me. Though I’ve only met her once, though it really shouldn’t make a difference, this saddens me. I’d love to sit down, have a slice of cake with her, and laugh about how Weinergate is quiet possibly the best name for a sex scandal, ever. But since I can’t do that, I asked her to blog for me, and lovely girl that she is, she said yes. So enjoy today’s post. It was written by my friend, Deanna.

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“We’re almost out of cheese,” my husband informed me the other night. While such a statement would usually cause only a passing moment of sadness in my gluttonous heart, his tone was not to be ignored.

“Can…we not buy more?” I inquired. Being a rather simple soul, I love little more than kicking back on a Friday night with a plate of bread and cheese.

“No, honey … I mean everything else at the cheese shop is made with unpasteurized milk. YOU’RE almost out of cheese.”

Now I had reason to be sad. You see, we left our previous home in glorious Hawaii for a three-year stint in North Yorkshire, England this past February. About a week after we left Hawaii I found out I was expecting our second child–and with our blessed event came all the dietary cautions and restrictions for ladies who find themselves up the spout.

This isn’t my first baby rodeo, but in Hawaii the temptations were mostly limited to sushi. I hadn’t put any thought into avoiding temptation in England until I was confronted with this sad reality: northern England is a fantasyland of beer and cheese. Goat’s milk, sheep’s milk, even buffalo milk cheeses can be found here, soft and pleasantly reeking and all one hundred percent on the “Do Not Eat!” list, and it goes without saying that anything alcoholic is a no-no. In a touch of denial, I played it a little fast and loose with the cheese and meat rules in the first weeks but as the days drew on my normal reluctance to tempt fate grew stronger than my desire for cheese (a strong desire indeed).
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Even toy cheese mocks me.

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Scrambling to the local cheese shop with the blessing of my midwife, I scoured every label for that beautiful, beautiful word: “Pasteurized.” We found many a glorious option: Ribblesdale goat cheese, Yorkshire-made blues, greenish Derby Sage and sweet Wensleydale. And cheddar, my God, the cheddar. But those options at our local cheeseboard did not sound as loud a siren as those pungent unpasteurized choices. Things like full-fat sheep’s milk cheese with “robust and peppery!” on the label and oh, all those locally made Bries.

Just as I was getting that craving under control, my husband embarked on a local beer-tasting project. I loved those deep inhalations from the lip of the beer glass, especially one from Wensleydale Brewery. Their Black Dub Oat Stout smelled like fresh snow, winter mornings with hot coffee, fireplaces, and cuddling with cocoa. It smelled magical. AND I COULDN’T HAVE ANY. Unlike Clinton and his ilk, I could only inhale this magical English elixir. I had to hand it back after consuming only the aroma.

To add insult to injury, we just booked a trip to Dublin–home of Guinness. And let us not even speak of the time I saw signs for the local Cider Fest. If I ever left my husband it would be for a bottle of Strongbow. Or Jon Hamm.  Either way I think he would understand.

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Because I am incredibly petty, I poured my husband's English beer in a Samuel Adams glass. I regret nothing.

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I complain, but of course a healthy pregnancy is first on my mind. A healthy baby is the goal and there are practical considerations: as the full-time nose-wiper to our older child I don’t really have time to be laid out with a case of tummy troubles. But my day will come again. The once-forbidden cheeses and beers of England can be laid out before me without fear of anything more harsh than a bit of gas. So listen up, England: come Christmas we’ll be a traveling family of four and the restrictions are off.

And I have been a VERY good girl this year.

———–

Deanna Niles McConnell is a mom, hausfrau and occasional writer who has called New England, the DC Metro area, Madrid, O’ahu, and Northern England home. Her thoughts on travel, parenthood, comma splices, and general navel-gazing can be found on her blog, Traveling Monkeys.

She was also kind enough to take time out of her busy schedule (which includes a comprehensive list of goals for the year that I endeavor to replicate) to blog for The Everywhereist. It’s short and sweet – the literary equivalent of eating a petit four - and perfect for a Monday morning. So I’m sending her some sincere thanks, and whatever the karmic equivalent of  batch of homemade cookies is.

———————–

I brought back a few photos with me from my recent trip to the UK. I pulled a few of my favorites to share, on the off chance that Everywhereist readers are as big of Anglophiles as Geraldine herself.

While eating my third Full English Breakfast in as many days, I snapped a photo to highlight the lovely dessert options, or what I like to call The Worst Kind of Souvenir.

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I spent most of my trip in a small village, where attractions are hard to come by.

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Of course, browsing headstones in the town cemetery is a perfectly delightful way to spend an afternoon. This one did seem a bit harsh:

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Regrettably, I failed to take a photo of the sign in the restaurant window that proclaimed, “Our Fish is Frozen!” I couldn’t figure out if this was something to brag about, or a preemptive confession in the off-chance that Gordon Ramsay stopped by to berate them and batter their cod.

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By Angela Taylor Hylland
(a.k.a. Syntax Sorceress)

As I started writing this post, I couldn’t help by wonder if Geraldine would find it amusing or offensive, given that I wasn’t able to make it to her destination wedding in nearby Eastern Oregon two years ago. But since she likes to walk that line herself—one of her most endearing qualities, to be sure—I finally decided she would approve. The idea came to me yesterday as I was lounging around the house waiting for the impending birth of my first child. After you’ve run out of nesting projects, checked Facebook 100x too many, and caught up on your favorite blogs (including The Everywhereist, of course), you have a lot of time to think. And I’ve been thinking about the important lessons I’ve learned that I’d like to pass on to my child.

Oh the places these little feet will go …

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At the top of that list:

If you’re lucky enough to be invited to a wedding in a foreign land, GO.

At first read, that may seem superfluous at best and materialistic at worst. But the more I think about it, I realize just how high it would rank on my list of must-do’s.

Here’s why …

But first, a caveat: I’m not talking about destination weddings to someplace tropical that has no traditional significance to either the bride or groom—though those trips have their own charms. I’m talking about the rare opportunity to intimately experience a new land and understand the bride- or groom-to-be through a new lens. Now let’s continue.

As I was saying, here’s why:

1. You will put Father Time in his place. Too often, amazing opportunities are bypassed for the sake of poor timing. That, my friends, is a travesty. When I was presented with a wedding invite to Spain—only two months before my own—it was hard to throw budgets, food tastings, and engagement photos to the wind. But I did. And when I was invited to Singapore smack dab between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I was faced with overextending my vacation time, living 4 out of 6 weeks from a suitcase, and severely condensing my holiday shopping time. And again, I did. In both cases, life won out over practicality. And I couldn’t have been happier with the results.
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   Only a “yes” or a “no” stood between me and this.

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2. You will go places never imagined. Our college friend from Hong Kong invited us to his wedding in Singapore, the home of his fiancé. (Our friend’s name is, I shit you not, Fu Min Chu. But I digress.) That’s an 18-hour flight that I can honestly say I wouldn’t have ever considered otherwise. My only prior knowledge of the country? The sentencing of an American to a good old fashioned cane whoopin’. That’s just not something that calls out to you in the travel books. But my husband and I RSVP’ed “Yes” and soon discovered that this land of chewing gum arrests is the epitome of well-mannered cleanliness, with gorgeous old colonial architecture, bustling riverside dining, stunning Indian and Chinese neighborhoods, and arguably the world’s best zoo. At the same time, it’s eerily American, with its sprawling shopping centers and—in December, when we were there—a fascination for over-the-top Christmas decorations of near Vegas proportions.
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   The exotic: Singapore’s many intricate and colorful temples.

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   The familiar: Singapore’s sprawling shopping malls and Christmas fever.

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3. You will belong where you didn’t before. Since all the guest are likely staying in the same vicinity, nearly everywhere you go you’ll run into your new wedding party friends. In Mallorca, the groom’s family booked us a room in a locally owned hotel, the first floor restaurant completely open to the beach of Port de Pollenca. Here we were enthusiastically greeted by our fellow wedding guests each sunny morning. By day two, the remote island town felt like home, or at least some sort of surreal international summer camp.
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   Walking our shirts over to the neighbors’ condo to borrow their ironing board.

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4. You will learn that language is overrated. When you’re drinking with Catalans and Germans, trying to communicate with broken Spanish and hand signals, you might end up calling the bride’s brother-in-law “The Magician”—and thus make a new friend for life.
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   You don’t need to speak Catalan, English, German, or Spanish to find this picture hilarious.

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5. You will see the larger picture. The Chinese wedding we attended served shark-fin soup. Understandably, outside of the Chinese culture, this is controversial, due to the ecological impact and the fact that sharks are often caught just for their fins, then thrown back to die. But we learned that, from the host families’ point of view, this dish is considered the upmost expression of hospitality. The idea of not serving it would be shameful and offensive to them. Of the seven American guests in attendance, about half ate the soup and half refused it. But regardless, we all learned something from the experience. It taught me a valuable lesson about getting all the facts before weighing in on matters outside of my everyday experiences.
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   This was just one course of our 3-hour multicourse wedding meal. At this Singapore wedding, it was all about the food.

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6. You will be treated like a celebrity. At our friends’ Catalan-German wedding, families vied to have their sons sit at our table, proudly proclaiming, “They can show off their English to the Americans!” (Meanwhile, their poor teenage sons smiled awkwardly, rolling their eyes and shrugging their shoulders when their strutting parents’ backs were turned. I still don’t know if they spoke a word of English … ) Even more impressive, at the Singapore wedding, the best man introduced us to the whole reception as part his toast, and we were given V.I.P. seating at the front-most table—all the better to watch the unexpected cover band performance, complete with drag singer-saxophonist.
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   The bride and groom were invited up to sing with the band. This was the bride’s third costume change of the evening.

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7. You will eat like you’ve never eaten before. In Mallorca, we were invited to join the bride and groom’s immediate families for the rehearsal night dinner at a family friend’s farm. Seriously, Martha Stewart would’ve been green with envy. Everything we were served that night consisted of ingredients from their farm: paella, olives, cheeses, sangria, cava, custard, and more. As if that wasn’t enough, we dined by candlelight in the Mediterranean air on the patio, the same snails used in the paella creeping across the tiles and up the posts of the patio. And you should’ve seen this paella “pan”—a near kiddie-pool-sized grill contraption. Incredible. It was easily one of the top 3 meals of my life.
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   Serious paella. Note the host’s American flag apron, which he somehow acquired and wore just for us.

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So, this is what I will tell my child as soon as he or she is old enough to understand or cares to listen. And for what it’s worth, I impart the same words of wisdom to you:

One day, you may find yourself lucky enough to be face to face with an international invite. You’ll have two choices. You can either grumble to yourself, “Think of how much money that will cost. I don’t even know where this place is, and seriously, the timing couldn’t be worse.”

Or you can prepare for the trip of a lifetime.

Take it from me. Book the tickets.

————

Dear Everywhereist Readers,

Wow. I’m back. Now I know Geraldine’s just taking pity on me. But I’m not going anywhere. And if you’re not either, relax. There are many books that use travel as a metaphor or plot device to entertain you, my beloved home-bound readers. In literature, sometimes “road trip” or “journey” or “travel” are used as code words for “voyage of self-discovery” or “brisk plot.” Cool, huh?

So let’s say you’ve read all the classics of travel writing, like On the Road or even Bill Bryson or Elizabeth Gilbert (and let’s be honest, if you are a female between the ages of 18 and 65, chances are you or your best friend has read Eat, Pray, Love). Don’t despair. There are plenty of interesting and new (enough) travel-themed books you may know about. Yet.

Here are a few I’ve enjoyed, and a two I haven’t even read. Yet.

An Abundance of Katherines by John Green

Child prodigy Colin graduates from high school and gets dumped by his 19th Katherine. His best friend proposes a pick-me up road trip. Hilarity, romance, mathematical references, and anagrams ensue.

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Beginner’s Greek by James Collins

Peter and Holly meet on a flight between New York and L.A.. They fall in love. She gives him her number. He promptly loses it. Years later, they meet again. Only now she’s engaged to his best friend. (Bonus or warning, depending on where you stand on the issue: It’s a treacly romantic comedy that really has nothing to do with air travel at all.)

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Dear American Airlines by Jonathan Miles

If you’ve ever missed your connecting flight, you can relate to Bennie’s problem. He’s en route to his estranged daughter’s wedding when his flight is canceled. Stranded at O’Hare, doomed to miss the nuptials, irate, and helpless, he soon drafts a long letter to the airline demanding a refund, and lamenting his life gone awry.

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The Effect of Living Backward by Heidi Julavits

Please don’t read this on a plane. It’s about a plane getting hijacked by terrorists, forcing sister travelers Alice and Edith to make some pretty tough choices and confront some grim scenarios. A surreal blend of suspense, psychological intrigue, and dark humor.

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The Flying Troutmans by Miriam Toews

28-year-old Hattie returns to Canada to care of her sister’s two kids when Min enters the psych ward. Hattie, Thebes, and Logan soon set out on a road trip to find the kids’ long-lost father. Think Little Miss Sunshine in book form. (Bonus: no awkward Steve Carrell moments!)

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The Leisure Seeker by Michael Zadoorian

An elderly Detroit couple set out on one last journey in their R.V., much to the chagrin of their adult children and doctors. (She’s terminally ill, and he has Alzheimer’s.) Destination: Disneyland. It’s a sad, funny, sweet, and poignant meditation on end-of-life decisions. (Bonus or warning, depending on where you stand on the issue: elderly sex scenes!)

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A propos of nothing, here’s a picture of four functionally literate people in the middle of the road:

There are a couple more travelly authors I adore but wasn’t able to shoe horn into the lists above. But I have no reason not to share them with you now, since Geraldine is paying me by the word. (Note to Geraldine: you are paying me, aren’t you?)

Vendela Vida (aka Mrs. Dave Eggers). This literary power couple charmed my free British Airways socks off last year with their twee indie film Away We Go. A 30-something pregnant couple set out to find a place to call home and raise their child. Travel with Bert and Verona to Tucson, Phoenix, Madison, Montreal, Miami…cute, funny, and poignant, and, I think, particularly appealing to those of us in the under 40 set.

Vendela Vida. Vendela Vida. Vendela Vida. It’s almost as much fun to say as Katie Skibinski. Katie Skibinski. Katie Skibinski. Katie Skibinski. I said almost.

Katie Skibinski, and the awesomest bunny on the planet.

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But I digress. Vendela Vida uses the travel as metaphor for self-discovery and healing to good effect in her three novels. Let’s face it. Unless you’re Geraldine, you will probably never find a reason to go to Lapland and its famed Ice Hotel. But Vida can take you there in Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name. It’s more likely you’ll make it to the Philippines, where her character travels after a traumatic attempted mugging in And Now You Can Go. It’s also plausible that you’ll one day visit Turkey, where Vida sets her exploration of grief in her new novel The Lovers. (Bonus: not only are all Vida’s books elegant, thoughtful, and spare, they’re all short enough to be read in one sitting.)

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Speaking of elegant, thoughtful, can-be-read-in-one-sitting books by hot young thangs, may I introduce to you Emily St. John Mandel. Not only is she Canadian, Mandel is also the new darling of the indie bookstore scene and a rising literary star. Her new book, a literary thriller, The Singer’s Gun, starts with an epigraph about travel novels. Because it’s about travel, identity, escaping your past, and all that serious stuff. But it’s a quick, engaging read. Her other novel, Last Night in Montreal, is another literary mystery with characters who are constantly on the run from their pasts, in search of themselves, and in search of each other. Fast pace and gripping plot would make either of these suitable to be read on an airplane.

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What about you? Any favorite books with travel themes, even if they aren’t overtly travelogues?

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Yours truly, sincerely, always and forever,

Mindy

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Mindy Van Wingen is a librarian, avid reader, and denies the existence of robots.

Laura and I were in a terrible statistics class our senior year of high school. It was a requirement for the IB program, and I think it’s safe to say that both of us hated the class. One day the teacher, Mr. Jacobson (who had just become a father) asked our table a question.

Laura, who was generally rather quite in class, mumbled something.

“What was that?” Mr Jacobson asked.

And so Laura repeated what she said, this time louder, and with an Australian accent.

“THE DINGO ATE YOUR BABY.”

Mr. Jacobson stared blankly at her for a few minutes.

Finally he replied, “No it didn’t.”

He then went back to teaching class, and gave up on engaging us in conversation. It was awesome.

Just like Laura.

———————-

I assure you, dear readers of Everywhereist, that I thought long and hard about what I should write for what I hope is only the first of at least several guest blog posts that you will bookmark in your web browser of choice and cherish forever. (Well, a girl can dream, can’t she?) My topic for today is how to avoid common pitfalls when traveling to an athletic event in which you are competing. I tried to re-word that to make it sound more exciting (or at least shorter), but all other descriptions were too vague for my attorney brain to handle.

Several years ago my husband and I began competing in races. I’m not sure what you think of when you hear the word “races”, I guess you might think of Nascar or the Kentucky Derby. I’m mainly talking about triathlons, but we also swim and run without the biking part. One time we biked without the swim and run part, but it is something of which we do not speak because it resulted in a very silent car ride home.

At any rate, much to my husband’s chagrin, some of our races have taken us out of town. I have now been banned from scheduling any races more than half an hour away from our house without prior approval. Luckily for you, my husband was slow to catch on and I picked up on a few things that could make your life easier if you are planning any destination races.

Tip #1 – Use a packing checklist

Duh. Yes. I know. This is very simple. Here is my added, bonus, very special, tidbit of advice: use a checklist specific to your event that you did not create yourself. I know for triathlon there are a lot of lists out there and suggestions for what you need in your “tri bag”. I assume the same goes for most other types of athletic competitions. My membership to the USAT actually came with a laminated checklist that I keep in my bag so I always know where it is. If you make the list yourself you might forget something. If you use a list that a professional made you a) can be pretty sure that it is complete and b) have someone other than yourself to blame if you pack everything on the list and still don’t have everything you need.

Hard to believe he forgot anything when you look at that pile of crap.

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The importance of this tip varies depending on what kind of activity you have planned. Last summer I showed up on Cape Cod for the Falmouth Road Race without a running shirt or sunglasses. There was a relatively easy (although, of course, overpriced) fix for that at the race expo. However, if you are doing something that requires special equipment or something that needs to be broken in before it is suitable for use in competition you could be literally up a creek without a paddle. You also can’t discount the possibility that whatever you need might not be available for purchase at your destination or maybe it is just going to be a pain in the rear to find a replacement.

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Tip #2 – Check the top of your car

If you have a bike, kayak, skis, or anything else on the top of your car, be vigilant about your clearance. This may also seem like a no-brainer, but when you are focused on finding your way to a new place or are either in vacation mode or in pre-race anxiety mode you might be prone to make the mistake of driving into a parking garage with your bike on the top of your car. It doesn’t matter how fast you can ride your bike or paddle your kayak (what is with me and the kayak references today?) if it doesn’t make it to the start line in one piece.

When traveling with something on your roof, use the earth’s natural qualities such as the sun and subsequent shadows to create a handy reminder that there is expensive athletic equipment right above your head, like so:

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And remember: no matter how cool you are in real life, the people behind you in the drive thru line at Wendy’s will not think you are cool when you have to back out of the line because you remembered that your bike was up there at the last minute.

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Tip #3 – Do not underestimate the power of making a hotel reservation a year ahead of time

If you know that you are competing in an event at a given time, in a given place, there is simply no reason (other than a hotel not taking reservations that far ahead, in which case you should find out what day they will start taking them and call that day or get on a waiting list) not to make your plans for accommodations as well.

In one of my first big, destination race experiences I waited until about five months before the event to make a reservation. After the first two chain hotels I called were full, I started frantically dialing the phone without regard to what the reviews on TripAdvisor said. Dead rats in the bathroom? I didn’t care. Cigarette smell in a non-smoking room? No problem. (Anyone else a little surprised that I put “dead rat” and “cigarette smell” in the same category of grossness? Yeah, me too…) Everywhere within an hour drive that had a name I recognized was full.

I had to think outside the box and outside my comfort zone. I turned to bed and breakfasts. Luckily we were headed to the Finger Lakes and there were plenty around. The Finger Lakes Bed & Breakfast Association has an awesome website that was invaluable in this endeavor. Many had vacancies the night after the event, but not the night before. I briefly considered a Jetsons-themed room at a “gay-friendly” B & B even though it was only available one of the two nights I wanted just because “how fun is that?”

We ended up in a bed and breakfast with only two guest rooms about twenty minutes from where the race was called The Hayward House. The proprietors were friendly (and Penn State alumni!), but quite disappointed that we would not actually be around for breakfast. The upside was that it was quiet, away from the craziness of what might have amounted to an athletes’ village feel at a big hotel closer to the start and the Amish neighbors were unlikely to steal our aforementioned expensive bikes out of the barn where we stashed them. The downside (at least at first glance) was that there was no television or phone and no bathtub, which might have been nice after the race. I have to tell you (because it is the first thing I tell anyone when we’re talking about this trip) I have seldom slept as soundly as I did at the Hayward House.

Short story, long, whatever your preference is: convenience to the race start despite lack of character or need for ear plugs or a Jetsons-themed room at a charming B & B, make your reservations early – and by early I mean, much earlier than you think you need to. If any of you out there are ever planning to do an Ironman that means the same day you register for the event.

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Tip #5 – Clean up your gear (or roll down the windows)

Do not under any circumstances leave your used athletic clothing or items like towels and wetsuits in your car while you get cleaned up and pack the rest of your stuff. You would be surprised at how quickly the interior of your vehicle can become funky and how long it can take to de-funkify your car after making this mistake.

Even the power of the chili pepper cannot dispel the funk.

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Tip # 6 – Embrace the journey

Both racing and travel should be fun, but can be stressful. Breathe deeply (unless you have not followed tip #5) and enjoy! Combining racing with traveling can increase the amount of potential stress you might experience. One minute you’re keyed up, anticipating how you will feel when you cross the finish line and the next you realize you have no idea what freeway you are on.

But you’re an adventurous person: that’s why you like racing and also why you like to travel. So unless you are about to miss your event entirely because you got lost (and maybe even if that’s the case) you might as well enjoy the wrong turns as best you can. Or buy a Garmin … which is what we did when we got lost on our way to the Finger Lakes.