Archive for October, 2007

Rod’s sure-fire, patented, 100% guaranteed cure for jet lag

First, an admission: Until recently I had never, ever taken one of our many hop-on hop-off bus tours.

That’s despite the fact Viator offers them in tons of great locations, like Rome, Paris, New York, London, Barcelona, Florence, Washington DC etc, etc. But I’ve always looked down my nose at them, thinking they were way too “touristy” for me, and that I could find lots of other ways to get to know a new city without rubbing shoulders with the hoi polloi or getting sunburned* on an open-topped bus.

(Editor’s note: strictly speaking, hoi polloi means “the masses” so “the hoi polloi” is a bit redundant. But I’m the Editor and Rod is the Chairman. Say no more.)

Anyway, a few days in New York recently cured me of that elitist view, and now I’m a fully-fledged convert. An evangelist, even. And just so you don’t cling to the same viewpoint, I want to share my new-found awareness, and I’ve put together these five pretty good, possibly even compelling reasons, to take one of these tours next time you have the chance.

1. The Cure for Jet Lag

When you travel you have to do a little, or maybe a lot, of adjusting to ensure you don’t sleep through the best part of the day. Sitting on the top deck of a sightseeing bus is about the best possible thing you can do to defeat jet lag, because it allows the sun to tell your brain it needs to adjust the hour hand on your body clock. I’m not sure how it does that, but believe me, it does. Lesson one: spend your first available time in a new city on a hop-on, hop-off bus, not under the fluorescent lights at the museum!

2. Discover Which Way is Up

Or, more specifically, where is the Lower East Side? The Left Bank? Trafalgar Square? The White House? The Magnificent Mile? Where can I get dry cleaning and breakfast close to the hotel without paying crazy prices? Reason two: these and a million other questions can best be answered from atop your sightseeing bus, not from the subway, a taxi or a limo!

3. Comfort Zone

How many visitors to New York City miss the opportunity to visit Harlem, Brooklyn or the Lower East Side because of some baseless concern about taking the subway, or the expense of taxis, or even some perceived danger in “straying off the beaten path?” Well, nothing could be safer than the comfortable confines of your top-deck perch, where you’ll quickly see that a city’s previously off-limits neighborhoods are inviting, not too far from your hotel, full of regular people, and just as safe as your own neighborhood back home. Reason three: you can get comfortable with a city quickly, once you’ve seen it in comfort!

4. Travel Fitness

A typical sightseeing day in a big city involves so much walking, standing, waiting in line, eating, exploring and generally wearing yourself out that you need all the help you can get to see it all. OK, here’s another way of saying this, less diplomatically: you probably aren’t quite fit enough to do half these things AND take a walk down to Greenwich Village. Or the White House. Or The Rocks. Or Pont Neuf. If you really want to see everything, you have very few choices: walking (you’ll only see 5%); subway (hello? it’s underground!); taxi (limited view, expensive); limo (ditto and more); skateboard / rollerblades (really?) or… hop-on, hop-off. QED.

5. Hello, and Nice to Meet You

Of course you have your own posse with you, whether it’s just your partner or the whole tribe of kids, grandparents and the other usual suspects. But there’s just nothing quite as much fun as meeting someone from another place — like, really another place, say Iceland, or The Isle of Skye — and discovering that you are both celebrating birthdays, or that they can help you get your new camera to work, or that they know the name and the address of the seafood restaurant you read about in the Times last month. Meeting new people is the best part of being a traveler, and the top deck of a bus is just a perfect place to meet them. I might even be there.

OK, are you convinced? I hope that, like me, you can put away your prejudices and jump on board next time you are in a big city. You won’t regret it. And… Viator loves hop-on tours so much we have a whole page devoted to them, so don’t complain you couldn’t book in advance…

–Rod Cuthbert

* Oh, yeah, about that asterisk: take a hat.

Heading to Mexico in the fall is a chance to participate in el Dia de los Muertos (Day of The Dead), festivities that take place all over Mexico on November 2. Though on the surface the celebrations may appear to be similar in both rural and urban parts of Mexico, the motivations for celebrating can be very different. Despite its affinity for the dead, the Day of the Dead is anything but a morbid holiday, it is a day of celebration and recognizing that death is a part of life.

Skulls and marigolds.

The origins of the Day of the Dead are in the Mesoamerican native traditions found in the calendar of the ancient Aztecs. In the month of Miccailhuitontli, the ritual festivities of that month were presided over by the “Lady of the Dead” and those same festivities were dedicated to both children and the dead. These festivities took place near the end of July and the beginning of August, but the Spanish Conquistador’s priests moved the festivals to the beginning of November to coincide with the Christian All Hallow’s Eve and All Saints Day. This practice of moving what were viewed as pagan holidays to coincide with Christian holidays has a long tradition in the Catholic Church as an effort to gain converts. So today, Mexicans celebrate the Day of the Dead during the first two days of November. The modern festivity is a blending of the ancient native traditions with Christian characteristics as are many holidays in Mexico.

Calavera on an altar

Families welcome the dead back into their homes by building large altars covered with images of the deceased, decorated with marigolds or chrysanthemums, religious amulets and with ofrenda, or offerings, of the deceased’s favorite foods or beverages and cigarettes. The elements of the earth, air, fire and water are represented on the altar as well. The altars are the living’s way of welcoming the dead back into the home.

It is believed that the souls of the dead return to visit the living on this night. In the evening, families head out to the graveyard to spend the night at the graves of family members. The graves are cleaned, decorated with flowers, food is brought for a picnic and there is much socializing with family and the community. To remember the dead, stories are told about their lives. Special foods are prepared with spicy sauces, Mexican hot chocolate, sugary confections and cookies in a variety of animal and skull shapes and special egg-batter bread, pan de muerto. The gathering is a festive social occasion recognizing the part that death plays in human experience, despite the gruesome setting.

The calavera, or skeleton, is an important symbol during Dia de los Muertos. The skeleton is a mocking representation of Death, not a fatalistic one. Calaveras decorate the inside of shops and shop windows dressed as judges, soldiers, housewives, soccer players, doctors, and etc. The calavera appears in many different handmade folk art forms including wood, papier-mâché and, of course the famous sugar candy skulls.

Day of the Dead celebrations are found in Mexico and other Central and South American countries and in areas of the United States with communities of Latinos.

–Sara Sturtevant

Planning a trip? Browse Viator’s tours in Mexico, things to see & do in Mexico City. Also check out Viator’s Halloween tours & spooky things to do.

Editor’s Note: This is, alas, the final post in a series from Jeff Gates, the New Media Lead Producer for the Smithsonian American Art Museum and Managing Editor for its blog, Eye Level. Jeff’s family vacation has officially come to an end. Don’t despair, you can re-read all of Jeff’s posts here.

San Francisco and the bay looking north, from the top of the Fairmont Hotel

Our fifth and final stop on the 2007 Gates family vacation tour would take us to San Francisco for the wedding of my best-friend-from-the-first-grade’s daughter. First grade: back then Ron and I were members of a very exclusive club. Just the two of us, Ron was the president and I was the VP. Our official meetings were brief but boisterous. Uncontrollable laughter was high on the agenda. I remember one sleep over Ron made me laugh so hard I had an asthma attack in the middle of the night (which made him laugh even harder).

Our closeness led to the inevitable: our desire to elevate our friendship to blood-brother status. But when the time came to go under the knife we both chickened out. We decided becoming “hair brothers” would be just as good but not as deadly. Each of us pulled a lock from our scalps, exchanged follicles, and ceremoniously transplanted them onto our own heads. Today, Ron has a full head of my hair and I am bald.

The by-laws of our childhood club clearly stated that all members would attend the weddings of their respective children — someday. Once a hair brother, always a hair brother; the time had come.

From our hotel room at the Fairmont.

The wedding was going to be held at the stately and historic Fairmont Hotel. After Motel 8 and other low-budget hostelries we’d been staying at since Las Vegas, this little bit a luxury would be the perfect end to our trip. In addition, this was going to be a reunion of sorts. Schoolmates I hadn’t seen since elementary school would be in attendance. And my wife was going to meet the girl I took to the prom.

But first, we had to get there. Gilroy is only about 80 miles from downtown San Francisco. But we’d learned on our last trip to the Bay Area that a Sunday drive up Highway 101 held no guarantees of an idyllic and easy passage. Eighty miles could seem like two hundred if we hit weekend traffic.The wedding was to begin at 4 o’clock. I had called to arrange for an early check-in at the hotel, but they couldn’t guarantee it. In fact, they told me check-in would be at 4, just when the nuptials were to begin. When we met my sister early that morning for a Goodbye Gilroy breakfast Susie and I were already dressed in our wedding finery.

Then there was the issue of the children. The wedding was to be adults-only. We arranged with the hotel for a babysitter. We had never left our girls with a stranger in a hotel. And this would either turn out to be a luxury we would never be able to live without again or make headline news when we came back to an empty room and a ransom note. We prepared the girls for the former (relieved that our oldest knew our cell phone numbers by heart).

Red lights, no turns, Bush St.

Seeing long lost friends can be an upending experience. It feels like no time has passed at all and yet you know that each of our lives have taken trajectories none of us could ever have imagined back then. What would theirs be like? I had known them but I didn’t now.

After ten days traversing the West, we had survived the debauchery of Las Vegas, car sickness on the road to the Sierras, a near bear attack in Yosemite, the mixture of garlic and snakes in Gilroy, and finally a party that celebrated a couple’s future and reconnected me with my past.

I decided to top off the trip with a little bit of political photography just before checking out of the hotel. It felt good to be in the bastion of liberal bias but we were about to reenter the vortex of conservative politics. It was time to get back to the present.

It had been a great trip, one my girls will remember. At least for a few more months.

–Jeff Gates

Planning a trip? Browse Viator’s tours and things to do in San Francisco, Las Vegas, and everything in between.

Editor’s Note: This is part of Viator’s ongoing series of posts about the 2007 Rugby World Cup. Ian’s on the ground in France, England and Wales — you can read his most recent posts here.

It’s been about 3 days now, and my therapist reckons it would be good for me to talk about it. So…

Australia lost.

New Zealand lost.

Nations are in mourning.

Glad I got that off my chest. Admittedly, I think Australia’s loss to England was understandable, based as it was on the best performance that the English forward pack has produced in about 4 years. But the New Zealand loss was a bit harder to take, given that there was a blatant forward pass in the lead up to the last French try, which was missed by the ref and both touch judges — but not by the 40,000 Kiwis sitting in the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff!

Is it an IRB conspiracy, to ensure that the Host Nation made it to the finals in Paris in a couple of weeks time?? Only the ref will ever know, but I don’t recommend he takes any holidays to NZ anytime soon.

On the up side, normality was restored when South Africa beat Fiji (an expected result), and Argentina continued their winning run by beating Scotland.

So, semis next weekend, and I hope to have recovered enough to watch the games in some little bar in Paris.

Go the… Pumas???

–Ian “Frentzy” Frentz 

I grew up in Sydney. It was a magical place. In the mid-1980s you could walk down Oxford St during Mardi Gras and simply step off the kerb to join one of the floats in the parade, and dance your way up to Taylor Square.

My piano teacher lived in an amazing warehouse on the water’s edge in Balmain; lessons in blues and rock augmented the classical training I had at school. The beaches were just suburbs where people lived, mostly surfers and Eastern European immigrants; George St still had charm, between the Regent Theatre and that tiny old art deco cinema on the corner; and Newtown was a little bit seedy and teeming with music and life from all corners of the world. Walking across the building site that is now Darling Harbour from then-derelict Pyrmont, I remember Centrepoint tower rising up behind the rubble, a symbol of modernity and the constantly changing skyline of the city.

Losing your hometown is a gradual process. It slowly disappears around you, and then one day you look up from the bus and… somehow you’re now living on the other side of the world (in Berlin in my case). Seen from this new and foreign vantage point, here are some of the things I really miss about my hometown. Some are still there, others have long gone, some will be waiting for me when I someday return.

Things I miss about Sydney

I miss being able to get on the 378 bus and get out at the last stop for a walk along Bronte beach, scrambling up to the cliffs and watching the waves crash against those magnificent sandstone rocks. I miss the original Bronte Café (circa 1988) run by Fiona who made sublime raspberry tart and chicken and mushroom pie, and Maurice who did magic tricks for the kids. Then the rest of the strip contained a Laundromat, milk bar, fish and chip shop, and some people’s homes. Now there are 13 cafes in a row, filled with chattering, laughing people and it’s still beautiful, but not the special secret hideaway it once was.

I miss the new Mexican Taqueria on King St, even with their block-long queues and slow food service. I miss walking around Newtown Cemetery and visiting all those graves of long forgotten sailors and, as local legend has it, the woman who was the inspiration for Miss Havisham in Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations.

I miss being able to jump onto any of the obscure ferry routes at Circular Quay and have a peaceful, almost private cruise around the harbour, watching the city float by and discovering new perspectives from the water.

I miss the cafes in Sydney…

I miss the friends who call on a Saturday morning with just one word ‘Coffee?’ and half an hour later we’re sitting around at Corelli’s, Barmuda, Victoria Park Pool café, or one of the many new cafés on South King St, reading the paper, discussing the week and making plans for visiting art or the beach later in the day. I miss long walks around the cliffs from Clovelly to Gordon’s Bay to Coogee or Maroubra. I miss seeing the Anzac Bridge rise up unexpectedly in the skyline from various angles through the high rises and parks. I miss the long lazy Sunday afternoons on the balcony with Lisa, reading the trashy supplements in the papers and watching the firemen across the road wash the fire engines.

Then there are the hidden treasures, like the handmade noodle place in Chinatown (ask a local), experimental sound gigs at Lanfranchis Warehouse or The NowNow improvisational music nights, the small town quality of always being connected somehow to almost anyone new you meet, and running into old friends in strange places. There is a lively and diverse creative scene around the city, popping up with the fantastic program at the new Performance Space at Carriageworks on Wilson St, in Redfern, which I used to pass on my evening stroll and would sometimes drop in to see what was on, or the community and culture walk which took hundreds of people for an amazing night immersed in local Aboriginal history and contemporary life on Eveleigh St, or ‘The Block’.

The really good local radio is something else I miss, you can choose between 2SER, FBI, or the ABC – Berlin has no community or public radio, and I’ve just started listening online to Triple J, which is finally making me homesick tonight! Something about hearing those familiar accents takes me back, and in a nice moment of synchronicity John Pilger is now in the studio, talking about the secret history of the country, and how the school text books and approved histories left out Aboriginal history, women, and the many diverse migrant voices to tell a very bland story about Australia…

I live in Berlin now, it is my new hometown, my place to explore, to build layers of memory across these streets, slowly becoming familiar as experiences seep through time and into the buildings around me.

What I’ve come to understand is that you can’t hold onto the past – it is, as they say, another country – and nothing will ever stay the way you imagine it to be, even in the absolute present, things ebb and change, life flows on. You need to learn to embrace those shifts and changes, while keeping part of the past held within your heart, walking with the shadows and ghosts but also being open to what is there now, and finding the joy in it.

–Jodi Rose

Planning a trip? Browse Viator’s tours and things to do in Sydney, including one of Jodi’s old favorites — a Sydney Harbour cruise.

I am a Dublin-born travel writer, with a full-on block about writing another word about my hometown. Just how many times can you scribble “great craic” with a straight face? I’ve told all the secrets, dished all the dirt, gone off every beaten path, and ruined my favorite pubs ratting them out to the tourist mob.

Something has to give.

Can a native Dubliner find something good to say about Temple Bar?

So I’ve taken up this blog in an attempt to take a fresh look at Dublin, trying (with a lot of desperation and a little hope) to find some of that old magic in this Celtic Tiger capital (oh God, how many times have I written that phrase???).

A search for something to love, again

A little background to begin. Dublin has arguably changed more in the last 15 years that any city in the western world. When I was in school unemployment ran at 15%, university was a training ground for inevitable emigration, you could get a pint and then another pint for two pounds, and there were 10 foreigners living in the city and everyone knew them by name. But the craic was great! People had more time than money and there was a certain East Berlinian bohemian feel to the place (with all-knowing priests taking the role of the STASI, perhaps).

Dublin in 2007, all changed, changed utterly. Unemployment is 4.5%, around 15% of the city’s population is foreign born (at last! restaurant food worth eating), house prices are the second-highest in Europe, the SUV owns the overcrowded roads, and the church has been engulfed by a wave of scandal and secularization.

But the one inevitable down side of catching up with the rest of the First World is you tend to become the same as everywhere else. At times, when this writer is stuck in traffic and eating an overpriced tasteless ham sandwich, the difference between modern Dublin and Birmingham or Philadelphia can be hard to remember. So my new blog, and a search for something to love again in the old city.

But first, the foul-mouthed drunken elephant

For my first entry I thought I would dive straight in and take on the bugbear of every Irish travel writer, the drunken elephant in the room, the carousing, foul-mouthed Emperor in his new clothes: Temple Bar. Yes, for the Dublin-born travel writer, Temple Bar offers a bit of a dilemma. Every travel editor has heard about it, the local tourist board promote the bejaysus out of it, and just about every tourist plans to make a beeline for it - so how do you break it gently to them that you (and most Dublin residents) wouldn’t be caught dead in the place. “Ibiza in the rain,” a close friend and Lonely Planet writer once christened it, after witnessing a particularly over-crowded, debauched, vomit-heavy Saturday night on the little streets of the once cool, cobbled neighborhood, where the hen parties roam wild and the kebab is the de rigueur fashion item not to be seen without. Could I find some good in tacky Temple Bar?

Well, a man has to make a living, so I thought I’d give the place one more chance. I decided to take not one, but two – all good experiments need to be verified – stroll through Temple Bar on a Saturday. One at 2pm and one at 2am.

Temple Bar, Part 1: Saturday at 2pm

Temple Bar, Saturday, 2pm: Spot the Irishman

First impressions, hey this place isn’t so bad. I sit down outside the Joy of Coffee. I am impressed with their huge selection of herbal teas – as a real tea addict, I prefer the term ‘infusion’ for this flowery stuff – and the ‘Bad Weather Tea with Honey’ proves a little too sweet for my taste but I admire the daring do. The walls are covered with good-quality local art and the Maud’s ice cream really raises my spirits.

The narrow, cobbled streets are crowded, Saturday is the busiest day in Temple Bar, and I look up at the passing crowd. The vast majority of them are under 30, European (when an Irishman says ‘European’ he means Continental European, excluding Britain and Ireland), and pretty damned healthy looking.

There are a few American accents scattered about and I could count the number of Irish people on one hand. I sit there for a while and something else strikes me, none of these fabulously sallow-skinned and trim Europeans are spending any money! I must have sat there for an hour and watched them, focusing on one or two groups at a time as they sauntered up and down streets, shopping — no, just window shopping — maybe splashing out on an ice cream (a big maybe!), and then off for some more walking and saving.

I spotted a couple of buskers playing their hearts out on guitar and drum 20 feet away on the corner of Temple Bar Square. They had gathered a nice, enthusiastic crowd about them, again young and European. I couldn’t resist and got up to have a look in the guitar case they were using to collect money. Five, maybe six euro. Once again no one was putting their hand into their pocket.

Suddenly an idea struck me and I hurried down the eponymous street at the centre of Temple Bar until I came to the Temple Bar pub (yes, everything is called Temple Bar in Temple Bar). Outside it’s quiet. A couple of young Spanish men stop, take a photo of the exterior, and walk on. Another successful and totally thrifty transaction. I stuck my head inside the door. It was dark, football was on the TV, and I saw a room full of clearly hung-over bald-headed men of indeterminate ages between 18 and 50 – hair is a big help when guessing someone’s age – staring at the telly as they supped on pints of larger and shouted abuse at the soccer players on the screen.

Three of the groups wore t-shirts that identified them as stag parties (bachelor parties) in Dublin for the weekend. All the accents I heard were English. A quick calculation: Probably a tenner each for the breakfast and at least four pints each during the game at a fiver each. That’s 30 euro a man. Before three o’clock. Before their big, expensive night ‘on the piss.’ And right there I saw the dilemma that has given Temple Bar such a bad rep. Try as they might to market themselves as a Dublin’s cool, artistic quarter, with galleries and little markets dotted here and dear, the only people spending real money – even at two in the afternoon - are the boozers and the party animals, and the publicans will do whatever it takes to keep them coming.

Up next: Anto takes a 2am stroll through Dublin’s Temple Bar, the poor fella.

–Anto Howard

Planning a trip? Browse Viator’s things to see and do in Dublin and across Ireland.

Imagine you are sitting on a wide white-gold beach made of little pebbles that shift softly every time you move, rounding to your reclining body. The sun is hot. The trees behind you – not palms, too clichéd – whisper gently in the breeze, which is just enough to keep you from feeling overcooked. The waves lap gently as you get up and plunge into water so clear you can meet the eyes of the fish swimming below you.

The Islands of Brac & Hvar

Bol, Croatia

If you’ve got all that, you’ve got my day today. I’m in Bol, Croatia, on Zlatni Rat beach. And I’m here because my friend, Steve, did to me what I just did to you, except by phone. He rang from the beach, told me I had to come here; I Googled it, now I’m here and he’s the hero – this place is fabulous.

Zlatni Rat is the beach proudly displayed in all the tourist guff for Croatia. It’s also known as the ‘Golden Horn’ because it is a spit of pebbled beach reaching out into the Adriatic from a tree-lined promontory just outside Bol, on the island of Brac. The shape of the beach shifts according to the wind, the number of yachts clustered around it shifts according to the season, and the extent of the nudist section shifts according to the daring and nationality of the tourists (elderly Germans seem to love to get their clothes off).

In the four hours that I was there today I saw people go from T-shirt to bikini to topless and then, in some cases, nude. There’s going to be a run on the after-sun cream in the shops tonight.

But the nudist section is one small part of a big beach (I was sitting near it, not in it!). Mostly it’s beautiful people and families. And English couples making up for the fact the UK forgot to have summer this year. Which is not to say the English are not beautiful and/or in families.

Bol itself is a great little town. Compact with lots of the white stone houses typical of the area – the stone used for the White House in Washington D.C. came from the island of Brac. There are lots of narrow hilly streets, gossiping locals, loud motorscooters, restaurants and cafes by the water, yachts, fishing boats and ferries coming to and from the other islands.

I’ve got a studio apartment and, as I type, I’m watching lightning flash over the next island, Hvar. Hopefully, the storm will rage tonight – I love a good bit of thunder and rain – then tomorrow it will be washed clean and gorgeously warm again – there are more beaches here than just Zlatni Rat and I want to find them all. And the Domenican Monastery, which is surrounded by gorgeous little beaches and offers holiday accommodation overlooking the sea. And the best coffee – Croatia has great coffee and pizza and seafood with lots of Italian influence on the coast.

Philippa swimming at Hvar, Croatia

The other Croatian island I’ve been to is Hvar, where a lot of lavender is grown – very calming. I’d hired a car when I was there and was able to explore a bit more. The best thing I did was ignoring my sister’s repeated ‘No!’ and turn down a completely unknown, steep dirt track on impulse. We found a tiny church in an even smaller fishing village and a completely deserted stony beach with the typical Adriatic so-clear-it’s-invisible water. We swam with only a seagull watching us. My sister admitted I was right – there are miracles, hallelujah!

Finding our accommodation in Hvar was hilarious. The instructions we had were not helpful, and eventually we stopped a policeman who directed us to look for a table next to the road, and then to turn left. Unsure whether we were seeking a dining table, pool table or perhaps an occasional table, we drove in circles a few more times until, bingo, we realised a table was a road sign. We made our left turn and then his directions ran out. We drove in circles for a while, I got out and wandered up and down the road for a while, then a woman stopped her car and asked if I was okay. Yes, she knew our hotel, if we just wanted to follow her. Convoy was fine, was great, until the tunnel. Where the hell was she taking us? Was our trust misplaced? The road was narrow, unmade; there’s no way there was going to be a hotel at the end of it. Except there was. Croatia, you’ve got to love it.

And the hotel was great, just up from the beach – this one rocky and not that big but the water was naturally divine, close to a path leading into Hvar itself, not far from a wonderful restaurant where we ate delicious seafood in the garden listening to the sea, then thought they must have left an “0″ off the bill, the price was so reasonable.

The Islands of Korcula, Vis & Krk

There are lots of islands in Croatia. Korcula is a playground of the rich and famous, and the furthest by ferry from Split (although you can reach Korcula from the mainland town of Dubrovnik, as well). And if you come to Croatia you MUST visit Dubrovnik. The heart and soul of the Croatian nation, the Serbs bombed it to break the Croatian spirit but it only made them angrier and the war longer and more horrific. Dubrovnik has been fully restored from war damage now, using UNESCO money as a World Heritage Site, but the memory of that recent history is raw and there are reminders of it everywhere. Dubrovnik is truly one of the most special places in the world: beautiful, historical, emotional.

Lovely Dubrovnik, Croatia

Other islands are Vis, the furthest out and therefore one of the least tourist infested. Then there’s Krk which is attached to the mainland by bridge and, I’m told, great for family holidays. Brac, where I am, is the largest island and the closest to Split. The landscape on this coast is amazing; steep, craggy white stone hills rearing out of the sea, circling Split from behind and creating steep islands rising high out of the water. Flying over this coastline, it looks like a kid has gone crazy with imagination and blue pens.

Lots of people explore the islands by yacht and I watch them enviously. It’s a dream I have to be able to see a beautiful island or beach, drop anchor and stay there as long or short a time as I want (okay, I’m not the Lone Ranger there). But my sailing skills were always challenged to say the least so I’ll need to persuade my sister to come. And this time, she’ll be at the wheel so I guess she’ll get to choose the beaches. But if she doesn’t choose well, then there’s always good old-fashioned mutiny.

Oooh, it’s just started raining. Wet drops on hot earth and concrete walls – the smell is glorious. And there’s the lightning strobing the hills of Hvar. And thunder to rattle the dishes. The perfection continues.

–Philippa Burne

Planning a trip? Browse Viator’s tours and things to see and do in Croatia, from Montenegro day tours to Mostar day trips.

Editor’s note: Jack has recently been writing about his travels from Darwin to Alice Springs. This time around Jack’s clearly had it with airports, luggage handlers, and the innumerable pitfalls of modern air travel. Jack, are you OK? Call us if you need some long-distance assistance…

Sir, any mobile phones, keys, wallets, laptops, independent thoughts, funny comments, or metal belts…

I’m sorry, sir, could you please take your boots off and balance them on your head…

Please, sir, go back though the scanner, again…

Excuse me, sir – we have reason to believe you have had breakfast this morning…

Could you please come into this room and cough please, sir?

Sound familiar? The joyful rigors of passing through endless repetitions of security at any Vertical Travel Coordination and Dispatch Centre throughout the world – probing, unpacking bags, repacking bags, holding up loose trousers and the indignity of enduring a thin layer of obsequiousness. Which, under any deviations from the prescribed norm, quickly evaporates to reveal pit-bull like insistence on procedure and public humiliation as the consequences.

Perhaps at check-in you had a fragile package? You had it pasted with, oddly, Fragile stickers. Maybe even a This Way Up label, like you get on a refrigerator box.

If you were particularly cautious, you perhaps opted for the “oversized and special baggage” window, secreted by the rear of some near forgotten area far from the entrance. After the, now obviously suspect, object of containment is wiped clean by a small boot-polishing-like-wiperator to check for explosives (isn’t that what made it “Special”) it is then sent to the monkeys out back to add to the trackside games of baggage piles of Tetris and Boxball (like football, only no ball).

If you thought ahead (and are the type to like to watch) then a window seat may await you following your protracted queue-and-shuffle boarding ordeal.

Should you be very lucky, you now have a ringside seat for the “Packing Ceremony”, or more correctly, the Grand Final of the Boxball Series. Your valuable belongings are now, no doubt, attracting more attention for their labels and awkward appearance (maybe you did something silly, like cover it in bubble-wrap – like a red flag at a bull now…)

The delicate flower manning the belt of conveyance has positioned his feet with yoga-like dedication to ensure his body stands square to the plate – an even arms distance to the base of the belt. He selects his first conveyance, looking for good proportions, soft exterior, even distribution of weight. He bodily grabs the object of his attentions, swings it forward till it is evenly placed, flat above the end of the steadily rolling belt, square to the sides.

And then comes the piece de resistance - he swings a little further and higher - and neatly drops the box-in-play onto the belt: not placed, not put, but dropped.

Amazing. And again.

The skill and intent is to be admired. How the least appropriate side for a carefully loaded pack can be selected so quickly and made its new base for the duration of its journey is incredible, as is the way in which a near smooth contact is turned into a rough rugby-like throw. You could watch for hours if you weren’t so concerned for that Ming Dynasty vase you bought for a bargain, which is now possibly a collection of smaller and less decorative ornaments within the careful wrappings that conceal its true value. These men are, of course, also antique dealers in their spare time nd know quality when they see it.

Brow furrowed and shoulders pulled in tight, you sit back in your seat and watch impassively as the Earth giddily pulls away from your stomach, settling in for the hour or hours of smooth, silent passage. The gentle provision of “Tea?” and “Coffee?”, not to mention light refreshments and tasteful replicas of snacks and meals, leaves you feeling relaxed and satiated.

If dancing should happen to come to mind, then why not try the “No Step”. This is a move consisting of that rare and hard to practice anti-gesture which is marked more by its absence than its correct foot placement. Your vehicle has many signs suggesting the best places to perform this venerable travellers’ tradition.

By journey’s end you should be refreshed, enlightened by the wealth of news and entertainment on offer “on-demand” (what if you demand peace?) and so be ready to greet your new destination with style and aplomb. Upon exiting through the ranks of immaculate uniforms framed by carefully re-primped bouffants offering “thank yous” to your weary self, the maze of travellators, misleading signs (rather than an artists impression of an escalator symbol, why not use the good-old-fashioned arrow pointing up) and transit “lounges” to eventually make a claim on the object that you weren’t really aware that you gave up for grabs only a short bureaucratic moment before.

And out it comes. Well, you hope. The object of your attention and container of your belongings – your baggage, if you will – that is if you haven’t moved on from it or vice versa. Should you and it be lucky enough to have stayed on the same plane of reality and projected your mutual selves (let’s give baggage the agency it deserves) correctly through the space/time continua, then hopefully you both arrived in a suitable approximation of the same locale.

The lucky and privileged receive their boxes of love promptly upon the conveyance of good fortune and then comes that long, awkward pause, just long enough to have you and 40 or more of your soon-to-be close friends all looking anxious and trying to avoid eye contact (that would signal a playing out of the inevitable). Separation. Loss. Or worse still, a hippo sat on it in a forgotten loading bay (as they do).

After the longest time — during which you have had the opportunity to scrutinize every other of your wretched comrades in waiting (”Those shoes with that dress? What was she thinking? Spiked hair-cut still? So last week!”) – the container of your own costumes appears like a late and lazy child, dawdling sheepishly upon the carousel, only slightly abused and lying on its back.

Reunited, a muted smile graces the edges of your wrinkled visage and you snap the handle of your Prada luggage walker-thing into position, pull your sunglasses down from your brow and turn briskly out through sliding doors to the waiting smog…

–Jack Brown, photos by Tanja Kimme

Motorsport fans, it’s time again for the biggest race in Australia, the Bathurst 1000 (officially known as the Supercheap Auto Bathurst 1000, which, let’s be honest, is a very cool name). This 1,000km touring car race is held annually at Mount Panorama Circuit in Bathurst, New South Wales.

The Bathurst 1000, a.k.a. the Supercheap Auto Bathurst 1000

And to Australian motorsport fans, Bathurst is a special place. Thousands upon thousands of fans flock here, many to pay homage to Australia’s premier motorsport category, the V8 Supercars. The main race kicks off on Sunday, October 7, with qualifying and practice races running starting tomorrow on Thursday, October 4.The atmosphere at Bathurst is over the top: hundreds of campers, thousands of tents, impromptu barbeques and couches on the hillside are the norm. Ford and Holden fans share space on the mountain, all vying for the best vantage point for the 161 laps on Sunday, and fighting it out to see who can make the most eye-catching banner to support their team.

To fans, Bathurst is the pinnacle of the racing calendar. To the drivers, it’s no different. It represents a feat of endurance, the survival of the fittest, and strength of character. All drivers aiming to win at least one Bathurst in their careers.

Kicking back at the 2006 Bathurst 1000

This year, it’s the second Bathurst race run without the King of the Mountain, Peter Brock, who died in September 2006. Last year’s race was marked by an unforgettable outpouring of grief by Australian motorsport fans, with hundreds of thousands of signatures and well-wishes along the walls of the Bathurst circuit in honour of Peter Brock.

This year also marks the first anniversary of the death of Mark Porter, who was killed during a support race here at the mountain in 2006. Drivers this year will take to the grid with a mixture of sorrow and determination.

2006 saw the commission of the Peter Brock Trophy, to celebrate both the man and his career on the mountain. The inaugural winners, Craig Lowndes and Jamie Whincup, will be looking to repeat their success on the mountain after taking out the Sandown 500 in the run up to the major enduro. They will be fighting off the likes of Garth Tander and Rick Kelly, Mark Skaife and Todd Kelly, and Mark Winterbottom and Steve Richards, who will be keen to see that the rise and rise of the Team Vodafone car is stopped. For more information about the race, check out v8dailydump.com.au or v8x.com.au.

–V8 Daily Dump

Editor’s Note: This is part of Viator’s ongoing series of posts about the 2007 Rugby World Cup. Ian’s on the ground in France, England and Wales — you can read his most recent posts here.

Morning all, from the birthplace of that great game. Yes, Mrs Rugby and I have left the sunny climes of the south of France, and have made the pilgrimage to England and to the town of Rugby, where the game was born when William Webb Ellis, “with a fine disregard for the rules of the game”, first picked up the ball and ran with it, way back in the early 1800s, at the famous Rugby school (”A tradition of Innovation…”)

The last of the pool games finished up last weekend, and the shock of the tournament so far was Wales being beaten by Fiji, and being knocked out of the tournament!! As we were sitting in a bar with 20-odd Welshmen at the time (and cheering on Fiji), it was tears all round by the Welsh at the end of the game… And I don’t think the ref will be getting too many drinks bought for him if he ever shows his face in Wales any time soon. In other games, Argentina had too much class for Ireland, who were also knocked out, so it makes five Southern Hemisphere teams in the quarters, and only 3 Northern Hemisphere teams.

So who is playing next weekend in the quarters? See as follows (along with my tips):

• Australia vs. England. A rematch of last World Cups final in 2003, I think Australia should win a close fought match against England.
• New Zealand vs. France. I’m glad that the All Blacks are meeting France in Cardiff, rather than on French soil. Should be a win for the AB’s (fingers crossed).
• South Africa vs. Fiji. The Boks should account for the boys from the islands - this could be a whitewash!
• Argentina vs. Scotland. Argentina’s form in the tournament has been fantastic so far, and I reckon they could go one step further and beat the bonnie Scots.

But this is the quarter finals, and once you reach the knockout stage - anything can happen. Anyway, enjoy the upcoming games, like the rest of the millions watching either at the stadiums or on telly. Time for a pint at the pub!!

–Ian “Frentzy” Frentz