When my French employers, Stéphanie and Robert, invited me to spend the summer at their home in France I needed no coaxing; I was ready at the word, “Paris.”

I had met Stéphanie, a French interior designer, and her handsome Dutch husband, Robert, in my hometown of Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, via mutual friends. Through babysitting their three children in high school I had gotten a glimpse of their world: the sparse, European design of their house, Stéphanie’s soul-warming and simple quiche Lorraine, the children’s squabbling in French, a language I found more beautiful than roses.

By that point I had already spent some time abroad, studying for a semester in Buenos Aires and taking several trips to Chile to visit my then-boyfriend. But I was 19-years old and France was new, exotic- a country in which I didn’t speak the language and assumed the food consisted of crêpes and duck bathed in heavy cream sauces.

Stéphanie and Robert’s home was a light pink townhouse in Saint-Maur-des-Fossés, a small city on the outskirts of Paris. The house was tall and thin, with a winding, rickety staircase painted a deep shade of “French red”, as Stephanie joked. The stone-walled garden behind the house swelled with tangy plums and tiny, perfectly round red currants.

Upon arriving, I quickly settled into a routine: I was the babysitter, English tutor and baguette-fetcher. I enjoyed my new jobs, but relished my title of “good eater” the most. One night when Stéphanie warned me that dinner’s pâté was made with rabbit liver, I replied, “I love rabbit!” Her friend then chimed in, “Well, she is not the typical American!” I do believe I blushed with pride.

Congruent to my title of “good eater”, I would not only try everything, but consume a hearty portion of whatever given to me. One of the first nights we dined in the garden on duck breast, a food I have always loved. As I audibly moaned after taking a bite of the crispy skin and pink-red meat, Stéphanie laughed and said, “Did I tell you this comes from a can?”

“A can?” I nearly dropped my duck. Nothing good comes from cans. It couldn’t be true.

Other meals in the garden troubled me, but for different reasons. At our Saturday morning breakfasts I painfully resisted the urge to wolf down the feast in front of me: still-warm baguettes laid directly on the table, soft-boiled eggs with gooey orange yolks, a wicker bread basket filled with flaky, buttery croissants and pain au chocolate with its creamy dark chocolate center. I tried to eat daintily but couldn’t help myself from indulging; this spread certainly beat my family’s Saturday morning breakfast of box pancakes drowning in Mrs. Butterworth’s.

I newly experienced another American classic, the road-trip, while driving down to Canet Sud, a beach town on the border of Spain where we were to spend the rest of summer holidays. The beautiful, mournful voice of Jacques Brel poured from the stereo as we drove past endless wheat fields and vineyards. We stopped for the night at an inn in L’Aubrac, a stunning region with tall cliffs, pine forests and deep gorges. We dined at the inn’s restaurant and were served a dish typical of the region, aligot, which looks like mashed potatoes but possesses a texture reminiscent of pizza dough. Surrounded by tables of French families and Dutch tourists, I felt I was the only American to ever have wandered so deep into the wilds of France and tasted this fantastic, buttery creation.

During the next three weeks in the south of France we happily browned ourselves on the beach and bathed in the warm Mediterranean, occasionally venturing out in the motorboat to go fishing. Each night we dined on the terrace, enjoying the warm, salty breeze and a striking view of the Pyrenees jutting out from the water, the furthest mountain marking the border with Spain. Spanish food had also found its way onto our menu as we savored delicacies such as white anchovies in vinegar, queso manchego and dark, nutty Iberian ham streaked with white fat. Accompanied with celery remoulade and mousse de canard, our proximity to Spain had resulted in a delightful French-Spanish fusion.

The first summer I was a kitchen novice and didn’t know how to steam broccoli or flip an omelet. The simple combination of sunflower oil, mustard, sliced shallots and vinegar to create succulent vinaigrette blew my mind- why would anyone buy dressing? Spending three weeks in the south of France taught me why people in the Mediterranean eat so well- good food is all around you. Just walking down a gravel road you can immediately smell the heady scent of sun-warmed fennel or pick strands of wild rosemary.

Upon returning to America my family’s food choices stood in stark contrast to the fresh, seasonal cuisine to which I had become accustomed. Frozen black bean burgers? Low-fat cool whip? I attempted to recreate a few dishes I had learned in France for my family, and while they seemed to enjoy them, it was as if they didn’t notice what they were putting in their mouths.

The summer in France had left me with a strong desire to teach myself how to cook. I decided in order to do so I would have to make everything from scratch; I had seen Stéphanie make her own vinaigrette, right? I began by learning all of the basics; how to steam rice, roast chicken, poach an egg. I then jumped to, and perhaps over-zealously, a series of more ambitious creations, repeating them until they were just right; various French staples such as bread boules, mayonnaise, chicken stock and chicken liver pâté. Whether it was coaxing my 11-year old sister to roll out quiche dough or making the third trip to the butcher’s to ask him if he had any left-over veal bones, I felt justified in all that I did in the name of la cuisine française; as I had learned in France, food ought to be pleasurable, non?

When I returned to France the next summer for a shorter, two-week long visit, I arrived at a sad realization; In France you don’t have to make everything yourself. It’s all right there for you- in specialized shops no less! Why make why bake bread when you have a bakery around the corner? Why churn butter when it’s just as delicious at the fromagerie?

My homecoming to America the second time around was less anticlimactic- I decided I would take all I had learned in France and carve out a French-style life in Chicago. No matter that I was a poor college student living in a big, expensive city – I would do the best with what I have. By this idea I began to invest daily effort into the quality of my food, and indirectly my health and happiness. As an often unemployed undergrad, doing my best meant carrying home heavy bags of apples in the fall, or taking the subway to Chinatown to get better prices for groceries.

But honestly, why invest your time, energy and money into traveling the world if it doesn’t change you in some way? Now that’s food for thought.

Author Bio: Ashley is a baguette-partial travel blogger currently living in Paris. She’s a self-proclaimed language nerd, ski bum and lover of long, Pinot-fueled dinners. To read more about her (mis)adventures in Paris and beyond, check out her blog, Ashley Abroad, or follow her on Twitter and Instagram.

Has travel changed the way you eat?

Flashback Friday: How France Turned Me Into a Food Snob is a post from: Farsickness

But after looking at all the hostel websites, we thought we might have made a mistake. Just about every hostel was booked (due to a Six Nations rugby match, we  would later learn) or in a bad location with sky high prices. Even though we had somewhat of a budget, we decided to search Expedia for a place to stay. We found a listing for a reasonably priced Holiday Inn in the center of the city and decided to book it.

The day of our trip arrived and we were scrambling to make it to the airport on time; our flight’s departure time was scarily close to my Thursday afternoon dismissal from class. I spent the entire taxi ride to Ciampino sure we were going to miss the flight. We pulled into the airport just about 40 minutes before our flight’s departure- the cut off point for check in. I shoved some crumpled Euro bills into the driver’s hand, yanked my bag out of the trunk, and ran into the terminal where I was met with disappointment.

No, we hadn’t missed our flight. It had been cancelled. Sometime during our taxi ride, the airport in Dublin had suspended inbound flights due to a snowstorm. We rebooked for the first flight the next morning and wearily headed back to Rome.

Friday morning we rose bright and early, ready to make the journey BACK to Ciampino after a night of gorging ourselves on ribs and beer at the Hard Rock Cafe in an attempt to numb our pain. We got to the airport, checked in, made our way through security, and bought some breakfast at one of the small stands in the dingier of the two Roman airports.

Almost as soon as we sat down an announcement was made.

Our flight was delayed.

We waited.

An hour after we were supposed to depart, and over 12 hours after we should’ve been there, we were told to line up. Low cost carrier Ryan Air does not assign seats, and this always creates a little bit of a fury to get a good spot in line. Combine this with the fact that Italians are incapable of forming an organized line, and you have absolute bedlam.

Disaster at the airport.

Pushing, shoving, and loud voices ensued.

We waited some more.

Nearly an hour after being told to line up, we were ushered onto the busses to take us to the plane. We boarded, buckled up, and waited for take off. Which, at this point, you can probably guess, did not happen.

Again, we waited.

This did not go over well. If there was ever a time I was happy that Romans can get a little confrontational, it was then. A couple engaged in an argument with a flight attendant, and I’m not sure if it had anything to do with it, but a little over thirty minutes later we were in the sky.

We arrived in Dublin, so late at this point it hurt to think about, and expected a winter wonderland- snow blanketing green fields and such. The reality was what Michiganders would consider a thick frost.

Dublin. Finally.

My friends and I felt a little dejected. Our time in Dublin had been almost cut in half, and while there wasn’t a lot of snow, it was bitterly cold. We wandered around a little the first night, but quickly ended up in the first warm pub we could find. Not feeling like going out after our two days of travel disappointments, we went back to hotel after a few beers and some pub grub.

This turned out to be the best thing to happen to us- the most comfortable mattress I’d ever slept on, English television programming, and a shower head that you didn’t have to hold up, unlike the one in our Italian apartment. The Holiday Inn we booked on a fluke ended up being the best part of an otherwise unimpressive trip to Dublin.

Disclaimer: Though written by me, this post was made possible by Expedia. 

Flashback Friday: How a Hotel Saved a Trip to Dublin is a post from: Farsickness

As tedious and mundane as they sometimes felt, it was these road trips that ignited my passion for travel and left me with a serious case of itchy feet and shaped the way I travel today.

Most of these trips started similarly: really damn early. If we were going to New York, the departure time was usually around 3 am, in order to beat rush hour traffic in the city. The first stop was always Dunkin’ Donuts, coffee for my parents and donut holes for me and my sister. Once the sun had risen, and we were well on our way through the dreaded state of Ohio, we’d stop for breakfast. As a young child it was Perkins, but later we started going to Cracker Barrel. It wasn’t a place we’d ever go at home, but there was something alluring about a plate of cheesy hash brown casserole and grits on a vacation. My mom would always order the biggest meal offered, probably named ‘Hungry Man’ or something similar, and it became something of a running joke throughout our years of road trips.

My sister and I on Hilton Head Island.

After breakfast we’d either head into Pennsylvania or West Virginia, depending on our destination. Pennsylvania was known to us as the most boring state in the union. Stretching on for hundreds of miles, the turnpike passes through the large hills that pass for mountains in the east, and small town after small town. I’d listen to tapes on my Walkman, make a list of all the things I wanted to eat, and fight with my sister over legroom. West Virginia has a similar topography, but being much smaller it was easier to pass the time. Dixie Chicks sing-a-longs usually did the trick.

Female family members on HHI.

As the hours wore on, things would get testy. My dad would swerve across lanes of traffic in search of the fastest moving toll booth line, cursing when he didn’t make the right decision. I’d have to pee, but we were making good time and no one else wanted to stop. My sister would want to listen to the same CD as me, and an argument would ensue.

My sister and I with my grandpa in New York.

Finally, after what seemed like days rather than hours, we’d arrive somewhere. This was when the real fun started- food fun. The Slavinkys are known to appreciate their food, and any trip away from home was used as an excuse to indulge.

In New York our first meal was always pizza and meatball heroes. In North Carolina I always wanted burgers and cherry Cokes from Sutton’s Drug Store in Chapel Hill, and in Chicago we always went to Maggiano’s. Before it was a chain.

Yes, I am wearing a midriff bearing tube top and a pooka shell necklace.

We’d spend the rest our week eating more, seeing some sites, reading, relaxing, and enjoying time together.

Through our road trips, my parents instilled in me a love of travel, food, and new experiences. They made me realize the true meaning of travel. Travel can be seeing something new a few hours down the road, or returning to a place you’ve visited before. Travel can be embracing loved ones at the end of a long journey, or sharing drinks with friends you’ve met along the way. Travel is a journey that is always exciting- no matter the destination.

As long as there’s food.

Want to take your own road trip but don’t have a car? Try renting one from a car hire company like Enterprise.

Disclaimer: Though written by me, this post was brought to you by Enterprise.

What shaped you as a traveler? Have you been on any epic road trips?

Flashback Friday: Learning to Love Travel Through Road Trips is a post from: Farsickness

My first trip abroad ended up opening the door to a lot of firsts for me. I was 17 and lived a very sheltered life. I had never been out of the Southern United States and was just getting the feel for high school life. I had been home-schooled since fifth grade and after much begging and pleading my parents finally allowed me and my siblings to begin attending public school the year before.

The most exciting thing that appealed to me about high school was that I could learn another language. The school I was attending offered Spanish, French and German. It was like the world was being offered to me on a platter. I chose German because a family at my church was from Germany and I thought it’d be cool to speak to them in their native tongue. That was the best decision I have ever made.

My teacher, Ms. Timms was great. Not only did she teach her students how to conjugate but shared the culture of Germany (and Europe) in such a passionate way that I couldn’t wait to get to class every day and learn more about this seemingly other world.

At the end of the school year, Ms. Timms called parents and students together for a meeting. She wanted to know who would be interested in a trip to Europe. The school wouldn’t sponsor it but she’d organize and chaperone a two week trip to Germany, Austria, Switzerland and Liechtenstein through a tour company. Once there, we’d meet up with other U.S. high school students to experience the language and culture first hand. She was giving us ample notice as she knew most of us would have to save for awhile in order to  fund the trip.

My aunt made the down payment under the guise of an early birthday present (even though my birthday was months away) and my parents worked very hard to make payments so that I could go. I would be the first person in my family to fly in an airplane, leave the south AND visit another country. I recognized the enormity of the sacrifice that my parents made to give me that opportunity and still do to this day.

I had managed a lot of firsts just from the act of boarding that airplane with Ms. Timms and five of my classmates. Little did I know that it would be the beginning of many more over the next 12 days.

During this trip I had my first taste of independence. I drank beer at a bar and danced in a nightclub. I stayed up late and talked with strangers from all over the world. Most notably, I had my first kiss with a boy named Eric in a hotel room in Switzerland (I can hear the gasp from moms of teenage girls everywhere). He was from New Mexico and a member of his high school wrestling team.

For the rest of the trip sat next to each other on the tour bus, held hands as we explored the different cities and talked about our lives back home.

When I was on the plane heading home Ms. Timms gave me a small paper bag. “Someone wanted you to have this,” she explained. On it was a note from Eric that said, “Something to remember this trip by” and inside was a necklace that I had admired days before in a small shop in Germany.

It’s been over 10 years since that trip and while I’ve never seen or heard from Eric again. I do, however, still have the note and the necklace packed away somewhere amongst my treasures.

I learned a lot on the trip. I learned that I could balance independence and responsibility but, perhaps most important, I learned that the only way to really know how diverse the world is through seeing it for yourself.

That trip of firsts helped shape my future. From then on, I knew that I wanted to spend my life seeing searching for new experiences and have done just that. From drinking whiskey in Scotland to gliding along the canals in Venice. I have done and seen things that, growing up in a small southern town, never seemed attainable.

Currently, I live in Recife, Brazil with my wonderful husband. We’ve sold everything we own to take advantage of whatever travel opportunities may come our way. We’ll be visiting Buenos Aires, Argentina in October which will be the tenth country I’ve had the pleasure of visiting.

I think 17-year-old me would be impressed.

Author Bio: Ashley works as a freelance writer and photographer when she isn’t sharing stories and advice on her blog aspiringgypsy.com. You can also like her fan page on Facebook and check out pictures of her travels on Flickr.

If you are interested in participating in Flashback Friday by sharing a story about a trip that gave you a passion to travel or live abroad, please contact me. 

Flashback Friday: The Trip That Gave Me My Gypsy Spirit is a post from: Farsickness

How did we spend our 24 hours in Paris?

First, we grabbed coffee and pain au chocolate near our vacation apartment rental for a traditional French start to the day. Then it was onto the Eiffel Tower, what I was most excited for. When we arrived it was quite cloudy, and even though the ticket office said there would be limited visibility at the top, we bought tickets to the highest viewing level in hopes that it wouldn’t be that bad. As it turned out, limited visibility was a bit of an understatement. Paris was covered with a thick blanket of wide fog that made seeing anything impossible.

The “view” from the top of the Eiffel Tower.

One level down and we were able to see this.

Back on ground level, we spent a good chunk of time taking pictures with the tower in the park below reveling in the fact that we were HERE. In Paris. At the Eiffel Tower.

From there we headed to the Arc de Triomphe and then walked down the Champs-Élysées, occasionally stopping in stores like Louis Vuitton to ogle goods we could only dream of affording on a student budget.

We continued on with our walk, toward to Louvre, with a stop for lunch at a small bistro where we gobbled down Nicoise salads and cheese. Just outside the restaurant we stumbled into a souvenir shop and decided that berets were a necessary purchase.

When we arrived at the Louvre, we didn’t go inside and browse the art, but instead created our own by taking a few pictures with out new berets and the infamous Louvre pyramid.

Next we walked along the Seine, admiring the merchandise sold at the stalls set up next to the river, until we got to Notre Dame. Again, we didn’t go inside, but rested our tired feet while admiring the architecture and laughing at other tourists taking pictures just as ridiculous as ours. At this point we headed back to our apartment, with a brief break for banana and Nutella crepes, to get ready for our evening out.

We started with dinner, where I struggle getting some delicious escargot out of their shells, and then returned to the Eiffel Tower to revel in her beauty at night. I’m usually fairly low key traveler, but when I saw the Eiffel Tower start to sparkle I let out a shriek. And may have done a little dance. I finally realized. I’m traveling. I’m in Europe. This is what I’ve always dreamt about.

Our last stop of the night was the Quartier Pigalle for a show at Moulin Rouge. While I wouldn’t recommend this show to anyone (think topless cruise entertainment), a walk around down the Boulevard de Clichy is extremely entertaining.

Though we hadn’t spent a long time in the city, we flew out happily knowing that in 24 hours we’d managed to experience a little bit of Parisian magic.

Flashback Friday: 24 Hours in Paris is a post from: Farsickness

To have a better grasp of what travel means to me, let me give you a brief overview of what travel was like back in the USSR, that was one giant country that united a number of small countries against their will and the Iron Curtain fell with “the rotten capitalist West”. One could travel freely (finances and holidays permitting) within the USSR to explore the Baltic States beaches and Kola peninsular if they pleased. There was only one language required-the Russian language-and this important barrier did not exist back in those days. Workplaces issued tickets for their staff for annual holidays-camping, mountaineering, etc. Both my parents have travelled wide and far within the USSR and have had most amazing experiences they rave on even today. However, in 1990 Lithuania broke free from the Soviet Union. Times changed dramatically. Boarders re-appeared. Languages re-appeared. Currency re-appeared. I was 9 years old. My country moved on.

My first serious organised trip abroad was a school tour to Italy not long after our independent republic started functioning. It was a time when 10 USD was a normal wage in our country. No, not a hundred dollars, ten dollars. We hired a coach and drove all the way to Italy (with two art teachers and a number of parents required by law to escort school groups) with nights on a coach, trying to catch some sleep sitting uncomfortably when the music roared to keep one of the two drivers awake, provided with food from home, and the whole lot of us joined “life is life” chorus, quieting down only at the borders. Most kids spent their money in petrol stations on sweets and Coke before we even reached Italy, so we couldn’t see Pompeii (SO ANGRY) because part of our group was broke. Then, it was free for the EU members and we had to pay a hefty entrance fee. We were doing the traditional classical Italy plus Capri Island tour and we saw the Pope at Easter. I ate strawberries on a rocky beach of Lido di Jezolo and my mother, for the first time in her life, breathed the air of real freedom, real Europe. There are no words to describe this. Oh, and in Venice we had to wait for our teachers to get back. One of them did and told us that her colleagues were sort of arrested by a café staff because they couldn’t pay the bill, so she came to ask for money. They went for a coffee in St. Marc’s square and sat down in a café . I needn’t tell you that travel guides were in their early days as far as we knew them, need I? So, as you can see, my foreign travel experience was marked with ups and downs. However, it didn’t put us off from going on package tours to the Czech Republic or France. We didn‘t know, coulnd‘t know, that there was another way until I got a job as a teacher of English in 2004.

I worked with some foreigners, native English speakers. One of them was Julia, from the USA. She, like a modern day Columbus, opened a whole new world of travel for me. First of all, she put up a sign-up sheet in the staff room for those who wanted to go to Tallinn, Estonia, for an extended weekend. All we had to do was to give her the money for coach tickets and the hostel of her choice. Then, when she put up another sign-up sheet for Krakow, Poland, some time later, I signed up myself again and my Mom. There were only three of us but the trip was a success! Then, I asked Julia for some guidance, because things seemed so easy! First, she told me about a credit card. No, not a debit card, you silly thing. A credit card that you can use to book hotels abroad. Ooooohhh….my eyes popped wide open….really???? And there are guides like In Your Pocket (cost cheap and easily available at our newsagent’s) to help you plan the sights. Then, you use that credit card to book coach or plane tickets. And the world’s your oyster!

I think you can count well enough to notice that until I turned ripe 23 years old I had never travelled independently. Now, how sad is that?I’m sure there were possibilities to do so, but I had never thought of them seriously, all the travel thing seemed to be so daunting! My Mom was even more sad, having wasted so much time and health when she could have travelled because it was so affordable and easy. We tried to catch up by going to Berlin, Oslo, Stockholm, Malta…She retired two years ago and she still feels bitter about the opportunities lost just because we didn’t know!!!

What makes me a traveller I am today is the drive to use every single opportunity my finances and general state of health allow to see and experience the world. I cannot understand people who don’t like travelling. I think my nation has been devoid of great world cultural heritage for too long and it would be a crime to ignore it for any longer.

Author Bio: Ele Pranaityte is a traveller, travel blogger, tourist guide in Vilnius, Lithuania. She writes her blog at www.kootvela.blogspot.com and you can follow her @Kootvela on Twitter.

Flashback Friday: Beyond the Iron Curtain is a post from: Farsickness

But this negative does mean you can make travel plans that would otherwise seem frivolous. Such was the case with my trip to Las Vegas. About a year after returning to the US from studying abroad in Rome, my friends and I decided to have a reunion weekend in Vegas. I wasn’t sure if I would even like it, I’m not a clubber or a gambler, and the the price of the flight nearly made me vomit, but in the name of a reunion? A disgusting amount of money to spend 36 hours on the ground in a city I’m not sure I’ll even like?

Why not!

As it turns out, Vegas holidays are perfect for reuniting with old friends: lots of booze, shopping, quality food, good weather, and a definite vacation atmosphere. In fact, the whole time I was there I felt like I was on a cruise. I’d never been in a city that had such an atmosphere of “I’m here to have fun and relax”. And after my 36 hours in Vegas I discovered a lot of things I really liked about the city. Things that made me actually want to return.

1. Drunk shopping

In Las Vegas, it is completely legal, perhaps even expected, to walk around a shopping mall while holding a yard of alcohol  For someone like myself who is very against open container laws and very pro shopping, this was perfect. Digging through mass produced clothes at Express and Forever 21 is a lot more fun when you have a Miam Vice (hey, when in Vegas) in your hand. There is a point where this could become problematic, but luckily, I was able to exert some self control and left seconds before I handed my credit card over and purchased a David Yurman ring.

2. Being a girl

Cover to clubs in Vegas is expensive. Drinks at clubs in Vegas are expensive But if you are a girl, you can get out of paying for a lot of these things. My friends and I were stopped by club promoters about every ten feet while walking down the street asking to put us on their guest list. While we had to show up slightly earlier than we might’ve normally hit the club, and maybe it wasn’t the “it” place, it was worth it for free entry and an hour of free drinks at Tao. Plus, from my experience, once you’re in the club, you’ll find plenty of people willing to share their bottles. Oh, your friend is having his bachelor party? How very interesting…

I think I spent about $50 on drinking the entire weekend. And was never thirsty.

3. Food, Food, Food

Vegas has been steadily emerging as a culinary capital of the western United States for the past few years, and it lives up to the reputation. The only negative about my being in Vegas for such a short time was that I didn’t have time to eat at all the places I wanted. We dined at Wolfgang Puck’s Spago one night. The atmosphere at Caesar’s Palace brought us back to our days in Rome, and the food made me yearning for more. If I had to pick one reason to go back to Vegas, it would be to eat.

4. Pool weather in April

I went to Vegas in April. The weather was phenomenal. Much warmer than Philly, but not desert in August hot. It was the perfect weather to lay by the pool with a pina colada in hand. A lot of hotels in Vegas boast large day time pool parties, which can be fun, but if you need a day of relaxation (or recovery) the pool by The Mirage is beautiful, large, and not super crowded. I enjoyed sipping drinks, getting my tan on, and planning dinner and drinks from my lounger by the pool.

5. I’m on vacation

I’ve never been somewhere that screamed “Have fun! You’re on vacation!” more than Vegas. While it’s not a place I’d want to live or really “travel” to, Vegas is a lot of fun. Whether it’s walking around checking out all the hotels, trying your luck on the slots, or walking down the street with a beer in your hand, Vegas is in vacation mode. I loved the Bellagio fountain show. I loved not feeling like I needed to “see” something. I loved how clean it was, and happy everyone who was there seemed.

Las Vegas surprised me. I expected trashy. I expected annoying clubs. Instead I got carefree and fun. The perfect weekend getaway with some girls I hadn’t seen in far too long.

Have you been to Las Vegas? What did you think about Sin City? Leave your (shareable) Vegas stories in the comments!

Flashback Friday: Unexpectedly Loving Las Vegas is a post from: Farsickness

It was an early autumn morning. I was sipping my coffee as I scanned the news on CNN.

“We should go somewhere together,” she said. “Take a vacation.” Yes, she had
uttered those dreaded words. Not that I dislike taking trips – I’m a travel junkie. But, to go somewhere for the first time as a couple can destroy a newer relationship.

Hemingway said it best, “Never go on trips with anyone you do not love.”

Relationship #1 went down in flames in Gatlinburg. We had rented a tiny cabin for a weekend. An unexpected blizzard struck and we were trapped with only a bag of M&M’s and a twelve-pack of beer for two days. End result: It was MY fault.

Next up, London and relationship #2. We were visiting for a limited time and had to see everything the city had to offer – in just six days. Jet-lagged and whiny – her, not me – day three ended in a massive revolt.

Onto Vegas. It was 3AM, I had knocked back a few – or many — drinks, and the dice hadn’t rolled my way, when there was a pounding at the door. Blurry-eyed and zombie-like, I opened it to a lady of “questionable reputation.” Still not processing everything she said coherently, I turned to my partner. “Honey, do we need a hooker?” After that fight subsided, I swore to never, never travel with a partner again. Ever.

I eyed Juliet. She was serious about taking a trip. What would be easy? Relaxed? Something that wouldn’t add a strain of any kind? “Let’s go on a Caribbean cruise.” I suggested hopefully. What could possibly go wrong? Titanic instantly came to mind.

Within minutes she was on the internet, booking us on a Royal Caribbean ship. I had visited the Caribbean twice before and wasn’t very thrilled to be returning to previously explored destinations, but at least I would come home as a couple – I hoped.

The flight was actually on time. Shuttle to the dock went smoothly. Our luggage was loaded onboard with ease. We settled into the room without problems. She
unpacked our bags and we strolled to the deck to have cocktails, as the ship pulled out into the harbor. I started to relax.

The one thing that Juliet was truly excited about was swimming in the clear waters. She had never visited the Caribbean and she is a water baby. We can’t pass by a puddle without her dipping her toes into it. So, our first day was devoted to a beach on Aruba. We spread out and I laid back on a towel as she ran, giddily, into the waves. Life was good.

You just know that a storm was brewing, don’t you? A big one. The sky turned indigo then charcoal, and opened up, a monsoon poured down. I watched Juliet’s face. This was it. She was gonna blow. Come up with a back up plan!

Instead, she led us to a beach umbrella and we made sand sculptures underneath it. “Sandy” the pig was our favorite. I watched for signs of distress or sadness. Nothing. She was content waiting out the storm – which never happened. So we made a dash to a taxi, changed into dry clothes on the ship, and found lunch – hot soup at a tiny restaurant. There was never negativity, and she just rolled with it.

The cruise continued under beautiful skies. We snorkeled with a sea turtle, tried conch fritters for the first time, fell in love with San Juan, and never looked back at the storm of Aruba. I had finally found my perfect travel match.

We are happy to say that we not only came back as a couple, but have since got married. To date we’ve visited four continents together, and moved to a new state. Upon arriving in New Mexico, we found little helpful information online. Everything is word of mouth. We hope to become that Mouth of the Southwest at Southwest Compass.

Author Bio: Lane Billings is retired from the film and television industry, currently residing with her partner and two dogs in New Mexico. You can also find them on Facebook, Twitter, Google+, YouTube and Flickr.

If you would like to contribute your own story to Flashback Friday, please contact me! 

Flashback Friday: Finding That Travel Match is a post from: Farsickness

Picadilly Circus, bustling with people at night, was incredibly quiet on this cold Monday morning. It was a nice place to take some photos and sit and warm up my hands for a few minutes. There’s something about being in the middle of a city that is exiting. Picadilly Square holds that excitement, even when devoid of people.

Buckingham Palace was crowded with tourists and news crews during my visit. William and Kate had just announced their engagement the week before and royal fever was in full swing. Luckily, I started my day incredibly early (by tourist standards anyway) and was able to beat a lot of the crowds. This statue of Queen Victoria is one of my favorites in London.

My first real international travel memories are of Trafalgar Square. I was 12 years old and visiting my penpal. We went in to London for the day with her father. I can remember eating a delicious turkey and avocado sandwich (I’ll never forget food) and then feeding the pigeons and climbing on the lion statues. I didn’t climb on them this time but it was fun going back to a place 13 years later, with a much different perspective on the world.

The infamous “Big Ben” clock tower. I always get intimated when shooting famous landmarks. So I went angled on this one.

The Royal Courts of Justice building is magnificent, looking more like a cathedral than a courthouse. But I guess it’s fitting for a country where the lawyers where gowns and wigs!

The Queen’s horses may bite. As an American, anything with royalty is slightly fascinating. It doesn’t seem completely real to me, that someone is actually a queen, king, prince, or princess.

I was in London during the week of American Thanksgiving and everything had already been decorated for Christmas. The city was lit up beautifully and I enjoyed many nighttime walks (okay, early evening, the sun started setting around 4!) trying to find my favorite display. The weather was particularly cold that week and lent to the holiday feeling.

I’m not a fan of ferris wheels but the impressive London Eye drew me in and I shelled over what felt like big bucks for a ride. More impressive to me than the view (which I felt wasn’t that great, and looked smudgy through the dirty windows) is how the Eye has transformed the London skyline.

I spent the rest of the day wandering along the south bank of the Thames. By the time I got to the Tower Bridge the sun was starting to set on my last night in London. I was sad to be leaving this wonderful city (and my friends), the perfect golden hour in this beautiful part of town put a smile on my face.

Do you love London? What do you think makes a city great? Which is your favorite photo from this London photo essay?

If you haven’t already, please ‘Like’ Farsickness on Facebook and stay up to date on all my travels and posts! Your support is greatly appreciated.

Flashback Friday: A London Photo Essay is a post from: Farsickness

The first time I realized just how big soccer is to the rest of the world was during a trip to Barcelona during my junior year of college. I went to visit my friend Kasey during her semester abroad with a group of our girlfriends and her then boyfriend (now husband!). After being dragged around town shopping and sightseeing we finally let Steve (he’s a great sport) have a chance to pick something out. So, we ended up at Camp Nou.

We, unfortunately, didn’t go to see a game, but rather to visit the museum. I don’t remember many of the historical facts, but what struck me first was the size of the stadium. Michigan Stadium, the home of my University of Michigan Wolverines, is the biggest college football stadium in the country and holds about 110,000 people. Camp Nou holds almost 100,000. I respect any team that can pack a stadium that size. But in the end it wasn’t even the size, it was the slogan painted over the seats. The phrase that is so familiar to soccer fans. Mes que un club. More than a club. Because it’s more than the team. It’s more than the sport. That’s when I knew that soccer was a sport I could relate to. I could maybe love.

…

To be an enormous cliche, it was when I studied abroad that I became really interested in soccer. It wasn’t just the sport (which actually isn’t boring, Americans), but also the fervent fan support and community they create. Soccer supporters remind me of American college sports fans. Close knit, maybe a little crazy, and passionate.

My parents came to visit me a few months into my study abroad stint and I decided to finally figure out how to buy soccer tickets. On their first Sunday in Italy we were off to Stadio Olimpico. Rome hosted the summer Olympics in 1960 and the stadium serves as home field for both of the city’s teams. I knew I was never going to a Lazio supporter, and as Roma beat Bologna on a brace from Francesco Totti I became truly enamored with this sport. The supporters began to sing “Grazie Roma” after the win and with the combination of the skill on the field and the passion of the fans, I was hooked.

When I went back to the US I knew I was a soccer fan. I watched grainy feeds of games. I suffered through horribly written goal.com articles. I devoured blogs. I started to appreciate the game. I loved the ultra groups. The songs and the scarves. The community of fans and a game that is so complex.

Then, in 2010, I was in London and had the opportunity to attend my first Premier League game. The English Premier League is undoubtedly the most famous soccer league in the world and I was thrilled that my friend Saf offered to take me to see Fulham play Manchester City. Though Fulham didn’t pull out the win, being able to to see a game at the historic Craven Cottage was a wonderful travel experience.

Oh, and Diego Maradona just happened to be there.

Last summer I attended an FC Seoul game in this city’s Olympic Stadium. Soccer isn’t the most popular sport in South Korea, baseball exceeds it by far, K-League has been rocked by scandals in recent years, and the quality of play isn’t great but I wanted to see a game in person. A lot of things were different. There were cheerleaders, for starters. But there was a supporters section. Singing. Wearing no shirts. Taunting the away team. Fans were sipping on soju and snacking on squid, but it still felt like soccer.

Part of the reason I love sports is because it is its own culture. The love of sport transcends language, religion, or politics. It is a bonding experience.

Do you like to attend sporting events while abroad? What is a must see sport in your country? Are you as excited for the Olympics as I am?

If you haven’t already, please ‘Like’ Farsickness on Facebook and stay up to date on all my travels and posts! Your support is greatly appreciated.

Flashback Friday: Travel and Soccer is a post from: Farsickness