As wind sweeps through the open-sliding windows of an old Sri Lankan-made transit bus, school boys in white-collared shirts, shoeless men in multi-coloured batiks and grandmothers draped in saris carrying green and yellow plastic bags of vegetables cling to backs of chairs and loosening cloth straps hung from ceiling runners. I could only people watch occasionally as I precariously clung to the interior of an open-folding door, flip-flops solidly anchored to the bus stairs. Peering over dozens of matted faces, the expression of the driver in his rearview mirror was a focused foolishness, typically seen on betel-nut chewing safari guides, rather than public inter-city bus drivers.

This is how I began my first day in the winding mountain town of Ella. Three hours north of the gateway to Yala National Park (Tissamaharama), Ella is a railroad town established thirteen hundred meters above sea-level for its excellent tea growing climate. Cool nights and hot afternoons create a welcome change to the southern province beaches of Ulawanatuna and Mirissa.

Ella is a hiker’s smorgasbord of trails and steep valleys, pock-marked with dramatic waterfalls and breathtaking mountain scenery. Only too often does one exit the top of a valley to find a small country-side family restaurant overlooking lush precipices; shadow darkened mountains in the background.

Stumbling across wooden and concrete railroad ties, on the still functioning (and hourly used) Sri Lankan rail system, is the best way to access some of the most brilliant and little visited sections of this region. Families and farmers will smile and greet you with interest as school children returning down the tracks from their studies will ask you for pens or sweets.

Although of typical Sinhalese fare, the food in Ella doesn’t disappoint. The addictively delicious curries and fresh bay-leaf heavy Koththu Rotti are perfect companions for the cool nights or pre-hike carb fueling. The simmering pots of lentil, turmeric, and mustard seed based ‘Parippu’ curry and the unmistakable cacophony of banging steel blades will lead you directly to these must tries.

As with most other places in South Asia, the ubiquity of monkeys is not lost on Ella. Though the interesting, yet mischievous, primates stay out of the town, they dominate the waterfalls as they are popular bathing areas for them. Buy a husk of smoked corn for a quick bite before they mass around you.

To say this place has stunningly silent beauty is dead accurate. Sri Lanka is a country of continual re-envisioning. The Portuguese traders in Galle to the Dutch East India Company exporting the local spice trade, to the later British strategic position between the straits of Malacca and the Middle East, to the recently declining civil war with the local government and the Tamil Tigers. The country breathes and exhales like the arrival and decline of each rainy season. The complex history and tragedies of the still fresh Boxing Day tsunami slowed my Saigonite pace from a quick street side coffee to a milk-tea sipping introspection.

Leaving Ella felt like discarding a warm quilt only to want it back again when the heat has left you. The friendly smiles, pushy TuK-Tuk touts, and cool mountain air became fresh memories for a continually expanding idea of what Sri Lanka has left in the past and willingly preserves for its future.

As I sipped on my mountain cooled Lion Stout I thought about my oncoming night-time train journey through the central mountain range towards Kandy, the cultural capital of Sri Lanka. Ella felt more like a place I knew than a place I visited. I’m sure to never visit the small pub, or ridge-side tea shops, or hang out the door of the old rust-red buses that speed down the mountains passes again. But the kindness of the locals and silence of the valleys give me another place I can hold in my memory like a thread in the binding of a book.

Memories of Ella, Sri Lanka is a post from: Farsickness

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

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

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

First up is Stacey from the great blog One Travels Far. Stacey is a Kiwi who just finished up her au pair year in America and moved to Australia. Read on to find out more about Stacey’s first experience working abroad as a camp counselor in the United States.

I didn’t go to college after high school. I was supposed to; in fact I was going to study Law. Or Economics. Or Classical Studies.

Instead I flew half way around the world, to work as a camp counselor at an American summer camp.

I was eighteen and had never been overseas before.

I worked three jobs, seven days a week to pay for the flight to the states, plus travel money for after camp. “It’ll be worth it” I told myself, as I woke up at 3.30am for work.

For the application, I had to choose three skills that I could potentially teach to kids. The last time I’d ridden a horse was when I was twelve, but I figured I could wing it. It’s like riding a bike; you never forget how to do it… right?

One of my friends was a rock climbing instructor and promised to give me a few lessons. How hard could it be?

And I’d taught Tae Kwon Do to kids for years as well. Three skills. Sorted.

And then I got the call I’d been desperately waiting for. A Jewish camp in Ohio needed someone to teach horseback riding, and was I able to ride western style? “I sure can!” I assured her, and quickly found someone with a western saddle to give me a few lessons.

Finally the big day arrived. I wasn’t nervous or scared at all. From the moment I stepped onto that plane, all I felt was excitement.

I was the only kiwi at my camp. Since it was a Jewish camp, and I was raised Catholic, I learned about a different religion that I’d never really heard much about before (there’s not a lot of Jewish people in New Zealand). I picked up a few words of Hebrew (horse and hello), and I made friends from all over the world.

It was hard work. One of my friends was a “lifeguard” who sat by the pool working on her tan all day. Me? I was up at six to feed the horses, mucking out stalls all day, and trying to convince the kids to stop pulling on their poor horse’s mouths.

We all got sick. Colds spread like wildfire, and at times it seemed like the whole camp was sick. I had seven and eight year olds in my cabin, who would cry at night because they were homesick. “Yeah?” I wanted to say, “Me too.”

In spite of this, it was still incredible. After living together for two months, strangers from around the world quickly became like family, and it was surprising how similar we were, considering we were all from such different countries and cultures.

My visa allowed me to travel for up to three months after camp. I’d only been paid about $1000US for completing camp (you do it for the experience, certainly not for the money), so I chose to travel for two months, and I put them to good use. I travelled through twelve different cities, and my favorites were Miami, Chicago and New York.

The best part? Seeing Times Square at night for the first time. The people rushing past, the tourists, the lights, it was all a shock to the senses and I reveled in it.

I cried at ground zero, stood on top of the Empire State building, visited the Statue of Liberty, and wandered the streets of Manhattan, taking in all the sights and sounds of a city I’d only ever seen in movies.

It was crazy how much I changed in just four months of travel. I came back much more independent and mature, and I was surprised when I arrived home and nothing had changed. My friends were all talking about the same old stuff, and I was shocked to find that I was bored with it all. It was a hard lesson to learn. I had changed and grown up so much, and I had a much deeper understanding of the world, as well as a determination to explore it.

As for America? I was still in love with it, and I went back three years later to work as an Au Pair. I lived in Chicago and then San Diego, and I’ve just moved to Australia after two years of living and traveling in the United States.

Camp America was my first travel experience and I can’t wait to explore the rest of the world. I’m so grateful that I had the opportunity to have the best summer of my life, and I highly recommend Camp America to anyone who’s not quite sure what they want to do after high school, or just wants to have a great summer adventure overseas.

Author Bio: Since leaving New Zealand in October 2010, Stacey has been working and traveling overseas, first in North America, and now in Australia. She blogs about her experiences at One Travels Far and you can follow her on Facebook or Twitter.

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

Flashback Friday: Camp America is a post from: Farsickness