San Francisco to Chicago: Hippies, Yurts and Yaks

For a travel writer who has spent a goodly part of the last 15 years out of the country, there’s something special about driving across my own country. I love the good ol’ US of A. The more I leave and come back, the more I fall in love with it. Yep, I hate the same things you probably do, but I’m choosing to focus on what I love: its people, its welcoming friendliness, its high-brow levels of innovation and creativity, and its lowbrow love of burgers and over-the-top tourism. This is what I wanted to show my Finland-born partner on our 11-day road trip taking us from London to Chicago via a road trip out of San Francisco.

Like the start of any good cross-country trip, we left from our pet-pigeon babysitting gig near the Berkeley hills. I wanted to show him real, down-home Americana. You know it: Dairy Queens and the state fair, strip malls and frozen yogurt shops with Butterfinger and Fruit Loop toppings. Sarah Palin’s America.

Not the devil's crossroads.

Not the devil’s crossroads.

But we had to get through Northern California first. We headed north, towards the redwoods, to our first stop: vegan lunch at the Jyun Kang restaurant in the Chinese Buddhist monastery, the City of Ten Thousand Buddhas. My ‘thing’ these days in travel writing is travel minimalism. You don’t need to fly to an overwater bungalow in Fiji for a change in perspective. If you live within four hours of Ukiah, California, you can get it here.

After a lunch where my meat-eating boyfriend wanted a second helping of tofu, we trekked over to the Great Hall. Devotees were in the middle of a walking meditation, chanting the Great Compassion Mantra as Buddhist nuns drummed in rhythmic harmony. When a Buddhist nun hands you a cheat sheet and encourages you to get in line, you get in line and meditate the hell out of the Great Compassion Mantra.

Thirty minutes later, we brought our newfound Great Compassion with us as we went about finding America.

A few redwood hikes later, we were in Arcata, California, where I went to undergrad at Humboldt State. You go to Humboldt for one of two reasons: you loved everything about being outdoors and in nature, or you were a pot-smoking hippie. And I do enjoy hiking from time to time.

At first, I wanted to arrange a night in the CCAT (Campus Center for Appropriate Technology) house’s tiny yurt, where you can exchange an hour of work for a slightly curved night of sleep. However, the yurt appeared to be closed due to erosion from the encroaching organic, sustainable gray-water garden (partially fertilized from the house’s own composting toilet). I was a bit disappointed, as one of the last times I was in Arcata — to do a story on sustainability — the CCAT co-director bicycled me a smoothie and the mayor bought my co-reporter a lime cookie at Los Bagels.

Chalk designs by Duane Flatmo

Chalk designs by Duane Flatmo, the Lost Coast Brewery artist

The mayor wasn’t at Los Bagels this time, so we had to buy the lime cookie for ourselves. But at least Food Not Bombs extended an offer for free vegan stir fry dinner on the town square during Pastels on the Plaza (the night Arcatans decorate each sidewalk square with chalk artwork).

Wherever we went, the caricature of Arcata unfolded without our even having to ask. My fresh-off-the-boat Finnish Londoner businessman boyfriend was regaled with tales about the yaksmen — the Arcata dreadlock-and-top-hat-sporting urban farm dwellers who traverse the town with their service yaks — before we shopped for organic alchemical supplies for my salve-and-tincture hobby at Moonrise Herbs. His favorite spot, however, was the entire store on the town square dedicated solely to frisbee golf.

We truly meant to hightail it out of Humboldt County, but I dragged my feet for the last 50 miles, first at the fogged-in ocean views of the beautiful and, to the local Native American tribes, sacred lands of Trinidad Head (and Trinidad’s heavenly Katy’s Smokehouse salmon jerky), and then at the beachfront redwood trees of Patrick’s Point. We stopped at Elk Meadow in Orick but didn’t see the herd of elk, so left after a quick hike. (The hike through Fern Canyon is scenic and ancient enough to have been the filming location for both Jurassic Park II and BBC’s Walking With Dinosaurs, but it’s 8 miles in.) A fortuitous quick head-turn left at the Elk Meadows Cabins showed us their backstage lazing grounds. We stayed for an hour, eating the best burritos on Mother Earth we’d picked up from Rico’s Tacos back in Arcata, and watched until we decided to google ‘rutting season.’

Hi. Welcome to rutting season. You might want to close your eyes soon.

Welcome, humans, to rutting season. You might want to close your eyes soon.

I might not live in Arcata anymore and it’s been almost 20 years since I’ve even looked like I halfway belonged at a Dead show, but after living in the redwoods and then the nearby Hoopa Indian Reservation (where I supervised an organic solar dehydrator summer project, as you do) and visiting my mom who moved there, I still hold that the world would be a better place if everyone had to live there for six months to a year.

Dreadlocks not required.

Making It as a Travel Writer

Three travel writers-to-be are about to descend upon Berlin, Madrid, Florence and various other European cities that inspire equal poetic travel prose to begin their hopeful dream job: professional travel writer. And I am going to accompany them, mentor them, and — to some degree — burst their fantasy-career bubbles. 

Courtesy of the World Nomads travel writing scholarship competition, three winners with truly impressive talent (Amanda, Jarryd and Rachel) will be joining me on a three-day writefest in Berlin in a few weeks. In honor of their impending career changes, I’m reposting my interview from a few months ago about what it takes these days to break into — and stay — in the travel writing industry. 

How did you break into the travel writing industry?

By accident, serendipity, and a federal crime. After university, I vacillated between writing and publishing jobs and fulfilling my travel addiction. I became the managing editor of a ‘spiritual lifestyles’ magazine and was on an assignment in Northern Ireland when I found out the magazine was folding. Turned out the publisher’s mother was financing it with $4.7 million in embezzled funds. I’d lost my job and a month’s salary, but the least I could do was place that damn story. I did, and then some. A few years later, I met up with very friendly Lonely Planet folks at a job fair while at Berkeley’s journalism school. That author job sounded way, way too hard, but hey, were there any editorial roles open? I took their writing test, passed, and was covering Slovenia within the year. I swore the minute I finished I would never, ever do anything that insanely difficult ever again. That was about a dozen destination assignments and two dozen LP projects ago.

As I was saying, being a travel writer takes serious dedication.

As I was saying, being a travel writer is hard work and takes serious dedication, long hours, and total focus.

What are the biggest misconceptions about the travel writing profession?

That it’s easy or that it’s not a serious job. People conjure images of us poolside, getting served mai tais at comped beachfront resorts while words magically jump on a page by themselves. You need to be committed to writing, research, traveling and your destinations. Some of my Lonely Planet colleagues are now considered world-renowned experts in places like Myanmar, Haiti and Saudi Arabia. You do get the travel writers who seem to be in it solely for the mai tais and free digs, but like any profession, travel writing also has its slackers.

You’ve worked in many different writing mediums – guidebooks, magazine/editorial, online. How important is it to diversify your skills and be able to write for all mediums? What tips do you have?

If you’re one of the eight and a half lucky travel writers who work for high-end magazines or write only narrative travelogues, you’re probably safe retiring to a romantic Irish cottage with quill and ink. The rest of us have to be prepared to write for every medium now. In addition, you need to consider diversifying other skill sets. These days, it helps to become proficient in a couple of other related skills: videography, photography, teaching, basic tech or WordPress skills, SEO, or knowing your way around a CMS (content management system). It’s not glamorous, but it’s how the majority of us cobble together a living.  

Travel writing is considered a dream job by many. What are the best and worst parts of the job?

I’ll talk about guidebook work here. Twenty percent of it is absolutely the dream job you imagine it to be, 70% of it is drudgery, and 10% of it can be worse than the worst job you could imagine. But, whoa Nelly, that 20% is good. Very good. Almost worth the robberies, hospitalizations, parasites, car accidents, food poisonings, missed weddings and funerals, and whatever else we’ve all been through. We get to spend months immersed in meeting hundreds of new people, learning endlessly about other cultures, and we experience new things every few minutes or even seconds of every day for weeks on end. Woe to the trivia team that goes up against a team of guidebook authors in history or geography. I’ll explain more of the good later, but the drudgery looks like any data entry office job, on meth. Most authors I know aim for 2000 words a day, seven days a week, until deadline. Our assignments can be upwards of half a million characters, and many of those are phone numbers, opening hours, or addresses.

Travel writing is 14.1% just getting lost.

Travel writing is 14.1% just getting lost.

What characteristics do you think all good travel writers have in common?

First, for all travel writers: good writing skills, insatiable curiosity, a high level of general knowledge. Also, you need to be reliable and trustworthy. Your readers are entrusting you with some of the most financially and emotionally important decisions of their lives; don’t fuck it up. Plus, travel writing is a small world, and the editors all talk to each other. Be on time, meet your word count, follow instructions. For most guidebook work, you also need the stamina of a mountain goat. Imagine the hardest and longest days you’ve ever had at work or travel, combine them, and do them all in a foreign country or language while checking into a new hotel or hostel every night or two. And that’s just an average day.

Intuition is rarely mentioned, but as an editorial director I’ve come to appreciate it immensely in my writers and interns. In a way, the easier it is to find travel information, the harder our jobs become. You need to have an insight that the reader wouldn’t get by scouring the internet.

You’ve contributed to over two dozen projects for Lonely Planet. What has been your most memorable assignment?

Even though I covered Italy so often, I’ve got to say the Caribbean Islands in 2005 (seven islands from Anguilla to St. Kitts in 3½ weeks). Sure, I got robbed in St. Martin and I had to do a interview on Nevis TV with a face full of mosquito bites, but that was pretty typical. Guidebook authors don’t get expense accounts as many assume, so you learn quickly when to save and when to splurge. I find these creative work-arounds have given me some of my most memorable experiences. While the average hotel room on Anguilla was about $400, I stayed in an inn for local workers for $20. Sure, the floor crunched with every step from the bugs, but man, I got kick-ass intel. With my driver’s license stolen, I hitched dozens of rides — wealthy St. Barth visitors who explained how the island had been their version of summer camp for over a generation, the head of casino security on St. Kitts who showed me around the entire island. To save money and time, on a tip from the harbor master in St. Eustatius, I hitched a boat ride from a fisherman named Thomas and his rasta buddies. They spent hours walking me through their town’s reggaeton-filled streets, introducing me to their brand-new puppies, showing me where to get my passport stamped and how to take the local bus. One of the hardest parts of my job is that I simply can’t stay in touch with all of the absolutely amazing people I’ve met, but readers owe a huge debt to these folks on every book.

What do you like to do on your downtime on assignment (given there is any)?  

In a way, the job of a guidebook author is to cram ten months of downtime into four or six weeks. From 8am to 11pm or later seven days a week, you’re having Clockwork Orange levels of ‘fun.’ I think my record was visiting about 60 sights in one day in Rome: hotels, restaurants, museums, laundromats, bus stations, a cat sanctuary. I was so physically and mentally drained by about 9pm, I just sat down and started to cry. When I needed downtime, I would use it to do laundry, check email or stay in touch back home. However, sometimes I would slow down the pace, especially in a location I knew well. I once toured the basilica of St. Francis in Assisi for four hours with a Zambian Franciscan friar (who remains a friend, 10 years on).

When there is downtime in travel writing? It's not so bad.

Downtime in travel writing? Not too shabby. (At Villa Zuccari in Montefalco, Umbria)

In your opinion, what makes a great travel story?

Is the story about you and your experiences, or is your perspective helping evoke my feelings or imagination? Have I learned something? Do I feel like I would have a better sense of the place when I step off the plane? As in journalism, follow two simple mantras: 1) ‘Show, don’t tell’ and 2) provide a good hook. In the first few sentences, prove to your readers we can trust you and you’re going to entertain us, and then write the rest of the narrative so we can picture being right there with you. I’m also a huge fan of humor and could read Bill Bryson all day.

What skills, besides travel writing, have you picked up from being on the road so much?

About a year and a half ago, my house caught on fire. Like, jump-out-of-bed, flaming-bedroom-wall on fire. The next few weeks were a horrifyingly awful experience of course, but I quickly realized that level of intensity was almost exactly like a guidebook assignment. Instability, no secure housing, 16-hour days, people talking in foreign languages. I went into what l call guidebook author mode (an almost meditative ability to shut the fuck up and get shit done under any circumstances), and I got through it.

You mentor a lot of aspiring writers. What are your words of wisdom for those thinking about venturing into the travel writing landscape?

These days, the field is much tougher to break into professionally, but at the same time, you can start your own travel blog within approximately eleven minutes of finishing this paragraph. While there are a lot of blogs of varying quality out there, the especially dedicated and the good ones truly do get noticed. Learn from others at conferences like TBEX or the Book Passage travel writers and photographers conference or network in groups like Travel Massive or local societies of professional travel writers.

Be willing to start anywhere and work ridiculously hard: online magazines, local newspapers, trade publications, internships. And I can’t stress this enough if you want to be a professional travel writer or guidebook author these days: You need to specialize and become an expert on something. Japanese modern art. Delhi street food. London archaeology. The South Pacific. Arabic. Editors aren’t going to send a new writer on a wine tour of Southern France, but if you’ve spent four years as a sommelier and have written 10 articles about viognier, you’re getting somewhere. As an editor, I was invited to swim with whale sharks in the Philippines. Instead, I sent one of my most dedicated Asia- and adventure-focused writers, knowing he’d do a better job. And, develop your writer’s voice. I’ll be teaching my Finding Your Voice exercise to the competition winners in Berlin, but anyone can find a few friends and do it. Narrow your ‘voice’ words down, know your regions or topics, and then focus, focus, focus.

About Alex Leviton

After getting a master’s degree in journalism from UC Berkeley in 2002, Alex Leviton realized reading a newspaper had never changed her life the way travel had, and she started her travel writing career as a Lonely Planet author. She’s since contributed to two dozen projects for Lonely Planet, including all four editions of Tuscany & Umbria, Trips: The South, Happy, etc. She’s also written for every travel media: newspapers, magazines, websites, blogs. She also co-authors the Umbria Slow app for Sutro Media, was the original Editorial Director for Silicon Valley’s Gogobot since before launch, and has co-founded a travel startup. She’s been teaching writing and travel writing for over a dozen years.

Don’t Be Afraid: Taking the Bus in a Foreign Country

I once got lost on a bus. Where, you ask? Navigating the streets of Nairobi, maybe? Perhaps the cold, unforgiving lair of the London tube in rush hour? Rio? Shanghai? The windy country roads of the Cotswolds, surely?

Nope. In San Francisco. Where I lived. Heading back to my own house. Of nine years. From a class I’d been taking. In the same location. For six straight weeks.

If there is such a thing as directional dyslexia — and I think I can safely guarantee you that there is — I’m pretty sure I have it. But humor me: I’d just gotten out of one of my first meditation classes ever, the one when I finally got that transformational sense of calm and inner peace that brought me a glimpse of oneness with the universe and all beings. Afterwards, I calmly boarded the bus I’d arrived on, and after a full 11½ blissful minutes, snapped into consciousness, looked around, and realized that bus was still going in the same direction as it had been before, which meant I was now two more miles away from my house.

You goin' my way, sailor?

Where am I going? And why do I need an oyster? I have a good clam chowder recipe; does that count?

Taking the bus in a foreign country can be scary. For me, it flat-out is scary. I’ve been a travel writer and guidebook author for 16 years, and I have to work up the courage to use public transportation in a new city. In a new country, I need no less than three good-size hugs and maybe even a ‘there, there’ before I even think of boarding a bus or metro by myself. Taxis, walking, hop-on/hop-offs … they’re all much easier and I will readily, happily take them if I don’t have the time or energy to learn the bus system.

But, as I wrote about in a previous post on travel minimalism, I truly believe you don’t need much when you travel besides one thing: challenging yourself. (Vacationing is a totally separate thing; for that you need mai tais and a paper umbrella.) And there is nothing like standing in the freezing rain at a bus stop in Amsterdam for 30 minutes wondering where the hell the tram is, or sharing a ride on a manure truck in Western Kenya, that will not only challenge you but give you a window into experiences you wouldn’t have had any other way. Or, so I’ve heard.

External reasons to take a bus

If you’ve read previous blog posts, you’ll know that I secretly love nothing more than to tangibly experience what it’s like to live day to day in a new culture. And you know what people do every day, in every place around the entire world? Take the bus.

You see it all on public transportation: teenagers being teenagers, grumpy businesspeople, smiley babies, families interacting, the way a society treats its elderly and most fragile members. When I lived in Guatemala for three months in 1996, twice I brought enough snacks to share on long bus rides. I shared them with several seatmates each time, most of whom I found out had never tried cheddar cheese or a chocolate chip cookie. Maria de la Flor told me what it was like to raise 12 children, and I got to hold and pet a four-week-old puppy.

Riding with amblers, school kids and moms in the Cotswolds.

Riding with amblers, school kids and moms in the Cotswolds.

Personal reasons to take a bus

You know what else I secretly love more than almost anything? Sitting on my ass while somehow being propelled forward by a power greater than my own two legs, luxuriating in having the time to sit back and just watch the world pass by while I think, observe, write, play iPhone Scrabble. The slower, the better. There’s a certain thought process that seems to take place only when the universe is playing out around me.

Also, look at it this way: Doing this most basic act is courageous but easily attainable in — literally — almost every single place on the entire planet. Take public transportation in a foreign country, and you are instantly awarded twelve points of traveler cred.

How to take a bus

Taxis, walking, hop-on/hop-off tours … they’re all easier than taking the bus. You’ll never see any 68-page guidebooks on how to hail a taxi. But you very well might have to sift through pages or websites full of maps and schedules and holiday times and dates just to get from one place to another by public transportation. But like most things worth having, the extra effort you put in will be rewarded back to you. Times three.

Is there anything better than taking a bus in Argentina? None!

How many experiences are better than taking a bus in Argentina? None!


1. Start small. Don’t plan on traveling overland from Guinea Bissau to Djibouti in the rainy season on your first go. Metro systems like the underground in London or Shanghai are always easier than city buses, since there are maps everywhere and everything eventually connects.

2. Pay attention. Whether or not you’re required to pay attention is, for me, the dividing line between traveling and vacationing. When you’re taking public transportation, especially alone, you need to pay attention constantly. Have a paper map with you. Keep an eye on street signs. You’re here to observe daily life. Take out your headphones and be there.

3. Go without an objective. I once spent about a week and a half living with a model and one-time extra from Baywatch in Venice, Italy. Not surprisingly, she found a boyfriend within a day. I found the vaporetti. On several occasions, I purposely got lost and spent the rest of the day getting back to our apartment.

4. Don’t be afraid to ask — the driver, passengers, locals near bus stops. You don’t even need to speak the language; a paper map and pointing will do. You might look silly. People might stare at you. You want that traveler cred, right? Be prepared to make monkey sounds if it’s the zoo you want.

5. Read up in advance. Last week in Helsinki, rather than take a hop-on/hop-off, we took a DIY tram tour. Granted, I cheated and brought a card-carrying Finn with me, but found out later the tourism authority publishes their own tram tour guide of Helsinki. I’ve seen great blog posts on taking the bus in places like Panama, and Lonely Planet publishes a ‘Getting Around‘ page in every guidebook and on the website on public transportation in every country in the world. There is something wonderful about the serendipity of travel, but there are ways to prepare for serendipity.


UK vs US: A Cage Match

I consider myself somewhat of an expert on being American. Case in point: I’ve bet on a race between a pig, a goat and a duck at the Washington State Fair.* I learned what an interjection was from Schoolhouse Rock. And I once pulled in $85 on a Vegas 21 table. At 6.30 in the morning, on a road trip, on Route 66.

Over the past 20 years, I’ve spent quite a bit of time in the UK and have developed an affinity for life here. I once wrote a Lonely Planet chapter covering the western half of England. I’ve had swans as neighbors, twice: once in a converted barn in the Cotswolds. In the past month, I’ve visited five manor houses, four castles, nine gardens (including Prince Charles’) and had seven cream teas. (Double parental visits might have been involved.)

Here is my totally and completely unscientific survey in a who-wins-and-why cage match.

Kinda begs a story, doesn't it?

Kinda begs a story, doesn’t it?

City Names

The UK: Tiddleywink. Crapstone. Fittleworth. Spithandle Copse. Elephant and Castle. Great Cockshill Wood.

The US: Springfield, Missouri. Springfield, Illinois. Springfield, Ohio. Springfield wherever the Simpsons live. Boring, Tennessee. (Or Maryland. Or Oregon.)

Point: UK, by an imperial mile.

Street names

In the United Kingdom’s history, street names were often very descriptive of their goings-on. (Gropecount Lane has added a very key ‘o’ since the Middle Ages.) In London, you can walk through history by street names alone: Pilgrims Mews, Gallions Way, Poultry Road, Roman Road, London Wall, Old Jewry, Dockers Tanners Road

US: Elm St, Main St, First St, 119th Avenue, G St.

Point: UK


UK: Oh, I’m terribly sorry and I don’t mean to bother you, but could you possibly just move your bicycle a tad, dear chap? I’m afraid my prize roses aren’t quite up to the task of keeping it afloat. So sorry!

Translated: Move your bloody bike, arsehole.

US: Move your fucking bike, you fucking douchebag.

Translated: Would you please care to move your bicycle when you have a moment? Thanks ever so much!

Point: US

Talking to Strangers

UK: “Aaaack! Did you just talk to me? Are you insane? You must be literally insane to speak to me in public.”

US: “You’re from Seattle, are ya? Me and the missus, we were in Washington once. Got stoned out of our gourds at a music festival in the Olympics back in ‘79. That medical marijuana just passed there, didn’t it? We might-could just go on out there again to take advantage of that. Haven’t smoked a doobie for 25 years, ever since I started making seven figures doing Ivan Boesky shit on Wall Street in the 80s. God, those were the days. Blow off a hooker’s ass, for real. Well, hell, lady, now that I’ve got ya here, is that medical marijuana any good for erectile dysfunction, do you know?”

As much as Brits think I’m nuts, point goes to the US here. Plus, science has my back on this one.

Most people who do talk to you on public transport in London, by the way? Clinically insane.

And this is just the McDonald's. You should see the Burger King.

And this is just the McDonald’s. You should see the Burger King.

Architectural aesthetics

UK: Honey-colored stone cottages draped in misty lavender wisteria. Half-timbered Tudor pubs dating to the 16th century. Manicured flower gardens.

US: New Orleans French quarter. San Francisco Victorians. Strip malls. Parking lots. Lots of parking lots.

Point: UK

Architectural functionality: plumbing

Dear All of Europe: Please make a shower a short person can turn on without getting soaking wet. Just one? Kthnx.

UK: Environmentally appropriate levels of water in toilet bowls. Water pressure brought to modern acceptable levels only by noisy water pumps. Separate hot and cold taps which sometimes require a ‘Warning! Hot water is very hot!’ notice in public loos. No electrical outlets. Open doors on most bathtubs.

US:  Hot and cold water join together in solidarity, creating a pleasant non-scalding tepidness. Pressure is excellent, water doesn’t get all over the bathroom, you can blow dry your hair somewhere other than the kitchen.

Point: US.

It looks like my cage match has ended in a tie. I’m not surprised; I’ve always loved the history, tradition and progressive attitudes of the UK and Europe, and I am unabashedly a fan of the US and its innovation and authenticity, charity and friendliness. Whenever I’m on one continent, I miss certain things about the other. But I guess this is what happens in our new globalized world.

But, seriously, what’s with two taps thing, Britain?

* Who would have thought a goat could beat a pig?

Meandering Through the Cotswolds Countryside, Motherfuckers

Here, try this: Move to the quaint English countryside Cotswolds for your partner’s job. (I’ll wait.)


Becoming a thatcher (the non-Margaret kind) is a booming business in places like the Cotswolds, Wiltshire or Devon.

Okay, done?

Next: Stay there, perhaps alternating between Tetbury in Gloucestershire and Malmesbury in Wiltshire, off and on, for the better part of a year. Do an awful lot of ambling. Maybe some meandering. And, if you’re feeling really brave, some rambling. If possible, do as much as possible in a pair of Hunter green Wellies.

Make sure much of your ambling/meandering/rambling is through 500-year-old villages with thatched-roof cottages, on public footpaths that run past fields of sheep enclosed behind honey-colored Cotswold stone walls (try to make sure these walls are at least 150 years old), or through meadows that are so ridiculously filled with wildflowers, your eyes and heart will hurt from the unbearable quaintness. This shouldn’t be terribly difficult.

To spice things up once in a while, take a stroll around Prince Charles’ garden — because it’s there and, if you book far enough in advance, you can; hope that you chance upon, say, the spoils of the village quail hunt night at the Vine Tree pub near Malmesbury; or spot naughty sculptures in the Abbey House Gardens, a modern take on a folly garden run by a nudist couple known as The Naked Gardeners.


And then, after at least seven months of this, decide you would like to take in — as you once heard the West Country ladies call it  — a ‘picture show.’ Be sure to enjoy their entire conversation, had over pursed sips of tea in between discussions of church gossip, the merits of cinnamon, and just war theory.

There is no cinema nearby, so you will need to take the 29 bus to the ‘big’ city of Stroud (population 12,000). You’ll need to plan ahead; this is the countryside, so your bus runs every two to three hours.

Board said bus directly outside your hotel. On the days you’re not cruising past the single best view in the entire Cotswolds, spend your days writing in their restaurant and hanging out with your new friends Steve, the local recently-unseparated-but-still-overly-flirty son of a headmaster; Ginny, the American international property flipper who owns 16 of something called a ‘fractional'; and Pete, the Cornish handyman who wants nothing more in this world than to road trip in a convertible along Route 66.

Arrive in Stroud, amble your way past art galleries, boutiques and cafes, slack-jawed this area is relatively undiscovered by Cotswolds standards. Why do people jostle their way past tour buses in Stow-on-the-Wold or Moreton-in-Marsh when they could have the wool village of Nailsworth or the view over the Stroud valley all to themselves?


Buy one ticket for 22 Jump Street. Enter.

Proceed to watch one hour and 52 minutes of dick jokes, drug-induced psychedelic trips, beer-bonging and twerking spring breakers in ‘Puerto Mexico,’ and Ice Cube caustically yell-barking ‘motherfucker’ and ‘bitches’ rather exceedingly often. Add in a few more dick jokes for good measure.

And then, on your way back home, sit behind a rosy-cheeked schoolboy and a grandmother in sensible gardening shoes and take in the scenery. Wind up the hill through scenic overlooks with views of endless rolling hills and ancient rose-draped cottages.

After an outing such as this, there is only one choice.

It’s time to leave the Cotswolds and head back to the USA.


Minimalist Travel: Screw the Noise; What Do You Really Want?

Hiking the Appalachian Trail with a hobo bag and some buffalo jerky. A three-hour Slow Food meal at an Italian restaurant (in Italy or your own town). Two days in a local luxury spa with a twice-daily pedicure, a Civil War reenactment, or a naked sweat lodge at an eco-resort in Costa Rica.

What do all of these experiences have in common? Depending on the traveler, each one could be considered minimalist travel.

Minimalist travel is not about packing light, reusing towels or denying yourself anything. So, what is it?

Whatever. The. Fuck. You. Want.

Travel will never be an eco-friendly hobby, so let’s just break that myth right now. Venturing to Antarctica by Russian nuclear icebreaker is cool, granted, but its carbon footprint is a tad or two larger than a weekend in New Orleans (and both are infinitely larger than staying home).

While minimalist travel can be naturally slightly more eco-friendly than even eco-tourism, it can also be about having a deeper understanding of a culture, putting quality over quantity, or getting rid of agendas both internal and external so you can enjoy the serendipities of travel.

Travel brings the world closer together. Vacations rejuvenate us. Plus, travel drives 9.2% of the global economy. We learn, we grow, we relax, we become more aware of the environment we want to save. We’ll chat about ecotourism another day, but for now, let’s focus on personal minimalist travel.

Three hours picnicking at Saio Winery (with a backdrop of Assisi, Umbria) wasn’t long enough.

1. You don’t have to go big.

Ten years ago, my book club got a double motel room in a nearby business park for a night. We brought beer and wine, a toaster oven and pre-packaged cookies, and ordered pizza and chicken wings. We never even made it to to the pool or hot tub, we were having too much fun. The weekend cost us $45 a person and, well, after 14 years of being an international professional travel writer, here I am, waxing on about a night at a Holiday Inn Express in Research Triangle Park, North Carolina.

2. You don’t have to go for long.

You know what blows? Airports. Getting to airports. Security at airports. Packing. Forgetting to pack medicine. Dogsitters. Arranging days off work.

I don’t know who invented the rule that you have to go away for weeks at a time to have a ‘real’ vacation or holiday. In the US where we have zero mandated vacation days, most of us don’t have that luxury. We assume travel is too expensive and time-consuming, so we don’t even start.

Consider the two-day mini-trip. Flights? Pshaw. It might not be the most far-flung travel experience, but you can have one hell of a vacation, or even a mini-adventure. Stay at a B&B in the country and do a nearby farm tour. Take public transportation to a ritzy downtown hotel and order room service while watching a movie in bed. Do a two-night cruise (they leave from everywhere: New York City, Seattle, New Orleans, Norfolk, Miami, LA). Spend a night at the nearest luxury spa. Find all the campsites within two hours of your house and pick one.

A mini-trip can be no longer than 36 hours, so here’s the secret: you have no choice but to enjoy every minute of it.

3. You don’t have to see or do anything specific.

I love me some Bronze Age archaeology, but wish I hadn’t wasted a day at Stonehenge. The Leaning Tower of Pisa taught me nothing about Italy. (But a cooking class in Tuscany did, and I loved having the stone circles of Castlerigg almost to myself.)

Instead of asking yourself what you’re supposed to see, ask your yourself what you want to feel or experience. Do you want to understand the history of a place, see nature, meet locals? Or try out a new hobby, go on a quest, relax, have an adventure, eat, hike, aim for a spiritual awakening?

Try this: Write down 10 of your favorite travel experiences. If they mostly turn out to be inside museums, consider a career in art history. If not, look for themes. Apparently, I can be incredibly dull when I travel; I love experiencing day-to-day life. So now I look for ways to stay in one place, take public transportation, find local hangouts.

B&B, farm tour, Sunday lunch at Celebrity Dairy near Raleigh, NC.

B&B, farm tour, Sunday lunch at Celebrity Dairy near Raleigh, NC.

4. You don’t always have to go far.*

No, my Lonely Planet guidebook-author self is not rolling over in her grave right now. I’m intensely proud of how Tony and Maureen Wheeler — LP’s founders — encouraged millions of travelers to experience more of the world in ways we never thought possible.

But that doesn’t mean you have to fly to Mali or the Maldives every time you want a change of scenery. I’ll be pilloried for this by the ‘Oh, you haven’t injected homemade yak butter in a reclusive Nepali village yet?!!’ travelers, but I have nothing against tourist magnets like the Costa del Sol, Cancun, Orlando, Phuket. In the same way cities are far more environmentally friendly per capita than suburbs, putting large numbers of travelers together in a structured tourist region is more ecologically friendly to the surrounding area.

If you want an immersive cultural experience, go far. But if you need to relax for a few days on a beach, go to a nearby beach.

Packing light quickly becomes easier when a canoe is your only transportation.

5. You don’t need a lot.

True story: I once ended up in Belem, Brazil with nothing but the pajamas I’d slept in the night before and a toiletry bag.

Sounds horrible, right? Because of that fiasco, a) I taught three clothing shop clerks to do the YMCA at a Brazilian mall; b) they then convinced me to buy an exceedingly bright yellow-and-orange flowered polyester dress; c) and I made out with a sexy Brazilian architect all night on the airplane ride back to Miami. (Clearly, due to the Village People and that dress.)

Give it a try on your next trip. (Underpacking, I mean. Unless you can find a sexy Brazilian architect.) If you are going on an adventurous journey far from home, you’ll appreciate the lightness. When I went on a year-long sabbatical in my mid-20s, I got rid of almost all my worldly possessions, even my hair (have you ever weighed shampoo and conditioner? Seriously, that shit is heavy). You don’t have to be that extreme, but lessening your physical burden does — literally — free you up to have more of those serendipitous experiences.

6. You do have to challenge yourself.

Sometimes I wonder if travelers-to-be focus so much on the former five they miss out on this sixth concept. Travel is all about going far away for a long time and seeing as much as possible, right? Of course, the magic of travel actually happens when we encounter the unexpected, no matter the circumstances, but how do you prepare for serendipity?

We’ll get to that another day.

* Sometimes, you should still go far. Very far.

How Not to Write About Travel

The sun shimmers in the golden sweat of the sun’s cacophonous setting of the sun. A feather, a cigar, a swan. Floating by in the darkness of the ethereal sky. The breathtakingly awesome abode nestled in the ancient land of contrasts beckons.

My best guess as to 'nestled' under 'dappled' sunlight.

My best guess as to ‘nestled’ under ‘dappled’ sunlight. (Salvador Dali’s house on the Costa Brava, Spain.)

I lift my head up. The sun beats down on my forehead. It is 40 degrees celsius (about 100 degrees fahrenheit, give or take). That is really hot. I was in Darwin, Australia once when it was 48 degrees (celsius, not fahrenheit, because that wouldn’t be very interesting, would it? hahahahahaha!). And this one time, I got a heat rash on my inner thighs from going horseback riding on a beach in Vietnam on a really hot day. It was all red and got kinda oozy. I’ll detail it thoroughly in my next article.

But this was okay, because it was totally breathtakingly awesome.

Seven droplets of sweat glisten down my face, down my nose, onto my chin. Four fall immediately, washed like a dirty sock into the washing-machine-like chicken quesadilla my friend Chris ordered but decided he wanted a vegetarian burrito instead. “Hold the sour cream, please! And do you have diet Coke? No? Diet pepsi? WTF is wrong with this country? I’ll just take a 7Up. Fuck.” Three wait for a moment, and then crash to the kind of stone floor that was everywhere in this country that had some weird historical significance (you could probably look it up on a Google search) beneath my dirt-encrusted sandals. The ones that I bought six months before from Enrique, the friendly local in Ecuador who rollicked at my Birkenstocks sanctimoniously while we guffawed charmingly, neither speaking the other’s language, but an air of understanding each other’s souls wafted in the dappled light between us.

Biting into the chicken quesadilla. Expectations rampant.

And then I meet her. She is exotic. And foreign. We interact clumsily. She says something deep. Profound. I have no idea what she is saying in words, but it is noble and spiritual. Then she spits. I am deeply changed by this experience.

And then, dropping ecstasy at the Full Moon Party. Swedish House Mafia, motherfuckers!!1!!

Later. Swimming with the dolphins, a stranger glides me through the dark, sweaty waters. I gasp. Beauty is above me. I never knew. The stranger is the dinghy I stole from the bar owner’s fisherman son when I was wasted, and the water is, like, life and stuff. My boat capsizes, and I suddenly realize we are all one.


Going towards the goal, not knowing what will happen. A Rooster crows. There is still time.