7. The Underground city

When my Boston friends heard I was heading to Montréal, Québec in January for a visit, they thought I was crazy. Why head to an even colder climate than Boston in the dead of winter? But there are plenty of reasons, and a big one is that it is possible to stay in the city, despite sometimes sub-zero temperatures, without ever wearing a coat or donning mittens, gloves, scarves and all the other endless winter gear required at home. How is it possible? Well, Montréal has one of the most extensive underground networks in the world.

Here are just a few of the places a visitor is able to access in the approximately 19 miles (30 km) of underground pathways:

900-plus stores
50 restaurants (plus 300 food court venues)
8 hotels
19 movie theaters
9 fitness centers
65 métro stations (10 downtown)

The list goes on, but you get the idea: there’s plenty to do in the underground, and certainly more than enough for a weekend trip. In fact, there isn’t enough time to do all that you might want to do, so a visitor has to be choosy and plan ahead. And if being underground like a mole doesn’t sound appealing, don’t worry. Many sights are above ground, you just get to them from below, either by walking or taking the métro.

Montréal Tower at the Olympic Park.

Using the métro can be a bit daunting, but each line is color-coded and Montrealers are usually happy to point you in the right direction. Most everyone in the city is bilingual in French and English. A three-day unlimited use tourist pass is just CAD $16.

On my weekend jaunt, I stayed at the Marriott Château Champlain (1 Place du Canada; 514-878-9000), located downtown and right over the Bonaventure métro station. The hotel is often called the “cheese grater” because of its distinctive windows, shaped like half-moons, which go up its 36 floors. An indoor pool, well-appointed fitness room and a whirlpool are nice amenities, and allow you to exercise without going outside.

Surprises can be found around every corner in the underground, such as a piece of the Berlin Wall (Mur de Berlin), given by Berlin to Montréal for its 350 th anniversary, located in the Centre de Commerce Mondail de Montréal; or the bright pink “Lipstick Forest” (Nature Legere) installation by Claude Cormier at the Palais des Congres de Montréal (52 concrete-cast tree trunks); or, suddenly discovering one of the three ice-skating rinks located indoors.

All sorts of cultural venues can be reached via the underground as well, such as the Biodôme (514-878-3000; www.biodome.qc.ca), the Olympic Stadium (514-252-4605; www.rio.gouv.qc.ca) and the Musée d’art contemporain de Montréal ( Museum of Contemporary Art; 514-847-6236; www.macm.org).

The Contemporary Art Museum is the only museum in the city that focuses only on contemporary works, with a large portion of its collection done by Québec artists. There are eight galleries with works dating from 1939 (four are permanent). If possible, take a guided tour (offered Wednesday evenings, when admission is free from 6-9 p.m., and on weekends) or opt for the audio guide. The commentary is fascinating.

The Biodôme is a must if you have children (but fun if you don’t, too!). Four ecosystems under one roof — the Tropical Rainforest, the St. Lawrence Marine Ecosystem, the Laurentian Forest and the Polar World — are complete with the flora and fauna that live there. The Discovery Center is a delight for kids, with all sorts of hands-on activities, demonstrations, books and items to explore. (CAD $6-11.75). The Biodôme, once the cycling track for the 1976 Summer Games, is accessible to the Olympic Stadium, where tours are available.For those with kids, pick up a free activity kit that makes exploring the museum an adventure. Another fun option for children is “Artistic Sundays,” when they can do hands-on art activities in a studio. La Rotonde, the museum restaurant is ideally located for a view of the Place des Arts. (Admission is CAD $6 for adults; $12 for families; and children under 12 are free.)

Shopping is unbeatable in Montréal and the exchange rate is still favorable to those with US dollars (US $1 = CAD 1.23). Many visitors come only to shop here. During my January trip, I found that virtually every store was having a sale, and one of my favorite Canadian stores, Simons department store, was having a huge sale. The weekend crowds didn’t deter me from bargain-hunting. Needless to say, on my return trip home, I had way more stuff than I arrived with.

Towering above the city, and far above the underground, is the restaurant and club Altitude 737 (514-397-0041), which is located in Montréal’s tallest building and offers stunning views of the city and an unusual place to dance. It’s also a good place to shake off any claustrophobia you may have from being underground too long.

My last night in town was spent with friends and we ended up at Foufounes Electriques (87 rue Ste-Catherine; 514-844-5539), a famous alternative nightclub in the city, that on a Saturday night, was jam-packed. I had bought a very cute, but apparently flimsy, purse on an earlier shopping foray, and at some point in the night, the strap broke and it fell to the floor unbeknownst to me.While my trip to Montréal seemed all too short (what trip isn’t?), there is one thing I won’t forget, and it is actually something that often takes me to Canada — the unbelievable hospitality — and well, for a lack of a better word, niceness, of the people there.

Later, discovering its loss, I figured that it was gone forever, along with my driver’s license, credits cards, cash and cell phone. Still, I called my cell phone and the voice at the other end told me my purse and all its contents were safe. I could retrieve them the next day, which is what I did.

I’m sure not everyone in Montréal would have returned my belongings, but I have to say I wasn’t too surprised when I thought about it. Above ground or below, in a four-star hotel or a punk rock dance club, Montréalers are in a class all their own.

6. Skiing Crested Butte. That's wonderful

Don’t even think of touching the safety bar! If you reached up while sitting in the Paradise Express chairlift, grabbed the restraint and pulled it at belly height, everyone around you will assume you are beginner or perhaps worse — a wimp. What an embarrassment. After all, Crested Butte is considered a hotspot for extreme skiers. The Victorian mining town (estimated year-round population 1,500) is tucked away about four driving hours southwest of Denver in the pristine West Elk Mountains, a ragged mountain range deep within the Colorado Rockies. In winter, when an average of more than 200 inches (5.1 m) of snow falls upon Crested Butte, the two-lane through road is closed only a few miles behind the last town buildings. The town of Crested Butte is one of Colorado’s mountain treasures. Crested Butte is not easy to get to. You probably won’t pass it coincidentally. However, chances are you may wish to get stuck here after having discovered this mountain gem. Pippi Longstocking would be envious. With its colorful wooden houses along picturesque Elk Avenue, Crested Butte seems cheery and welcoming, without any glitz or glamour. No attitude here. Maybe that’s why it’s sometimes called “the anti-Aspen.” You won’t meet Hollywood here, but probably ex-hippies, nature lovers and ski-fanatics. True “Buttians” don’t care much about big money or a steep career path. A precipitous ski run on a powder day is much more meaningful. There are no chain hotels or fast-food joints around. And even “lifties,” some of whom hold a double master’s degree, can still afford a ski-in ski-out condo in “Colorado’s last great ski town.” Skiiers enjoy the expert trails and extreme terrain that Crested Butte has to offer. Crested Butte is still said to be an insider’s tip, surprisingly also because of its excellent restaurants. Well-traveled regular visitors swear that the local Sushi bar outrivals any competitor in metropolitan London. And most guests don’t even come for the restaurants. You can go snowshoeing here or enjoy dogsledding through lonesome aspen groves. The highlight, though, is, of course, Mount Crested Butte, about 12,162 feet (3,707 m) high, pointy and sharp. Its curiously carved summit almost looks like a petrified shark fin. Actually only 20 percent of all trails are designated “experts only.” Nevertheless, the small resort offers ambitious skiers the most extreme terrain on the entire continent that is still comfortably accessible by ski lift. “Exactly,” smiles Alison Gannett, “this mountain is quite a handful.” As a world champion freeskier — the anarchists of the skiing scene, who plunge down precipices with pleasure and jump off dizzying cliffs — it’s easy for the woman with the funny dimples to laugh off knee-weakening slopes. When swinging chairlifts whisk away average skiers like this writer to Crested Butte’s higher elevations, a mere glimpse of the notorious “North Face” raises the hair on their necks. In the Alps, where I’ve learned to ski, the most difficult trails are simply classified as black runs. In the U.S. there are double black runs, color coded with two black diamond symbols. For really tricky slopes, the two diamonds are additionally adorned with a capital E and X. Yes, you guessed it – that’s for EXTREME. The deterrent is working. Novice skiiers usually don’t dare venture up here without professional help like that of champion skiing instructor Alison Gannett. She teaches “Rippin’ Chix Steeps Camps” — specialized women’s clinics to allegedly master any nauseating slope in “baby steps.” The chairlift is now zooming past the vertical chutes of Paradise Cliffs and I pray that her promise is correct. “Look up there!” Alison says excitedly as she digs down her right elbow into my side and points to the cliff’s edge. In fact, the three black dots clinging to the sheer rock are no pine trees but skiers defying gravity in a wondrous way. The sun fades behind the mountain as another day on the slopes draws to a close. “What’s the name of this run?” asks a fellow chairlift passenger, her voice quivering, “and are we taking it?” For better orientation, a picture of Crested Butte’s trail map is mounted on top of the safety bar, which comes in very handy as we lower the restraint now — for reference reasons only, of course. Good one! Silently I thank my co-passenger. All of a sudden she and I feel much more relaxed. For now at least… If You Go Crested Butte Mountain Resort www.skicb.com Colorado Tourism Office www.colorado.com Heike Schmidt covers North American destinations for the German wire service.

Tags: Tourist for you, du lich cho ban, lua chon du lich cho ban, tap chi du lich cho ban, tourist Magazine.

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5. Hong Kong. A City never sleeps.

It’s almost midnight, but the jet lag in my brain thinks it must be morning. I don’t know whether to be tired or wide-awake as I pull my car out of its airport parking place and head for home.
In the moonlight, I can see the outline of the Rocky Mountains, so I know that I’m back in Colorado. Yet, the lights of Hong Kong still reflect in my mind, and it’s hard to leave the images behind. My coat still carries the rich smells of the Golden Bauhinia, where I ate the most amazing sautéed crab claws last night. And my body is becoming sore from my first Tai Chi lesson, taken this morning at dawn along Hong Kong’s gorgeous Waterfront Promenade.
The miracle of flight has whisked me from that colorful Asian world to this quiet alpine setting, which I know so very well, but it’s a mental transition that admittedly takes some time.
Yet there is sweetness to returning home. The mountains loom larger as I near the foothills, and I look at them in a fresh new light, marveling at their beauty. My small hometown, lazing on the hillside, has already gone to sleep. There are no cars on the road, and the few street lights have been turned to blinking mode as if to say, “Yes, we’ve gone to bed for the night, but we’ve left the nightlights on for you.”
I take a deep breath and exhale, truly glad to be back. Traveling is one of life’s most precious freedoms, but home is still a wonderful destination, and it’s well worth the rediscovering.
In this week’s articles, Austrian Nicole Falmbigl (Under My Skin) realizes that home is where her heart is when she returns to Vienna after living abroad. Susan Miles shares her affection for her adopted home of Japan in Going Geisha, while Rob Faughnan admits to some culture shock upon moving to New Orleans.
We hope you’ll enjoy these articles, and will pass them on to other travel lovers. Happy travels!

Tags: Tourist for you, du lich cho ban, lua chon du lich cho ban, tap chi du lich cho ban, tourist Magazine.

4. Secret prisons in Anne Frank, you can't ignore

The opening to Anne Frank’s hiding space Courage… strength… inspiration… heartbreak… These are the words that come straight into my mind when I think about Anne Frank and her diary. German-born Anne is probably the best-known victim of the Jewish Holocaust during World War II. She and her family spent two years hiding from the Nazis in a secret warehouse annex in Amsterdam, protected by non-Jewish friends. Her diary tells the true story of a young Jewish girl whose life dramatically changes within the course of three years. Anne had received the diary as a present from her father, Otto, for her 13th birthday on June 12, 1942. It traces the lives of her Amsterdam-based family as they are forced into hiding. As Anne grew older, she went beyond mere description and wrote about more abstract and philosophic matters, such as her belief in God and human nature. In 1933, when Hitler came to power, Anne Frank’s father, Otto moved the family to Holland. After the Nazi occupation of Holland on May 15, 1940, the lives of Jewish families like the Franks became severely restricted. When Anne’s older sister Margot was called up to go to Germany on July 5, 1942 for relocation to a work camp, the Frank family’s lives changed forever. The family faced arrest if Margot did not comply. But her parents, sensing the impending call-up, had already organized a secret hiding place, an empty section of Otto’s office building at 263 Prinsengracht. There was enough room for themselves, as well as Hermann van Pels, Otto’s co-worker, his wife and son, Peter, and Fritz Pfeffer, an acquaintance of the Frank family. An exterior view of Anne Frank’s house I first read the diary when I was in primary school, and again when I was in high school. Ten years later, I knew what it was about, but I couldn’t remember the emotions I felt reading it. Perhaps I had been too young. Before I left Australia for a holiday in Europe, I decided to read the diary again, which is also praised for its literary qualities. I knew I would be visiting the house in Amsterdam, and I wanted that experience to really mean something. I spent my mornings and afternoons on the train to and from work, reading about the life, and death, of Anne Frank. I was once again captivated by her innocence, the terror she experienced and the trauma of her family and her life underground. I put myself into her place and lived the moments in my mind, imagining what I would do in certain situations. I also allowed myself to feel emotions towards Anne and her family. I got angry at her mother, I admired her father and I loved Peter Van Pels as she did. I wanted the moment that I stepped into her house in Amsterdam to be truly unique. It was. The house is located next to a canal, just a short walk from the Central Station. Standing outside, I looked around at the street Anne and her sister Margot stared at through closed curtains. I saw the road where Anne had described seeing soldiers patrolling and Jews fleeing, terrified, to escape the war. Where she saw friends and neighbors taken away by the army, marching towards certain death, I saw people dressed in clothes Anne dreamed of owning, faces as beautiful as the pictures she cut from magazines and posted on her walls, laughter and smiles as friends shared stories and tourists scoured the streets in search of history. Anna Frank’s book has been translated into 50 languages. As Anne looked onto these streets during the heartache of World War II, she could never have imagined the happiness the people are blessed with today. The streets were filled with traffic — cars, buses, bikes — taking people to more destinations of enjoyment. On the rare occasions Anne was able to sneak a look outside, the only cars she saw were military; buses were full with Jews on their way to concentration camps; and those on bikes were simply there in a failed attempt to escape. But looking at the streets outside the house was nothing compared to being inside — as I’m sure was the same for Anne and her companions. The house is built in two sections and is four stories high, with an attic. The back section of the two top floors became the secret annex, where Anne and her family, the Van Pelses and Fritz Pfeffer spent 25 months of their lives. They lived there until they were captured in August 1944, when the annex was emptied of its furnishings by order of the German occupier. It was an anonymous telephone call to the authorities which led to their whereabouts. While it will never be known for certain who reported them, two theories have surfaced. One alleged the betrayer was Anton Ahlers, a Nazi and business associate of Otto Frank. The second theory pointed to a Dutch cleaner named Lena Hartog-van Bladeren, who worked in the office in front of the annex. But the true identity of the betrayer will never be known. Those hidden were all deported and sent to extermination camps, where all but one died. Otto Frank, Anne’s father, was the only survivor (Anne died from typhus and deprivation in March 1945 in the northern German concentration camp Bergen-Belsen. She was just 15 years old). Otto was found by the Russian Army at Auschwitz and upon recovery, learned of the death of his wife and children. After the war, Anne’s diary was found strewn across the office floor, where it was picked up and hidden away. It resurfaced many years later and was given to her father. The annex has remained in its authentic state. It was officially opened as a museum in 1960, and in 2004, recorded almost one million visitors. I was speechless as I walked the same corridors and staircases that Anne and her family had walked. I had tears in my eyes as I stepped through the worn bookcase, which served as a secret door to the annex. And my heart pounded as I made my way into the make-shift bedrooms. Although empty now, I was able to picture what they must have looked like, and I couldn’t comprehend how each person survived for 25 months in such extreme conditions. I guess it was nothing compared to life in concentration camps. Even now as I think of it, I shudder at the image of the small room that Anne shared with Fritz Pfeffer — the pictures she had pasted to the wall to cheer her up, still there, faded and torn. A reflection on a young life — long lost. Had I walked into the secret annex where Anne Frank and her family lived without reading the book beforehand, I don’t think I would have truly understood what it meant to be there. I would never have felt such despair walking into the rooms that served as the kitchen, bathroom and bedrooms; I wouldn’t have cared that there was barely enough space to fit a desk, let alone two or three beds; and I wouldn’t have felt my heart pound as I remembered how scared Anne had been as she wrote about the view from the window or listened to the news on the radio. As I walked through the annex, I thought about how hard it must have been for Otto Frank to pack up his family and hide them from the world for more than two years. To stop his daughters from going out to play — from even looking out the window to feel the sunlight on their faces. I can’t imagine how painful it must have been for him to watch as the shine slowly faded from the eyes of those he loved the most, knowing he was unable to help them. I thought about Peter and Margot, and wondered what might have happened to them had they survived the war. But mostly, I thought about Anne and how she experienced hell first-hand, yet through her diary — and sadly, her death — she has made so many people smile. She was a young girl who dreamed of becoming a journalist, but she lived and died in an unfortunate time. Her writing has since inspired hundreds and her words have touched even the hardest of hearts. A bronze monument of Anne Frank commemorates her life. Through her adversity, the world has learned that life is sometimes cruel. Hopefully, we have also learned that although at times life may be tough, we should appreciate what we have, because there will always be people who live their lives in a secret annex. Anne Frank’s diary was published in 1947 in the Netherlands under the title Het Achterhuis (The Annex). It was translated into more than 50 languages, sold millions of copies and is still in print. It was adapted as a Broadway play in 1955 and a film (1959). In 1997, Natalie Portman starred as Anne in a new version of the play. If You Go Anne Frank House Prinsengracht 267 Amsterdam The Netherlands Phone +31 (0)20 – 5567100 Fax +31 (0)20 – 6207999 Museum Opening Hours Info Tape +31 (0)20-5567105 www.annefrank.org Anne Frank Center New York www.annefrank.com Tags: Tourist for you, du lich cho ban, lua chon du lich cho ban, tap chi du lich cho ban, tourist Magazine.

3. Trip to the desert. Indian camel safa

Three camels rest at a well in India’s Great Thar Desert.

When talking to several camel safari operators in Jaisalmer, India, they all assured me that the trek was worth it, despite the pungent aroma of the dromedaries, as if the camel stink was something foreigners could handle only with advance notice.After spending two days perched on one, though, I can say that the stink just wasn’t a big factor on my trip. They didn’t smell like roses, but maybe I just got used to the stench of mine; I called him Paco. Footprints in the sand are a common sight since the dunes are heavily trafficked. Paco was a bit young for safaris, and the guides said that it would be dangerous to use him for treks without a human lead walking alongside him. He, and all the camels used for schlepping are always “he,” because the she-camels are larger and prone to driving their male counterparts into hormonal rages that end in what can only be described as the dromedary with two humps. I was the only tourist on my trek to suffer the trauma of having a horny adolescent camel. The other four tourists on the trek, including my traveling companion—my Financial and Menu Adviser—were able to guide their own camels with their own reins. There were five of us: Stu, the Canadian; Tim and his girlfriend Mel, a British couple; and the FMA and I. Stu was wacky. He had a digital video camera with a separate lens component that looked like military or spy hardware strapped to a headband. The recording part of the camera was positioned on his belt. With his longish red hair, he looked a bit like Richard Simmons gone Borg. While the locals we would encounter clearly enjoyed discussing him, none of this made him memorable. What really made Stu unforgettable was that he rarely walked upright. He bobbed and weaved, his thin, pale white arms with their dusting of red hair spread out for balance. He crouched low, then rose up high, like a cross between a boxing instructor and a DIY infomercial on how to shoot extreme sports. Stu was friendly, too, a nice guy with a genuine interest in what went on around him, but whack-a-mole wacky. He’ll probably win an Oscar someday. Tim and Mel, on the other hand, were the antithesis of Stu. Clean-cut Londoners, they provided a perfect balance to Stu’s optimistic bob-and-weave. Pleasant to talk to, willing to share the more embarrassing moments of their trip as eagerly as the exciting, frustrating or horrific ones, it was nice to meet others who enjoyed India, but didn’t think that it was some kind of mysterious magical wonderland. With Paco and I at the tail of the line, we trudged westward with our guides, past the brown desert scrub and toward the sand dunes north of the town of Sam. We ate during the hottest part of the day under some scrubby trees on the edges of the dunes. The guides helped us dismount, with much gronking and chortling from the camels, and then they cooked us an authentic desert meal: rice, chapatis, dhal and some kind of curried desert vegetable. The guides used very little water when cleaning the dishes. They used sand for soap, which resolved the issue of waste by absorbing anything left over. When we left, the dung beetles that infested the sands moved on the remains like large black maggots. Ravina and Moru, two young desert villagers, hesitantly approach the camel safari. From the larger mammals to the occasional bird and the ubiquitous insects, the desert boiled with a curious stew of creatures. People, too, populated the scorched, scrubby plains and shifting dunes. As the camels and our guides slowly plugged along into the four o’clock sun, we came upon a lone tree with red strings tied all over its branches: a Hindu cemetery, explained the guides. Soon after, I saw a village spread out on the horizon. Much closer, a group of cisterns and wells was being used by the villagers. We dismounted to get water for the camels, so I went over to the locals. Ignoring me as they chatted among themselves, they pulled water up from 70 meters below the surface of the sand. When the rope reached the top, I was surprised to see it wasn’t attached to one of those cheap plastic buckets found all over India. Instead, the rope was tied to the four corners of a piece of brown leather. Pulled up like a baby’s nappy, it looked like it held a frightfully small quantity of water for the effort required to haul it up. Over and over again, it was dropped then hoisted, and its contents dumped into containers, into hands, onto heads. For a place that measured its rain not in centimeters but in years, as in, “We haven’t had any measurable rain in two years,” they seemed absurdly wasteful of such a precious commodity. After about two hours of more camel riding, we closed in again on the dunes. The sun fell lower in the sky, and our shadows, elongated on the sand, became a photo-op for Tim and Mel. Restricted to the top of his camel, Stu’s bob-and-weave videography was limited to the cadence of his carrier. Before we knew it, we’d reached the center of the dunes. Only on the edge of the horizon did the sine wave of sandy hills flatten to infinity. After dismounting, the FMA and I walked away from where the guides were unsaddling our rides, for the night. Confronted by such enormous, overwhelming repetition that somehow wasn’t repetitive, we parked our sore butts and legs on the sand and watched the sun slip below the horizon. The pollution from Pakistan floats eastward, so the sun turned an angry red and then dropped out of sight far above the horizon. While our view of the sunset was utterly undramatic, it was the same one that the large group of day-tripping tourists on a nearby dune saw. Dinner came and went, and tasted the same as lunch, even if the food was different. Indian beer wasn’t much to speak of, either, with a marginal alcohol content to match the marginal taste. Before the beer was gone we were interrupted by one of the guides. The moon was rising. We clambered up the dune to be greeted by a big fiery ball of white. The valleys and mountains on the moon’s surface were visible to the naked eye. The dunes were almost as bright in the moonlight as they were four hours earlier, in daylight. We all stood in awe. Tim even proposed to Mel, choosing what she later called “the perfect night” to ask her to marry him. The Great Thar Desert village of Sam doesn’t seem like much to the casual observer. The second day brought me Paco 2.0, an older and more mature camel than the first, which I was able to lead on my very own. It was like graduating kindergarten. And just like back in kindergarten, it didn’t take me long to find myself getting chastised. One guide told me not to kick in my heels to get P2 to speed up, since that upsets their stomachs. Camel welfare, however, did not interfere with the same guide repeatedly beating another camel on the neck with his fist, when the beast misbehaved. I thought about pointing out this irony to the guide, but decorum and a severe language barrier got the better of me. The village of Sam, a collection of a dozen huts and three dozen piles of trash on the ground, was unremarkable. There were no local crafts that were pointed out to us, no obvious reason why the village was even there. At the end of the trek, we visited a well where many women were, collecting water in steel jugs that they balanced on their heads. Our guides wouldn’t let us approach them or even ask questions from across the well, but at four in the afternoon it was damn hot to be carrying steel jugs anywhere. All I could take away from the camel safari, besides another interesting, yet not fantastic Indian adventure, was a reminder of a Zen moral translated in 1990s parlance: It’s the experience, stupid.

 

Tags: Tourist for you, du lich cho ban, lua chon du lich cho ban, tap chi du lich cho ban, tourist Magazine.

2. The Fairy Bridge at the island's main Douglas.Fairy land.

A wooden cross tightly wound with wool was nailed to the front door of Aaron House, a restored 12-bedroom Victorian home in Port St. Mary, a former fishing village on the southwestern tip of the Isle of Man. I studied the cross for a moment, then dismissed it as a Christian ceremony I was unfamiliar with. “It’s the crosh cuirn,” the guesthouse proprietor announced, when he saw my perplexity. “Every year, on April 30, we fix a wooden cross to the inside of our front door. Keeps the wicked fairies out.” Then as an afterthought, he added, “But it must be bound with sheep’s wool.” I wanted to ask why, in particular, sheep’s wool, then thought better of it. “Do all the islanders do this?” I asked. “Aye, most of us have experienced the fairies, so we know what to do.” He nodded knowingly then disappeared into his office. Sheep’s wool, tightly wound, is used to craft the crosh cuirn, a wooden cross said to dispel evil spirits. The indescribably beautiful Isle of Man lies in the untamed waters of the Irish Sea off the northwest coast of England. It’s a patchwork landscape in shades of willow green, lime and sage, sprinkled with azure and indigo waterways, and punctuated with snowy white sheep on the hillsides. The 227-square-mile (588 km²) island is rich with history, with standing stones left by the Vikings protruding from the earth like daggers; Celtic forts that predate Christ along the shores’ serrated edges; and primeval burial sites that have frowned over the valleys for four-thousand years. Such history undeniably influences folklore and the mystique surrounding this ancient kingdom. I was curious to learn more about the island’s supernatural attractions, and asked around for some guidance. “At the end of the lane,” I had been directed by a gas-pump attendant, “the little white cottage, overgrown with wild fuchsia, that’s Uncle Neil’s.” Uncle Neil, as he prefers to be called, is a mystic. It’s said that he has contact with the underworld. After much telephonic coaxing, he agreed to meet me for a drink and divulge some of the island’s fables. My car rolled onto the stone drive of the fuchsia-encased cottage. Before me was a setting of incomparable splendour — a quilted countryside in hues of moss, pine and mint, interspersed with mauve heather and lemon-colored gorse. When I rang the ornate brass bell the door opened a crack. I introduced myself, the crack widened, and I made eye contact with a single, dark iris. “He’s gone the pub, he has,” the eye croaked. I inquired as to which direction the pub lay, and was directed by a spidery hand waving vaguely toward Ireland. I eventually found the remote pub in the little hamlet of Niarbyl, near the village of Dalby, on the west side of the island. The Ballacallin House Hotel’s handful of patrons fell silent when I walked in and watched as I strode toward the proprietor, inquiring about Uncle Neil. He gestured with an incline of the head toward a solitary figure sitting by the window. I approached what appeared to be a shrivelled, hunched frame nursing an empty beer glass. Uncle Neil appeared sunken and hairless with blue-veined, papery skin exposing his domed cranium; he seemed nearly devoured by his clothing. His face sat low on his shoulders, pitched forward, as if deprived of support. His upper lip protruded like that of a turtle’s beak, and his cheeks were sunken. We agreed how good it was to finally meet, exchanged a few pleasantries, and soon settled down with fresh drinks and let’s-get-comfortable smiles. “Those are Northern Ireland’s Mourne Mountains on the horizon,” he boomed in a walruslike voice. He contemplated them for a moment. “The old books say that a warring Irish giant threw a fistful of earth at his Scottish rival, but that it fell short and landed in the Irish Sea; that is how the Isle of Man happened.” As he spoke, I learned that island life is undeniably influenced by folklore and pagan rituals as, today, the revered Celtic magician-king Manannán mac Lir, revered as the god of the sea, is still honored by the natives. On Midsummer Eve they carry green meadow grass to the top of Barule Mountain in payment for “renting” the sea. It is said that some folk still pray to Manannán, asking for a blessing on their boats and a good catch. Peel Castle is recognized as the home of Moddey Dhoo, a ghostly black dog said to have scared a sentry to death. “What can you tell me of the crosh cuirn?” I asked. He crooked a crescent of skin where his eyebrow should have been. “Aye, the crosh cuirn dispels evil spirits. It’s a wooden cross positioned above an entrance door. Naught mischief enters a household where a crosh cuirn hangs.” He nodded gravely. “Some folk put a crosh cuirn in the cowshed to protect their animals, and somefishermen use it on their boats. He nodded some more. “It’s a cross of twigs trussed together with sheep’s wool found in hedgerows. To be effective, though, the twigs must be of the Rowan tree — they have magical powers — and they must be broken by hand, never cut.” He gazed across the sea, then added, “Legend and superstition is widespread on the island. But there is more than a grain of truth in many of these tales.” Directly behind Uncle Neil, sitting at the bar, was a rugged, amiable-looking fellow, bundled into a heavy barn jacket. While my host fumbled with his pipe, I observed the barn jacket grab a small cup of something and thrust it deep into his beard. Evidently it found his mouth. He eyed me suspiciously; a biscuit then disappeared into the depths of his beard. Uncle Neil shot a cloud of pipe smoke across the table; it hung there, suspended for a while, then slowly rose to the ceiling. He took a long pull on his pint, emitted a lung-shaking cough, then sat quietly, contemplating life. We spent the next few hours discussing the Isle’s ancient mystique and folklore. I learned that travelers should take a bone from a sheep’s jaw along as a means to direct them. I wish I had known this before, as the Isle of Man roads can be rather confusing. Locals believe that throwing the bone will show you the way, pointing to the right road. We discussed Moddey Dhoo, the ghostly black dog of Peel Castle, said to have scared a sentry to death, and the Water Bull, with its fiery, brutish eyes, living in swamps and possessing a bellowing that makes the ground tremble. At the mention of Gef, the talking mongoose, the barn jacket ambled over and introduced himself as “the fellow who knew about Gef.” He told us that Gef took a fancy to what was once known as the Irving farmhouse, a lonely mountain cottage in ruins today, and hid in its walls. At first all Gef did was make strange noises, then he began speaking to the family. He would disappear for weeks at a time, claiming, on his return, that he had traveled around the Isle by clinging to the underside of buses. He would relay details of what happened in other households elsewhere on the Isle, which were later verified by journalists. A myriad such Manx fables have been passed down through the generations, including those relating to the sea. Everything feasible was done to bring good fortune in search of a bountiful catch. The sea received offerings for the mermaids, boats were searched for witches, and the mention of four-legged animals by name was sure to change a boat’s destiny. The Fairy Bridge lies on the island’s main Douglas–Castletown Road. For a pleasant visit, say “good day” to the fairies. I bid farewell to my two new friends, then returned to my hotel. As I crossed the Fairy Bridge, which lies just past Santon Station on the main Douglas–Castletown road, I recalled Uncle Neil’s warning about the Little People. “Should you cross the Fairy Bridge without saying so much as laa mie (good day) to the fairies, you cannot be sure of a safe and pleasant visit.” I considered shouting a greeting out the driver’s window, but thought better of it, opting rather to smile inwardly at my own superstitions. Moments later, my map hoisted itself out of the passenger-side footwell and, having spent a moment wrapped round my face, blew away in time to show me the fast-approaching ditch. If You Go Isle of Man Tourism www.isleofman.com

Tags: Tourist for you, du lich cho ban, lua chon du lich cho ban, tap chi du lich cho ban, tourist Magazine.

1. Paradise resort.Drop soul by sea waves.

We had a toddler and a toddler wannabe. We’d moved six times in six years, following the corporate something-or-other. We’d just sold our house and were moving to I-forget-where-now.
In between frenetic demands — leaky diapers, new jobs, snowstorms, moving boxes, plants that arrived dead — we decided to take a break and leave the kids with Grandma. I felt a little guilty about it. But we needed a rest. We’d go to the Caribbean and relax for a change. We didn’t yet know about a credit card problem that would render us temporarily insolvent.
The airport was bedlam, our frame of mind as well. That’s probably why we forgot to notice the crucial error: The bags went to Aruba; we went to Antigua. Lots of miles in between. Oh well.
We were quick to adapt to the new reality once we’d absorbed the facts: We had a pre-paid hotel stay, a bogus credit card, the clothes on our backs and the kits full of toiletries we’d had the foresight to carry on board the plane. Nothing else.
It was simple. We took the paltry sum the airline had given us for clothes and sundries, and marched to the local tourist outfitter for supplies. (No need to risk the questionable credit of the credit card; the bags would arrive any day now, we thought.)
Then we began the daily rotation: the clothes just worn were given to the maid to wash, the new threads were on our backs. Next day: the opposite. Nothing to worry about there. No worries about theft because we had nothing to steal.
We had a lot of fun lying under the palms by the pool, lolling in the caress of the breeze. Here we composed the nasty letter we would send to the cheapskate airline which is now out of business.
Dear So and So, How you feel we can get by with one bathing suit and one pair of shorts and a shirt each is beyond us. We bet you never had to put up with this crap. No sir, you’re the CEO. Mr. Big Shot. Everything goes swimmingly for you. Blah, blah, blah.
I did the backstroke while designing our diatribe. My husband slathered on the tanning lotion; we’d put the charge on our hotel bill and would see what the iffy credit card would do on departure day.
One day, we drove around the island in a rental car. I forget now how we had the financial wherewithal to finagle that one. We stopped at various lookouts for a view of this splendid place.
As I stood at the top of Shirley Heights looking out over the spectacular blues and greens of historic English Harbour with its array of costly yachts, I waited for my husband to snap my picture. It then occurred to me that I was not wearing any underwear. Given our tiny clothes allowance and the few bugs remaining to be worked out in the laundry rotation, I’d somehow skipped this crucial detail.
I wore a diaphanous shirt and skirt, purchased with our measly emergency fund. The fashion freedom was exhilarating, but I wondered about the photograph. Would it be X-rated?
I asked my husband what he thought of the view — backlit by the sun, the breeze blowing my skirt. “It’s a fabulous shot,” he said, eyebrows raised. Just wonderful.”
Men! I should have known better than to ask him.
We wiled away the week, reading, swimming. We drifted off into our naps watching the lizards etch a path across the ceiling as the fan made its languid circles. We watched the gambling at night because we couldn’t afford to wager, and didn’t play tennis — no rackets. At mid-week with no luggage in sight, we transferred to the property next door, as per our prior arrangement.
Once in our new digs, we headed for the restaurant to sample the local fare. A lady with a lilting accent waited on us. When I foolishly asked her if the place had a pool, she extended her hand toward the beach and looked at me like I might be crazy.

                                                     Jolly Beach

Right. Who needs a pool when you have this very, very large body of water called the Caribbean at your feet? Stupid me. We went for a swim, snoozed some more.
Saturday came. We’d have to leave the next day, I noted with sadness. Still no luggage, of course. As I worked my way through the day’s laundry rotation, a knock sounded at the door of our beach cottage. Our bags had arrived.
We opened the once-coveted suitcases. What an assortment of goodies met our eyes: shorts, shoes, shirts. Beach towels, dinner dresses, tennis rackets, extra paperbacks. Flip flops, goggles, fins.
We could play tennis now, dress for dinner, worry about our stuff. But who wanted to? I’d loved my time as a vagabond, a penniless, item-less bum.
I felt sort of dejected. I saw the bags as the harbinger of things to come. We’d go back to civilization — to bills, incompetent moving companies, telephone hookups, searches for new doctors and dentists.
Why couldn’t we just send the bags back to Aruba and stay here sans accoutrements in the resort with the world’s biggest swimming pool?
If You Go
Antigua and Barbuda Department of Tourism
www.antigua-barbuda.org
Tags: Tourist for you, du lich cho ban, lua chon du lich cho ban, tap chi du lich cho ban, tourist Magazine.

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