The Palm Reader of Key West

The boat approached Key West and I was suddenly seduced by the tropics. The swaying palm trees, the island music, the smell of conch grilling on the harbor BBQ – we were finally here, ready to bask in the sun for 48 hours and de-ice from the frigid Boston winter weather.

Wicker Guest House

The room at the Wicker Guest House was perfectly eco-friendly, clad with a baby gecko in my bed the next morning. I hope he was happy there, because it took about three seconds for me to jump up and scream, which I’m quite sure startled the little guy right out of his relaxation.

Outside our room a hammock swayed in the breeze and palm trees shaded the pool area. There was an unmistakable Hemingway-esq ambiance of the place that tucked guests in for a good night’s sleep.

Key West Sunset

The next day, wild dolphins welcomed us in the Gulf of Mexico – five to be exact. The night was capped off with a sunset sail, complete with a storm approaching from the east. As we sailed back to land, water spouts formed behind us – mini-tornadoes were stating their claim on the sea and I was eager to get my feet back on land.

We walked through the rain past a dark man in all white. He had long white hair and a white beard and appeared randomly throughout the day on street corners or in storefronts. He was hard to miss, and was now perfectly perched on a wooden chair ready to read my palm. The storm was getting closer, but I was focused on the man in white. Continue Reading…

Galway Girl

Galway, Ireland

One of the pitfalls of being a travel writer is the excessive urge to pack up and travel at any given moment. It’s not always easy on the bank account, although it’s always inspirational for the craft.

When approached by my Irish-born blonde, freckled friend to take a trip to Ireland this summer, I was skeptical. I’ve never had a strong desire to visit Ireland, mainly because I don’t have any ancestry attachments or historical knowledge of the country. I’m told the Emerald Isle is beautiful, especially the countryside. So when my friend told me that the entire trip – including airfare and hotel for four days – amounted to a whopping $700, I handed over my credit card and within seconds was booked for a June trip to Ireland.

The overnight flight arrives Shannon, Ireland at 6:05 a.m. on a summer Saturday morning. The hotel sits along the Shannon River and is located 30 kilometers from the airport. But what does one do in Shannon?

My knowledge of Ireland is simple: Dublin and drinking. When told of Ireland’s beauty, however, I was intrigued. The thought of driving through Ireland’s countryside seems somewhat magical. The rolling green hills, the windy roads, and of course, the Blarney Stone.

I love exploring Europe – I feel at home in this country across the pond – and I have high hopes for Ireland. Truth be told, I’m most looking forward to the drive to Galway. I’m told luck follows the Galway Girl…

Matters of the Heart

One friend put it perfectly: Dating today is more like a job interview… there is no romance in meeting someone new. It’s an interview process that focuses on three questions:

Paris: Then and Now

“Frogger” is a nickname I got after my first trip to Paris, when my overeager self dashed through traffic across a 4-lane rotary, narrowly escaping death in a way that reminded my girlfriends of the quintessential Atari game. I’d like to think I earned a 100-point bonus.

In 30 days, I’m on a plane back to Paris and the emotions are overwhelming. I’m sure Paris changed over the years, but I’m confident Paris will remember me. I’m the one who ran to the Eiffel Tower straight from the train, bags in hand, to breathe in the breathtaking structure I’ve dreamt about. Continue Reading…

A Letter to the President

Today you won a hard-fought battle and your prize is America. It won’t be an easy road – there are a lot of challenges ahead of you and whether you like it or not, you’ve got a horrible mess to clean-up from the last guy. Not even a Saturday Night Live skit can mask the problems America is suffering from, so it’s up to you to turn things around.

I voted for you, and I believe in you. Here are some things to keep in mind:

* Don’t defy your integrity. It’s what got you here; it’s what will keep you here.
* Please save my money. I worked hard – very hard – for the little money I have. While I am in a stable job, making a good salary and actually contributing to a real investment plan, I don’t feel I’m obligated to give back to the corrupt CEOs or the lazy people who didn’t take time to understand policy and procedure before entering into an agreement that would rattle the U.S. economy. Continue Reading…

Customs: Welcome Home

I arrived home from London at 8:03 p.m. local time (1:03 a.m. London time). I was exhausted. I wanted a shower. Someone had horrible body odor on the plane and I wanted out. Finally, the cabin doors opened and I was set free. Off to customs, which surprising wasn’t that long considering it was an evening international flight. We dragged our airplane-smelling bodies through the customs line.

“Ma’am,” the customs official called to my friend. She walked to line 7.

Seconds later I got the universal finger movement that signals, “come here,” and I walked passed my friend to line number 9. She giggled, “HA! He called you young lady!”

“He called you Ma’am,” I said back.

After waiting in line 9 I was finally called forward for re-entry into the U.S. After a long week of work in the U.K. office, the weary nights, and the cold showers (when the showers worked), you would think re-entry into the U.S. would be a breeze. In fact, I half expected the customs officials to have held up a sign that said, “Welcome home!” when they saw me, and paraded me through customs on their shoulders. There would be balloons and music and everyone would be celebrating my return.

Alas, I got the one customs official who wanted to play “mess with the tired chic” at the customs line.

“Where were you?” he asked.
“London.” I said. I could see my bed hair reflected in his bald head.
“Business or pleasure.” He wanted to know.
“Business,” I told him.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a travel writer.”
“What did you write this week?”
“Nothing,” I replied, and was met with a blank stare. This, I realized, was the wrong answer.
“You’re a travel writer in London on business and you didn’t write anything?” he asked, his bald head mocking me.
“That’s right,” I said. “I was stuck in meetings with our corporate office most of the week and didn’t get any writing completed.”
Blank stare. Blank stare. Blank stare. Passport scan.
“Bring anything back?” He asked.
“Nope.” I said.
” Nothing?” He asked.
“Nope.” I said.
“No tobacco, no alcohol, no fruit?” He questioned.
“No, no and no.” I replied, trying to fight off the urge to jump over the desk and mark all over his bald head.

He stared at me a little while longer, then looked at my passport again. Finally, and I think with slight hesitation, the bald man at the U.S. re-entry checkpoint said the two words I had been waiting for, “Welcome home.”