WORLDROMPER

"Life is either a daring adventure or nothing." Helen Keller

Category Archives: Favorite Destinations

Destinations that I just can’t stop writing about and places where I have lived


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bitchsLApped: Shilo Gets Schooled by LA, Part 3 of 1000

What I have learned or not thus far about life in my new home, gritty and gorgeous LOS ANGELES:

  1. In LA you can wear an-y-thing you want, as long as you fuggin’ ROCK IT. 
  2. There is a disproportionate amount of screaming going on in this city, from the clubs to the streets to the grocery store. The people of LA love to get their scream on, along with their honk.
  3. You really do run into celebrities and stumble into movies and music videos.
  4. It’s 4AM. You leave the party to drive home, which is just a short jump on the interstate. TOO BAD THE INTERSTATE IS FUCKING CLOSED! WTF is up with this? All I can say is, I love my iPhone and THANK GOD for GPS.
  5. People think LA is terribly spread out and that it takes two hours of driving in heavy traffic to get anywhere. This is not true. I live closer than I did in Seattle to a grocery store, pharmacy, mall, bank and STARBUCKS for cryin’ out loud. Starbucks!
  6. Whenever something horrible happens in the world like a cop shooting or school massacre or killing spree, the idiot they interview on the news always says, “Well, you would expect this type of thing to happen somewhere like LA, but never here in our little podunk town where we don’t even recycle or read books [sic].” What, is LA like hell on earth or something? I am glad to live in a place where some illusion of innocence doesn’t give me a false sense of security. I like my freaks with the flags flying high; give me the city weirdos over the nuts in BFE ANY day.
  7. SUSHI. Holy fish face. I have always liked sushi, but would usually opt for Mexican or Indian or Thai food on a night out. Ever since moving to California however, sushi is all I want to eat! Anytime I go out to dinner I suggest it! I demand it! Hello my name is Shilo and I am a sushi addict.
  8. The people of Los Angeles LOVE their city. NO really- they LOVE it. I grew up in Texas where they use state pride to sell pickup trucks (Texas! Texas! Texas! Buy a Ford Pickup!), but I have never experienced the passionate love of a locality like I have here in LA. The city has a gang sign and everything!
  9. What is up with all the hovering helicopters? In line for a club or walking to a party, I’ll occasionally notice a helicopter hovering overhead, just making tight circles in the sky. I immediately think: FUGITIVE! Should I run? Should I even be concerned? Should I keep an eye out for a pantyless starlet coming my direction? What the hell are they doing up there?
  10. The talented minds in LA get together and are greater than the sum of their parts. Just by population alone, LA has an immense number of forward-thinkers and creators and movers and shakers- but then these artists get together and MAGIC happens. LA is on the cutting edge, not just of the continent but of the arts as well and there is an indescribable element of popping energy that steams off the city streets. This is my home, I love it, and I just may never leave.

And I have never said that about any of my homes before.

View from the Observatory in Griffith Park, close to my house.

Photo by Lucas Janin.


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Normandy Beach

Tears never fail to meet my eyes when before this beach I stand,

Where turquoise and navy waters meet a soft, stone-strewn sand

The eyes see far and only grace,

But somehow beauty is not out of place

With tragedy its friend

For here, the turning of the war began.

Thousands of young met a bullet demise, a shrapnel surrender,

Waves are foam white today but then, they were red.

Like gleaming white crosses on immaculate green grass

Standing vigil for the fear unseen, 

The sadness with hope;

A light in the dark.

This beach once was the theatre of a dance, 

Not of art, but of blood.

They died for you, they died for me;

They died for the world and for the word: FREEDOM.

The young sacrificed their lives that I might have one, and a chance for greatness

And I thank them, my silent friends,

As silent as the wind they sing

“Remember”

With tears I crawl down

Into bombed-out German bunkers,

Reinforced concrete with holes as big as death

These dark rooms call out Enter, 

Feel the fear that was here.

Feel the fear and the life, and the death, of those here,

Who cried for their mothers, a woman, a beer,

They were young

They were scared

They became men for they had no choice,

And then they died,

Never tasting mother’s soup again.

They died on this beach, by the thousands,

RIGHT HERE

I will remember your sacrifice, and

I thank you with tears

What words cannot express.

***

Et par le pouvoir d’un mot, je recommence ma vie. Je suis né pour te connaître, pour te nommer: Liberté.  Paul Eluard


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Prague: Where Are All the Tourists?

shilolovespragueI stand in Saint Vitus Cathedral in silence, breathing slowly as I share the morning with Alphonse Mucha’s incredible stained glass windows, and no one else. Franz Kafka’s ghost is my only company on the famous Golden Lane, and his tiny blue house is empty except for the clerk and a few copies of The Metamorphosis. The vacant eyes of statued saints on the Charles Bridge grace the River Vltava and keep watch in quiet contemplation while the few passerby stroll towards Hradcany Castle. The stairs up to the top of the imposing Powder Tower are mine alone to climb, and the cafes around Old Town Square offer a choice of tables for a plate of dumplings or wiener coffee. But lunch is to be on the terrace on the top floor of the Hotel U Prince, where the star attraction is not the regional menu but the expansive view of the city. Dozens of black spires direct the chimney smoke up, up; above empty streets which connect the Little Town to Mala Strana, Wenceslas Square to the New Town. Like a forbidden romance a mysterious Gothic aura lays on the city like the wings of a bat, the exhaled smoke of a tortured poet, green-brown moss on crumbling church stones.

Wait a minute though: isn’t Prague supposed to be absolutely jam-packed with tourists and bus groups? Don’t travel writers now advise a trip to Budapest or Dubrovnik instead of the Czech city? Aren’t travelers lamenting the hustle and hawking in the Old Town Square, and that Saint Vitus Cathedral is completely overrun with tour groups, and that Charles Bridge is barely walkable, much less enjoyable? What makes my experience so different from the rest?

I am in Prague in early December.

Off season. Cold weather. Lower hotel rates, inexpensive flights, uncrowded airports, open tables, happy shop owners, and most obviously, no crowds! Traveling in the off season is a “secret” that travel agents and other industry professionals have been taking advantage of for years. The benefits of low season travel are not just financial; I love traveling to Europe in the winter because it feels more genuine and less Disney. When the weather is below freezing, only the locals and real hard-core travelers are out. Very few companies run tours to Europe in winter because many tourists will not travel in cold weather. Yes, Prague is cold. The wind bites, it might snow, and you will probably find yourself hopping into more than one cafe for a cup of svarak (hot spiced wine).

But smart travelers don’t let the weather dictate their experiences; they live by the principle that there is no bad weather, only inappropriate clothing. A few extra layers and gloves in the backpack take up a little more room, but having Mucha’s Art Nouveau stained-glass windows to yourself is definitely worth it. A snow-filled night under the lights of the Tyn Church beats a summer sardine sandwich in the Old Town Square in August, hands-down.

Travel to Europe in exhilarating; pack your coat and long underwear, and when you have that medieval church to yourself, when you stand uninterrupted on stairways, linger at windows with a foreign city spread beneath you, and chat with unhurried shop owners; smile, pull up your scarf and join Kafka’s ghost for another cup of svarak.


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L’Amour et La Loire

Laughing at French drivers we cruise

Eating pastries so cheap (hey it’s not Paris),

Rum cakes so strong I gasp

Strawberry tarts so fresh I sing for more

Soft eclairs stuffed with chocolate so rich

It could buy a chateau.

A fuzzy ball of meringue,

And a shiny rectangle of custard.

We drove along sharing this our lives, our pastries

In the Loire Valley

Passing soft pastures and peeps of castles,

Of mansions, of chateaux, of the future

I glimpsed it here,

A reflection along the slow-moving Loire,

Our hearts were open

Along forest grounds we walked with our royal dog,

Through thick trees and bushes of labyrinths,

Copious gardens of roses and a field of four donkeys (who loved a good scratching), into

Caves full of wine and a chateau full of time, of the past, of queens’ sighs

Open bedrooms of big white flowers

Their smell floats through gilded corridors

Past copper pots and boars heads,

Velvet walls and kings’ beds,

We walked, we floated, we drove, we lived

Here in the Valley of la Loire, we lived.

Twilight set in by a tiny chapel

The Renaissance Man is in

Reflected there, in the river, we lived…

…and then drove on.


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An American Poet, Un Policier Parisien

perelachaise“SHOW YOURSELVES, SPIRITS!!!”

Nothing. Not a peep. Out of 70,000 tombs, crypts, graves, and urns in the Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, not a single ghostly shadow crept across my path; no cold breezes inked their way down my spine. It was Halloween and the moon was bright. I grew bolder:

“COME ON OUT! I WANT TO HAVE A SUPERNATURAL EXPERIENCE!”

Only the blowing leaves answered me as I wandered around my favorite éspace verte (green space) in Paris. Père Lachaise is not a graveyard. It is a sculpture garden, a decaying, crumbling ode to the ephemerality of life, the setting for a Gothic tale of terror. It is romance, like Venice is romance, with its crumbling walls and sinking streets. I go there to remember that it is the fleeting nature of life that makes it so impossibly wonderful. Père Lachaise is one of the world’s most famous resting places and like Studio 54, has a waiting list to get in. Even with a map it is easy to get lost, and I often spent my afternoons wandering around the labyrinthine acreage, stumbling upon the graves of admired poets, artists, and authors: Oscar Wilde, Gertrude Stein, Bauldelaire, Abélard and Heloise, Molière, and La Fontaine, plus hundreds of others. Père Lachaise is heaven for French art and literature nerds like me.

perelachaise2“I AM NOT AFRAID. I COME IN PEACE!”

Statues of angels stare back at me with blank eyes. I had come to Père Lachaise this All Hallow’s Eve for one reason, to share a bottle of red with my favorite denizen of the dark, Jim Morrison. After tempting and taunting the various spirits and ghosts of the area, I wander towards Jim’s small marker and find him there as usual, still waiting for the sun. The bust on the tomb was stolen years ago, and now it is just this small rectangular stone, always littered with an array of dying flowers, unsmoked cigarettes, empty wine bottles, and impassioned notes. It is inscribed with the Latin “KATA TON DAIMONA EAYTOY”- True to his own spirit. I talk to Jim, I ponder my existence. I’m a romantic like that, and my bravado increases with every sip of the blood-colored Côtés du Rhone.

perelachaise3“IS THERE ANYBODY OUT THERE? SHOW YOURSELVES!”

Still with no takers from the underworld, I leave Jim’s side and wander back towards the iron gate along the very high, very thick cement wall that separates this City of the Dead from the City of Lights. Still slightly disappointed in my failed rendezvous with Jim’s spirit, I am ready to commune with some of my living companions at a warm café and knock off the chill that has slowly started creeping along my sides. I put my small white hand on the big metal door handle, and pull. Nothing. I push. I push harder. The giant gate does not budge. It is no use; it is locked. I now see the sign indicating the fermeture of the cemetery at 6 PM.

It is just after sunset on Halloween night, and I am locked inside the largest cemetery in the Paris, along with the spirits of 70,000 dead people I have been taunting and screaming at and commanding to show themselves for the last couple of hours.

perelachaise4Merde.

I walk, sort of creep, along the path across to the second gate, surprisingly silent given my previous courageous outbursts. I can’t decide whether it is better to make a mad dash for it, or to slowly try to, what- outcreep the ghosts? It doesn’t matter; I arrive at the second gate and see that it is locked tight, and I know the others will be too. I consider finding a tomb and just hunkering down until daylight comes to save me. Should I try screaming through the gate? Climbing a tree and cheerleading it over the top of the wall? I fear that I may now have forever to ponder my situation, trapped with my ghoulish compatriots here in this land of death.

perelachaise6Merde, merde, merde.

Just then a bright light flashes to my left, outside the gate. A round light, a flashlight, and behind it a hat, a uniform, and to my delight: an armed police officer. I’m saved! I rush over to the gate, French words of praise stumbling over my tongue, the terror obvious in my pie eyes, my breath spilling out in punches. The policier is…whistling? And chuckling? Apparently this happens all the time, he tells me, and calms me down with an array of stories about people getting locked inside. Relieved to not be trapped in Père Lachaise for eternity, I exhale, and laugh. We chat while he calls up the security guard to let me out, and I tell him the (now hilarious) story of me screaming and taunting the ghosts and trying to manifest up dead poets. We laugh, I am released, and we wish each other well for the rest of the night.

“I’m Shilo, by the way, nice talking to you. What’s your name?” I ask.

“Jim,” he replies, and walks off into the night.stillwaitingforthesun


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bitchsLApped: Shilo Gets Schooled by LA Part 2 of 1000

  1. They do not call that shit HollyWEIRD for nothin’. Wow. That place puts new meaning to the word “freak,” as in “freak-that-should-be-hospitalized-and-restrained.”
  2. Always read the parking signs. ALWAYS. Then read them again. And maybe one more time for good measure.
  3. Lost ticket at the parking garage? A fat bud will go a long way in buttering up the parking attendant and getting you out of the mighty lost-ticket fee.
  4. Speaking of green, it is practically legal here. They sell it out of jars at clubs, I shit you not.
  5. You know you are getting acclimated to life in LA when you pull into a parking lot, see the price is $10, and think: “Not bad!”
  6. If you meet someone who claims to be a celebrity or in a famous band, don’t immediately assume they are fucking with you and call them out. It could be Pendulum.
  7. Santa Monica and Santa Monica Boulevard are two very different places. Clarify BEFORE you leave the house.
  8. Two words: ANIMAL STYLE. Oh sweet Jesus.
  9. “Security Dogs for Rent.” Are you SERIOUS LA? Really? Dogs for rent?
  10. Hearing: “Yeah you LOOK like you just came from Hollywood.” = not such a good thing, I’m pretty sure. Please refer to #1.

lovinglafromthegettyI am in love with this city!


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Top Ten Paris Photo Ops

gargoylenotredame1. The Bell Towers of Notre Dame Cathedral: Be in line by 9AM if you don’t want your elbows bumped by big crowds as you catch gargoyles contemplating the city’s skyline and devouring each other. ($)

2. Cour de Commerce Saint-Andre: This little side street off Boulevard Saint-Germain-des-Pres is home to Paris’ first cafe Le Procope where Ben Franklin had lunch, Voltaire drank 40 cups of coffee a day, and a young Napoleon had to leave his hat in lieu of payment for a courdecommercesaintandremeal. The cobblestone pathway is also where Dr. Guillotin practiced his “humanitarian killing machine” on sheep, an invention made famous in its feminine name, la guillotine. Facing the old wooden toy store, turn around, and there is a door that opens onto the Cour Rohan, three of the most beautiful courtyards in Paris. Imagine the nobles and queens looking down from the ivy-covered windows to the cobblestones below, trying to ignore the screams of the sheep around the corner. Click away! (free)

3. Top of the Arc de Triomphe: Sunset over western Paris, La Grande Arche de la Defense, and the birthplace of the Sun King, Louis XIV. ($)

lesmarches4. Les Marches (The markets): Every neighborhood in Paris has a market which usually runs three days a week (ask around for the one near you). Parisians buy many of their produce and grocery items at these street markets which seem to burst at the seems with stinky cheeses, flowers from the south of France, ripe olives in their oil, fresh baguettes, wines to taste, courgettes from the countryside, gooseberries, blackberries, raspberries- let your camera tell the rest of the story. (free)

lescatacombs5. The Catacombs: Got a gothic side? A creepy leaning? An eerie inkling? Go down to the catacombs where the bones of over seven million humans are arranged by type, not owner, and often artistically. You will find hearts, crosses, and other designs which photograph well and make exceptionally nice Valentine’s Day cards. While you are waiting for your flash to recharge in the dark deep below the city, think about the wild parties thrown here during the French Revolution or the Resistance fighters who held secret meetings during the Nazi occupation of Paris during World War II. Snap! ($)

laperelachaise6. Pere Lachaise Cemetery: More sculpture garden than graveyard, Pere Lachaise has heaps of crumbling tombs, sad-eyed statues, winding paths into the darkness and fallen tombs. (free)

7. Pont de la Concorde: From this bridge you can see most of the major monuments of Paris: the Eiffel Tower, Les Invalides, La Madeleine, the National Assembly, the Louvre, the Grand Palais and the Petit Palais. Built from the ruined stones of the infamous Bastille prison (so that free men and women can forever trample on the vestiges of tyranny), this bridge is the perfect place to get oriented with the layout of the city. Go at sunset, when the falling light turns Paris pink and the lights along the river Seine slowly start to sparkle. (free)

8. Pont Neuf: Pont Neuf: This bridge whose name means “new bridge” is actually the oldest in the city, the first to be built without any houses on it. It is studded with mascarons, or ghoulish faces, and its’ gothic 

pontneufarches stretch across the Ile de la Cite and the river Seine. Take the steps down below to get great shots of the bridge with Paris peeking through its arches. Students like to congregate here at night for picnics and it a great place to make friends, meet people, and share some wine. (free)

9. Tour Montparnasse: This ugly, modern skyscraper in the middle of Montparnasse is disliked by Parisians so much that they have banned any other skyscrapers in the city. But the elevator (the fastest one in Europe) flings you up to the top of Tower. ($)

10. Musée Carnavalet: Paris’ history museum, located in the Marais and of great interest to French history nerds like me. The draw for photographers however is the inner courtyard of this centuries-old mansion whose neoclassical architecture is almost completely covered in red and green ivies. Take a seat by the giant rosebushes, and take some pics! (free)

museecarnavalet