The green area of the map below represents the US states and countries I have visited. Currently my country count is somewhere around 58. What's yours?
Hi, my name is Suzanne and I am a Travel-holic. How do I know this? Because if I spend more than a week with the same view out my window every morning I start getting fussy. Because I read the daily email I get from Travelocity, Orbitz and my half-dozen or so favorite airlines before I open client emails. Because I get as much or more pleasure from tracking my frequent flyer accounts as I do my bank accounts. Of course that may be because my FF accounts have more in them.
I admit it. I’m addicted to the intensity of life on the road - where everything is new and nothing is ‘a given’. I get secret pleasure out of being the only North American in a crowd and even more pleasure when I’m mistaken for a local. Of course some times Chris and I end up eating stuff like fish-head curry for dinner because we don’t know the menu language. Or we end up lost - in the wrong part of town, on the wrong hiking path, once even in the wrong country (that’s another blogpost). But I’m more likely to feel lost in my Houston neighborhood grocery store than at the airport, any airport in any language. BTW, why does Kroger put the toothpicks with the barbeque stuff?
I’ve learned to successfully navigate the two footprints and a hole toilets without fear. My travel philosophy is “if you’re not in imminent danger, consider it part of the adventure and enjoy it”. That makes normal travel problems like missed connections, bad weather and screaming airplane babies tolerable. No wait – I take it back. Screaming airplane babies are NOT tolerable!!!
You know you’re a travel junky when:
- You have elite status on more than one airline.
- You know your passport number and expiration date by heart.
- You only buy paperback books because of the weight.
- You know how to say ‘where’s the toilet?’ in more than 3 languages.
- Your favorite TV show is The Amazing Race.
- You can drive a stick-shift on either side of the road.
- You NEVER whisper while standing in the immigration line (2-way mirrors) and NEVER use more than one word answers to passport/immigration questions.
- Not only can you sleep on airplanes, you can sleep in helicopters.
- You’ve had extra pages put in your passport to accommodate more stamps.
- You fly across country and back on Christmas Eve while your children are asleep for no other reason except you are a few miles short on your frequent flyer status. (yes, Chris actually did this!)
- You don’t flinch at the frequent near death experiences in the backseat of an Indian or Chinese taxi.
- You can make a 30 minute international connection in Paris (Charles de Gaul is the worst airport in the world!).
- You know better than to drink the local water, no matter what your host says.
- Your airplane travel clothes look more like pajamas with house slippers than high fashion.
- You can travel anywhere for 2 weeks or more without checking luggage.
- Your GPS talks to you.
Happy Trails!
Progress on the house in Italy may be sputtering but other areas of life are raging ahead. Lots of exciting photo projects in the last few months (which is why I’ve been blog-negligent). Along with some jaw-dropping travel and even some very gratifying recognition coming my way. ’How nice!
They like me, they really like me
The IABC Chairman’s Award is by far the biggest honor I’ve ever received. I am thrilled. And not being naturally modest, I tend to shout the few accolades that come my way from the rooftops. You can probably hear my off-key horn blowing from where ever in the world you are! Toot! Toot!
Get some great tips on photo-blogging and read how a good writer can make me sound good in print in Enter the BlogoSphere, by Ethan Salwen.
Join an international crowd to debate the issue of photo manipulation ethics Is it Real or is it Photoshop? at the session I’ll be moderating this June at the IABC International Conference in New Orleans. Read panelist David Murray's interesting blog post on the issue. With outspoken photographer Keith Philpott, international advertising creative director, Donna Collum and Murray on the panel, the session is shaping up to be a real Jerry Springer event.
Hope to see you there!
It’s been 34 years since my last piña colada. It’s no coincidence that it’s also been exactly 34 years since I visited Puerto Rico, which I vaguely remember as a tropical backdrop created solely for drinking piña coladas. So when an annual report assignment took me back to San Juan last week, I was excited and curious to see if I would remember much after sooo much time and sooo many piña coladas on the first trip.
I’m happy to report that both the island and the piña coladas remain as sweet and intoxicating as I (sorta kinda) remember.
But this trip was about work not play – with looming deadlines we sadly nixed our initial plans of hopping a seaplane to the neighboring Virgin Islands - we were lucky to squeeze in a quick visit to the Bacardi Rum distillery in San Juan one day after shooting aerials. On this trip I drank my one and only piña colada on our last night, which happened to be my birthday. It looked and tasted like a coconut flavored milk shake – rich and sweet. I think it makes a better dessert than a cocktail.
Mashed fried plaintains form the basis of the Puerto Rican classic dish, Mofongo. The mofongo is paired with either a spicy meat, pork or in this case shrimp filling. Delicious!
On our tour of the Bacardi facilities we learned more than we ever wanted to know about the history of the Bacardi family - lots more than we ever wanted to know. But the non-stop promotional propaganda was made palatable by the free rum they wisely doled out at the beginning as well as the end of the tour. The worst part? It’s been a week and I still can’t get this song out of my head.
Bacardi factoids:
The original rum distillery was in a converted stable that was inhabited by a colony of bats, which for some unexplained reason was taken as a sign of family unity by the Bacardis and adopted as their logo.
The correct pronunciation is with the accent on the third syllable – BacarDI.
Bacardi hype claims it is the number one selling alcoholic spirit in the world. But a quick webcheck indicates Bacardi ranks number 4. What – you expected honesty from the folks who failed to mention that the Bacardi company also owns Grey Goose vodka, Dewar's scotch, Bombay Sapphire gin, Eristoff vodka, Martini & Rossi vermouth, Cazadores tequila, and the U.S. version of Havana Club?
This one distillery in San Juan cranks out over 100,000 gallons of rum EACH DAY. There are also distilleries in the US and The Bahamas. Who’s drinking all that rum?
Inside the Bacardi theater - where the Bacardi video taught us exciting facts about Bacardi rum production such as why Bacardi rum is healthy for you and Mrs. Bacardi’s shoe size (?) The ceiling of the theater was a replica of the constellations exactly as they appeared to Mr. Bacardi the night when the first bottle of Bacardi rum rolled off the bottling line. I tried to use the word Bacardi in this paragraph as often as we heard it on the Bacardi tour, but have failed by half.
You too can learn more about the Bacardis than you know about your own family at the Bacardi website.
Hey Bartender -Did you know this?
A Cuba libre is made with rum, coke and a wedge of lime perched on the edge of the glass. The drink was first concocted in Cuba where it is traditionally imbibed whilst toasting Cuban independence. Some say the drink is called "a little lie" or "mentirita" by Cubans because Cuba is not actually free.
A rum and Coca-cola, a mojito and a generous portion of an aged rum served straight up. These were my pre-tour free drinks. Chris got the same. And then there were the AFTER tour free drinks…
I'm going to Graceland,
Graceland, in Memphis, Tennessee.
For reasons I cannot explain
there's some part of me wants to see Graceland
- Paul Simon
Graceland is the second most famous home in American. The first is at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.
Elvis Presley’s home is included in my travel bible: Patricia Schultz’s cool book, 1,000 Places to See Before You Die. Personally, I would never have made a special trip there, but when an assignment took us to the area I figured, why not?
Unlike the Japanese tourists on our bus, we did not spend the extra $43 each for the Graceland VIP Experience. VIPs get into the Elvis car museum where his 2 dozen (mostly Cadillac, now vintage) autos are showcased. We did poke our heads in the themed restaurant adjacent the museum called aptly, The Chrome Grille. Surprisingly, there wasn’t a fried banana/peanut butter sandwich to be found anywhere on the menu. When Elvis returns from Mars or where ever it is his loyal but delusional fans claim he is, one look at that menu and like me, his Blue Suede Shoes will be heading out the door.
Gallery Elvis is The Place to expand your Velvet Elvis painting collection.
There were several places to shop for your special Elvis memento on the Graceland complex. I quote from the Graceland brochure:
Gallery Elvis offers upscale art pieces and collectibles. Upscale? Yes, if you mean the price. Art? Yes, if you consider ceramic monkeys with glass eyeballs art.
Coffee table art in Elvis’ den
All about Elvis has free Elvis ecards, screensavers and an interactive Elvis trivia game.
My fondest Elvis memory is of me and my sister, Teresa, aged 10 and 8 respectively, watching “Return to Sender” at a giant, ornately decorated movie house back in 1962. Actually that is my only Elvis memory until this trip to Graceland. I was not a fan when The King was King or after he, eh, fell off his throne. I was unfamiliar with the music – so I mistakenly thought the movie was titled “Return to Cinder” - as in ashes to ashes - and went expecting a show about stuff being burned. Instead Teresa and I watched as Elvis curled his lip, gyrated his hips and made scores of girls with massive amounts of immovable hair - and very little else covering their bodies - magically appear and look adorningly at him. This was the entire plot for “Return to Sender” – as well as the other 30 movies Elvis made.
The PhotoGuy goes Native – My personal hunka hunka burning love
It seems phenomenal now, but that day in 1962 my sister and I were all alone all day in downtown Houston – two little girls under 10 years old wandering around in the fourth largest city in America. I can’t begin to imagine letting my kids do that. We were too young to have a good sense of direction and too innocent to have a good sense of danger.
But that day was a common occurrence for us. We would ride into town with our dad on Saturdays and after getting our cheeks pinched by everyone in his law office, we would race out the door and argue over who got to push the down button on the elevator. When the ancient black elevator operator opened the doors and asked us where we wanted to go, “Main floor, please”, we would say in our best grown-up voices. Then I would catch T’s eye and make a face which would make her giggle. Giggling was our favorite pastime. Teresa was a pro at it. I’ve never known anybody easier to set off giggling than my sweet sister - she was and still is the giggle queen.
Once free from the confines of the elevator and restraining eyes, we would hit the revolving door running. We would twirl, round and round in the door as fast as we could go before centrifugal force would propel us out into THE WORLD. We were totally alone, without aid of adult, cellphone, mace or even a planned check-in point or time. In 1962, that was possible.
The Hall of Fame showcased Elvis’ incredible musical acheivements
When “Return to Sender” debuted, there were only 3 movie theaters in all of Houston, Texas. Each had just one screen and all 3 were located within blocks of each other downtown. I vividly remember the real live ushers who wore uniforms with stripes up the leg and goofy-even-then pillbox hats with chin straps. They would punch your ticket and escort you to your seat using baseball bat sized flashlights. I remember us lounging back in the reclining seats and absent mindedly kicking the seat in front of us while staring at the real crystal chandeliers on the ceiling. I filled the time before the movie began by alternately eating and throwing popcorn at my sister, which of course made her mad and then made her giggle. There was a real stage where occasionally someone would appear and enough velvet curtain material to outfit an army of Scarlet O’Haras. The curtains dramatically opened and closed at the start and end of the movie. It cost us 50cents a ticket to get into the theater to see “Return to Sender” and the popcorn cost 20cents for a big buttery bag.
Elvis was into mirrors. There are mirrors on the walls and ceilings of several rooms at Graceland, including this staircase.
Fan or not, you cannot escape the amazing impact Elvis has had on the American music scene or on the American culture. Even 30 years after his death the numbers are impressive: Over a billion records sold, and to this day more number one hits - 18 - than anyone in history.
The Graceland webcam is one of the top 25 most visited webcams in the world belying the fact that Elvis has been dead since 1977.
Vote for Your Favorite Elvis Song
Are you All Shook Up or In the Ghetto? Leave me a comment with your choice and why.
Thank you, thank you very much
Graceland, in Memphis, Tennessee.
For reasons I cannot explain
there's some part of me wants to see Graceland
- Paul Simon
Elvis Presley’s home is included in my travel bible: Patricia Schultz’s cool book, 1,000 Places to See Before You Die. Personally, I would never have made a special trip there, but when an assignment took us to the area I figured, why not?
Unlike the Japanese tourists on our bus, we did not spend the extra $43 each for the Graceland VIP Experience. VIPs get into the Elvis car museum where his 2 dozen (mostly Cadillac, now vintage) autos are showcased. We did poke our heads in the themed restaurant adjacent the museum called aptly, The Chrome Grille. Surprisingly, there wasn’t a fried banana/peanut butter sandwich to be found anywhere on the menu. When Elvis returns from Mars or where ever it is his loyal but delusional fans claim he is, one look at that menu and like me, his Blue Suede Shoes will be heading out the door.
There were several places to shop for your special Elvis memento on the Graceland complex. I quote from the Graceland brochure:
Gallery Elvis offers upscale art pieces and collectibles. Upscale? Yes, if you mean the price. Art? Yes, if you consider ceramic monkeys with glass eyeballs art.
All about Elvis has free Elvis ecards, screensavers and an interactive Elvis trivia game.
My fondest Elvis memory is of me and my sister, Teresa, aged 10 and 8 respectively, watching “Return to Sender” at a giant, ornately decorated movie house back in 1962. Actually that is my only Elvis memory until this trip to Graceland. I was not a fan when The King was King or after he, eh, fell off his throne. I was unfamiliar with the music – so I mistakenly thought the movie was titled “Return to Cinder” - as in ashes to ashes - and went expecting a show about stuff being burned. Instead Teresa and I watched as Elvis curled his lip, gyrated his hips and made scores of girls with massive amounts of immovable hair - and very little else covering their bodies - magically appear and look adorningly at him. This was the entire plot for “Return to Sender” – as well as the other 30 movies Elvis made.
It seems phenomenal now, but that day in 1962 my sister and I were all alone all day in downtown Houston – two little girls under 10 years old wandering around in the fourth largest city in America. I can’t begin to imagine letting my kids do that. We were too young to have a good sense of direction and too innocent to have a good sense of danger.
But that day was a common occurrence for us. We would ride into town with our dad on Saturdays and after getting our cheeks pinched by everyone in his law office, we would race out the door and argue over who got to push the down button on the elevator. When the ancient black elevator operator opened the doors and asked us where we wanted to go, “Main floor, please”, we would say in our best grown-up voices. Then I would catch T’s eye and make a face which would make her giggle. Giggling was our favorite pastime. Teresa was a pro at it. I’ve never known anybody easier to set off giggling than my sweet sister - she was and still is the giggle queen.
Once free from the confines of the elevator and restraining eyes, we would hit the revolving door running. We would twirl, round and round in the door as fast as we could go before centrifugal force would propel us out into THE WORLD. We were totally alone, without aid of adult, cellphone, mace or even a planned check-in point or time. In 1962, that was possible.
When “Return to Sender” debuted, there were only 3 movie theaters in all of Houston, Texas. Each had just one screen and all 3 were located within blocks of each other downtown. I vividly remember the real live ushers who wore uniforms with stripes up the leg and goofy-even-then pillbox hats with chin straps. They would punch your ticket and escort you to your seat using baseball bat sized flashlights. I remember us lounging back in the reclining seats and absent mindedly kicking the seat in front of us while staring at the real crystal chandeliers on the ceiling. I filled the time before the movie began by alternately eating and throwing popcorn at my sister, which of course made her mad and then made her giggle. There was a real stage where occasionally someone would appear and enough velvet curtain material to outfit an army of Scarlet O’Haras. The curtains dramatically opened and closed at the start and end of the movie. It cost us 50cents a ticket to get into the theater to see “Return to Sender” and the popcorn cost 20cents for a big buttery bag.
Fan or not, you cannot escape the amazing impact Elvis has had on the American music scene or on the American culture. Even 30 years after his death the numbers are impressive: Over a billion records sold, and to this day more number one hits - 18 - than anyone in history.
The Graceland webcam is one of the top 25 most visited webcams in the world belying the fact that Elvis has been dead since 1977.
| Don’t be Cruel Burning Love Are you Lonesome Tonight? All Shook Up Hearbreak Hotel Jailhouse Rock Stuck On You Blue Christmas | Blue Suede Shoes Viva Las Vegas In the Ghetto Hound Dog Can’t Help Falling in Love Return To Sender Love Me Tender Suspicion |
Are you All Shook Up or In the Ghetto? Leave me a comment with your choice and why.
Thank you, thank you very much
Romania! The name conjures up thoughts of gypsies and Dracula; communist oppression and melodramatic violin music. It’s all that and a bag of vampire stakes.
Ask the average American-on-the-street to tell you something about Romania and most will scratch their head and ask, “Is it that-there new Eye-tall-yen diner in town?” or scratch some other body part, spit and say, “That’s some fur-en place, ain’t it? Somewheres around South Dekody, right?” A precious few will come up with Transylvania – then they will invariably treat you to an on-the-spot embarrassing impersonation of it’s beloved native son, Dracula.
Test your evil laugh against this one.
I was not sniggering when I wrote ‘beloved son’. Vlad Tepes, aka Dracula, was a real life Transylvanian Prince and the inspiration for Bram Stokers’ gruesome vampire tale. But Romanians consider Dracula an admired national war hero. They are quite puzzled and decidedly not amused that one of their courageous historic figures has been so egregiously maligned and libeled. It would be like the world thinking George Washington was a serial rapist.
Transylvanians will eagerly tell you that Dracula fought tirelessly if ruthlessly against an invading Turk horde back in the mid 1400s. BTW, Dracu means Dragon in ancient Romanian and was also the name of a prestigious royal order, sorta like the Elks. Vlad’s father was a member. DracuLA signified a son of a Dragon.
Sure, Bad-boy Vlad impaled lots of people (Tepes is the Romanian word for impaler), but all is fair in love and war against marauding Turks, right? And Vlad loved to war. But who knows which side was more, shall we say - blood-thirsty? Nod, nod, wink, wink. Gory and gruesome stuff? Sure. Done right, impaled people sometimes took days to die. But hey, they didn’t have modern, efficient Uzis back then. On the positive side, once the bodies were removed the spikes were recyclable. Vlad is credited with skewering tens of thousands of victims, so recycled spikes saved many a tree from the woodsman axe. You could say Vlad was a medieval environmentalist, a lover of nature if not humans.
Legend also says Vlad enjoyed watching impalings during his elaborate prolonged dinners. I live part-time in Italy so when someone mentions dinner my first thought is about the wine selection… A white wine with peasant-on-a-stick and a flagon of red with the heartier Turk-kabobs?
They say you can see The Palace of Parliment from outer space. Originally built as the uber-extravagant private home of Ceaucescu, the evil tyrannical dictator that was overthrown in 1989. It boasts over 1,000 rooms.We met a local who worked at The Palace of Parliment. He told us the mirror image of the above ground complex exists underground. He shook his head when talking, still astonished at the fact that every day when he puts his hand on the building door, it takes another 30 minutes, down endless corridors and 4 different sets of lifts before he reached his office!
Romania’s capitol, Bucharest, is not an old city by European standards, dating back to only the 1400s. It pretty much reinvented itself in the late 1800s, employing French and French-trained architects throughout the city. The result - parts of the city looks more like Paris than Paris itself does. Bucharest even has an all-too-familiar looking Triumphal Arch on the imposing Soseaua Kiseleff, a broad boulevard longer than Paris’s famed Champs-Elysees. The city’s nickname, The Paris of the East, is well earned.
Bucharest is at least the third major world city I’ve visited that likes to think of itself as Paris-like. Buenos Aires wants to be called the Paris of South America, Shanghai is supposedly the Paris of the Orient. My quick research came up with no less than 21 major world cities that want to be called the Paris of Something including: Detroit, the Paris of the Midwest (?) and Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, the Paris of the Prairie. No wonder the French are so, eh, shall we say proud of themselves?
Communist rule put a halt to Bucharest’s cosmopolitan, café lifestyle. The once charming Parisian type buildings now sport a layer of grime and look more than a little frayed around the edges. They still appear lighthearted and cheerful from a distance but up close they look sad and neglected.
But cheer up. Bucharest and Romania in general has one of the fastest rising economies in Europe. There are still travel bargains to be had there – skiing, pampering spas, castles to gawk at - but you better hurry.
CZECH, PLEASE!
We are loving Eastern Europe. Our first stop behind the former Iron Curtain was Prague in the newly minted (on January 1, 1993) Czech Republic - that’s Czechoslovakia to those of you over 30 - but it was called Bohemia for many centuries before that.
My dictionary defines Bohemian as: unconventional, eccentric, unusual, avant-garde, original, odd, exceptional, and quirky. The word has come to represent somebody, often a writer or an artist, who does not live according to the conventions of acceptable society. No wonder we felt at home!
From his high-horse King Wencelas of Christmas song fame has a clear view of the McDonalds – not exactly The Feast of Stephan if you ask me. Born around 903, Good King Wencelas, later a martyr and saint, is credited with bringing Christianity to his heathen subjects. Personal Factoid: The GKW Christmas carol is not popular here at all. I asked many Czechs and none knew the song. Or at least they claimed not to and refused to sing it with me even after several yummy local Pilsner Urquell beers.
The Charles Bridge is a romantic stone Gothic bridge lined from one end to the other with lifesized stone statues looking down on embracing stoned tourists. It’s a world-class arm-in-arm stroll up from The Old Town Square for a snuggle with a view on the bridge. The bridge’s construction was commissioned in 1357 by the beloved Bohemian king and erstwhile Holy Roman Emperor, Charles IV. Legend has it that egg yolks were mixed in with the concrete mortar for added strength. The bridge survived the devastating Prague floods of 2002 with no damage. I guess the egg yolks worked.
Ironically it was a pacifist playwright, Václav Havel, who lead the Czechs out from behind the Iron Curtain and onto the world stage. In 1989, after 42 years of bad reviews, the Communists bowed out - with a whimper, not a bang, in a nearly bloodless “velvet revolution” directed by Havel. Now that’s what I call a class act. BRAVO!
Even ancient Bohemian religious leaders were, eh, “Bohemian” in nature: In 1467, nearly two hundred years before Martin Luther brought up the subject, a Brethren of Christian Bohemians bravely rekindled the flame of non-conformity with their outlandish (for the Middle Ages) views on individual freedom. They were extremely radical dudes for their time, sorta the rappers of their day: they would stick it to the man (literally with arrows, stakes and such) and take the heat (again literally, some were burned at the stake). They really rocked (again literally, some were stoned - and not in the good way).
Modern day Prague rocks, too (in the good way). It is now solidly on my list of recommended sites.
Prague boasts that their beer is better than Germany's beer. I tried numerous tankards one evening in an effort to report accurately here. Later that night I was inspired (hic) by the story of the radical rapping bohemian brethren to write my own Bohemian Rhapsody.
I can blog on Prague -
Where the beers be cool.
But a rap from a white girl?
Makes me sound like a fool.
Cha-Cha-Cha Czech it out!
IN THE GHETTO
Prague sites include the best preserved complex of Jewish historical buildings in the whole of Europe. The Jewish Ghetto is also the home of one of the most expensive retail areas in all of Christendom, Jewdom - or any other religiondom. I couldn’t afford the price of the WC at the synagogue.
Oy-vay.
And another little shiksa girl was gouged in the ghetto – GHETTooooooooh!!
It is with great pride I announce that this humble little blog has received national recognition. The prestigious American Society of Media Photographers (ASMP) selected SalvoAtLarge and a handful of other photo-based bloggernauts (out of zillions of submissions) to feature on their website and in their publication, The ASMP Bulletin. Check out the online article here.
Ahhh, shucks.
You like me, you really really like me – hundreds of you from all over the world every month.
My talented husband - Chris the photoguy - thanks you, my ISP thanks you, and mostly I thank you for stopping by the blog.
Your comments mean a lot, so don’t be shy about leaving some love.
More later down the road,
Suzanne Salvo
This time of year naturally starts me pondering religious matters. I was raised a Christian but through the years I have expanded my tolerance and my belief in other Beliefs. Take reincarnation. I’m open to the possibility that some creatures return to this world in other guises. I’m not sure if humans can come back in another form - but I know for sure turkeys practice reincarnation.
The week following Christmas is dining deja vu - at least until the last of the turkey’s earthly remains have flown the fridge. Each day we say grace over an altered (and lesser) version of its previous life. Then we eat it. Sad. And a bit creepy when you think about it. It gives a whole different meaning to the phrase ‘soul food’, doesn’t it?
I used to feel sorry for vegetarians at this time of year. But not any more. Not since I found out about tofurkey. Tofurkey is sorta like eatable playdough. That’s right, you can now buy kits that teach you how to sculpt tofu to look like a turkey.
I can’t figure out WHY anyone would want to do that. If your moral principles won’t allow turkey consumption, where does the desire to mold and eat something that looks and purports to tastes like turkey fit in? And why does that scene from The Ten Commandments when they built the Golden Calf spring to my mind?
Ponder that while you pause for this delicious musical interlude:
The tofurkey idea is being served up by PETA, the same folks that brought you legislation to ban animal acts from circuses and once accused the Girl Scouts of torturing and murdering beavers. There are some issues on which PETA and I can sit down and talk turkey, but not this. PETA is calling for the total elimination of turkeys on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Not elimination as in kill them, silly - elimination from the holiday menu.
PETA promotes going cold turkey on turkey, and urges teaching your kids the same. There are now children’s books advocating universal support and empathy for “poor defenseless turkeys everywhere”. What? Turkeys are geeky-looking, dumb-witted animals without social skills or any recognizable sense of humor. No wait - that's my definition of I.T. guys. No don't wait - I.T. guys ARE turkeys, human turkeys.
PETA has put the issue, if not the bird, on the front burner with an all out PR campaign. Tofurkey Thanksgiving slogans included “Don’t Eat the Mascot”, and based on the tongue-in-cheek traditional presidential pardoning of one turkey each year, there are billboards featuring two turkeys (one feathered, one human) with the caption “If he can pardon one, won’t you?” Pa-leese. Like the bird in question, the idea just doesn’t fly.
Pardon me, PETA, but I will pass on the tofurkey movement. Instead I will pass the giblet gravy down to my end of the table – right after I bow my head to once again humbly give thanks for reincarnation. Amen.
We tried a turducen once which is a boneless turkey stuffed with a boneless duck stuffed with a boneless chicken. Naturally it’s a very flexible dish but I found it lacked a solid backbone of flavor. | If good turkeys come back as elegant tetrazinni, what do bad turkeys come back as? The worse leftover recipe I found called for combining turkey, sliced apple and feta cheese on rye bread sandwiches. |
Fool your Family with Fake FoodA DIY Tofurkey Recipe
Mash tofu or mix well with hands. Be sure that all of the lumps are out. Line a colander with wet cheesecloth and add the mashed tofu. Cover the cheesecloth with a plate that fits inside the colander and place a 5-pound weight on the plate. Refrigerate for 2 to 3 hours. (I’m sure your mouth is watering already – read on, here comes the fun part).
Remove the congealed mass of tofu from the fridge. Hollow out the tofu to within 1 inch of the sides and bottom, placing stuffing inside the shell. Pack in firmly. Gently press on sides of "turkey" to achieve a more oval shape. Mold "drumsticks" out of one pound of leftover tofu, and place on each side of the "turkey". Bake.
To lazy to roll your own? Order a pre-packaged soy-bird kit complete with plastic wishbone here Be sure to dig around this site’s fun stuff for more hilarious vegan humor.
A misguided veg-head from Berkley,
Turned up his nose at tofurkey.
“I’d feel like a cannibal,
‘cause it looks like an animal”.
Based on that he should eat some beef-jerky.
Before arriving in Cartagena (that would be my pre-Colombian period), I knew very little about it. Now that I’ve been there and had a taste of its charming architecture, amazing seafood and wild history, all I can think of is how soon can I get back for more.
Cartagena is a deep water port strategically located on the Caribbean Sea close to Panama. For that reason its history is long and colorful and prominently features names like Sir Frances Drake and Simon Bolivar.
You could call it the Plymouth Rock of South America because it is where Columbus first landed on the continent (Colombia – duh). Later the imperialist bloody Conquistadors arrived and set up shop, killing and pillaging to rave reviews from their homies back in Spain. The Spanish flotilla transported tons of gold, silver and other precious goods from Cartagena to Spain and in return sent the Spanish Inquisition to Cartagena. Talk about a trade imbalance…
The slave business boomed in Cartagena from the 1500s to 1800s. Slave-traders knew the town had the biggest and most cost effective market of human-wares. Merchandise included the nearby easy-picking, homegrown native Indian populations of South America as well as exotic African imports. In Cartagena you could find something for everyone’s taste and pocketbook in slaves. It was sorta a Walmart of human goods. They probably had signs saying the equivalent of: Male Africans on aisle 2; Female Indians on aisle 8, Blue Light Special on Pigmys, aisle 6, etc.
A Pirate’s Life for me
But most interesting of all of Cartagena’s rich history is its reputation as a main port-o-call for swash-buckling, romantic Pirates of the Caribbean (visions of Johnny Depp are dancing through my head). The original old town is still totally surrounded by a 2-foot thick fortified wall built to guard against the darling – I mean daring - opportunistic buccaneers. The wall must have done it’s job because inside the barricade the entire town with its winding cobblestone streets lined with colorfully painted Spanish Colonial architecture remains almost exactly as it was back 500 years ago. Except for the prices, of course.
Gold and silver plundered from the Incas was transported back to Spain from Cartagena in annual convoys of the Spanish Armada. It must have been some sight to see dozens of tall ships anchored there with their sails billowing and the sea sparkling and the pirates grinning... Because of course other European nations knew Cartagena was booty-central. Pirates and buccaneers from France and England regularly attacked on both land and sea. Sir Frances Drake was one of the most ruthless and successful pirates, raiding and capturing tons of Spanish plunder. For some reason his reputation has been sanitized and elevated to “adventurer” by most historians, but pirate he was – looting in the name of QE1 (Queen Liz the First).
Legend has it that when Blackbeard the murderous pirate was spotted alone in a bar in Cartagena, a brave stranger approached and asked him where were his buccaneers? He growled back, “Arrgggg – they be under me buckin’ hat of course, how else could I hear ye?”
You’ve heard the expression – it’s a dry heat? Up in the frozen North of Canada where we are on assignment, they say ‘it’s a dry cold, eh?’ You betcha, by golly! (practicing my Canadian language skills here, eh).
In winter it can be dry as a desert in this part of central Alberta. Only here instead of hot it’s cold and instead of sand it’s snow. Every inch of my skin is itchy and uber-dry. My colorful and crude West Texas grandmother would call it, ‘Dry as a popcorn fart’. Oh yes, I come from sophisticated stock. For fun that tiny old woman would pick up big hairy scary tarantulas, which are as common as pumper-jacks in West Texas. She’d put the giant spiders in mayonnaise jars for us kids to play with. But that’s another blogpost…
My lips haven’t been this chapped and cracked since my Endless Summer days back in high school. I once spent a week secretly living on the beach with my best friend. She told her parents she was staying with me and I told mine we were staying at her house. Good times. My lip problem back then was due partly to the sun and partly because I stayed more or less continually lip-locked to my over-tanned, under-brained, Beatle-long-haired, surfer-dude boyfriend. We’d smooch for hours, coming up for air only when someone cried “surf’s up!”. Oh, the things we do for puppy love. But that’s another blogpost…
I can’t laugh right now because my lips would probably bleed. I’ve sent Chris to the Canadian Tire Store (think frozen Walmart) to buy a pallet of Vasoline Intensive Care Lotion. I plan to fill the hotel bathtub with it and dive in. Maybe Chris will join me, like we did with the giant bubblebath in Melborne. I just hope this time nobody gets hurt or gets their picture in the paper. But that’s another blogpost…
...and a couple of vibration reduction lenses, a new radio slave, a SB/800X flashhead, etc.
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Check out B&H mail order store when you are ready to buy. It’s where we order most of our equipment.
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I never really think about the danger that is inherit with our line of work. If I think about it at all, I file it under adventure – not fear.
Except lately a couple of things have brought it strongly to my attention. First, a photography husband and wife team (similar to Chris and I) was killed recently in a fiery airplane crash in some god-forsaken part of the planet. We had met the likeable couple at a photo seminar several years back and greatly admired their work. They were partners professionally as well as personally for many years. Assignments regularly took them to remote parts of the globe. They loved their work and would do just about anything to get-the-shot. And all of the above thoughts were starting to sound spookily close to home. Secondly, I was hurt on what should have been an easy assignment in Louisiana recently. And third, we just applied for new life insurance.
I was really surprised at the number of red flags our lifestyle raised on the life insurance forms. You know the ones – the dreaded “if yes, please explain” questions. For example:
Q: Do you travel/work overseas?
A: Yeah! Lucky us!
Q: Do you travel/work in countries that the US State Department has listed as restricted/hostile/dangerous?
A: Yes, but we’re really really careful.
Q: Do you fly in helicopters and/or non-commercial airplanes?
A: How else do you get to the middle of the jungle or swamp or ocean? (I didn’t tell them about flying with the doors off and holding on to Chris’ belt as he leaned out to shoot).
Q: Do you work on offshore oilrigs? Chemical refineries? Nuclear plants? Prisons?
A: (Have these guys been following us around?)
Well, yeah, that’s where we spend a lot of our time – and sure, things blow-up every once in a while (twice it’s happened the day after we left); once we were there when a guy got his leg chopped off in an oilrig accident; and Chris did set off the radiation detector in the nuclear plant – but the radiation tech gave the gauge a big thwack with his fist and the indicator dropped below the red zone (we figured 4 kids were enough anyway); and the prison riot occurred the day before we got there. So no real problems.
Thank goodness they didn’t ask:
Q: Do you ever swing in a bucket hung on a crane hook hundreds of feet in the air?
A: Yes, regularly. A crane bucket is a great way to get an aerial shot (and a cheap thrill) when a helicopter is not available.
We’ve been lucky. We’ve stayed healthy on the road for the most part - besides the 4 days we were holed-up sick as dogs in Buenos Aires (watched the Super Bowl in español); my bout with the Asian flu in Malaysia (what other kind would it be?); and Chris’ food poisoning that landed him in the emergency room (I told him not to eat that fish). There is nothing worse than being on the road and really sick. We conscientiously work hard at staying safe and healthy. We have to, because as soon as you let your guard down for one second. . .
Case in point: an assignment in South Louisiana. We love it there. The Cajun people know good food means good times. The men (including my Louisiana-born Chris) love to cook as much as the women do. Cajuns get excited by great food just like their French counterparts, but are welcoming and down-to-earth as the Italians – our kinda folk!
It was mid-morning in mid-August in the middle of South Louisiana when it happened. Sweat was trickling down my back already. We were on an oilrig waiting for the crew to finish the assembly of the drill string (yawn). I was hungry (duh) and therefore easily distracted from my work. My hunger and distraction were exacerbated as I eavesdropped on an animated conversation between two Cajun oil workers. They were arguing the finer points of frying turkeys whole.
Cajuns lay claim to the invention of whole fried turkeys and I believe them. The recipe has all the earmarks of South Louisiana cooking style: It’s unique, showy, delicious, highly fattening and is designed to feed a horde of friends and family. I’ve never seen an authentic Cajun recipe that wouldn’t easily satisfy at least 12 really hungry people.
You begin the turkey frying process by ‘medicating’ the bird using an elephant sized hypodermic needle. Next, inject the turkey repeatedly with a tangy mixture of liquid seasonings, plunging the needle in all over the poor naked bird’s body. Then lower the plumped-up carcass into a tub of boiling oil, where it happily bobs around for an hour or so. It was the ‘or so’ part of the recipe that was the subject of the conversation I was straining to hear. I was intently but covertly following the discussion when the injury happened.
Thibideaux: No, no, che. Dah bird, she swim one hour - no less, no mo.
LeBlanc: I telled yew 3-2 time already! Why you no hear? Dah big mawmoo gobblers, day likes to dawdle in dah oil bath, slow ’n lazy-like. One hour and half again hour be mo bedda, dont-yew-know.
This simmering culinary debate really heated up when several other roughnecks-cum-Cajun-chefs decided to stir the pot by peppering the discourse with their own half-baked opinions. Voices and tempers quickly rose to the boiling point.
It was at this precise moment I made my attempt to gain a better listening vantage point, and made a rookie-roughneck mistake. I’ve been climbing all over oilrigs for the better part of 20 years and I knew better: I moved without first glancing down at my feet to see if my path was clear.
Active drilling platforms are strewn with a shifting minefield of sharp, very heavy objects of all shapes and sizes, creating a treacherous maze that must be plotted and navigated with care. The hardhat, steel-toed boots, safety glasses and earplugs they make you wear are not just a fashion statement. It’s a dangerous place.
To make matters worse, the drill floor and everything on it can get covered with an extremely slimy, slippery substance which is used as a lubricant to help the drill-bit and other big tools slide easily in and out of the hole. Think K-Y Jelly (as if you weren’t already). It’s known as drilling mud by those in the ‘awl bidnez’ and once it gets on your clothing, it’s there for life.
I had on a brand new pair of jeans that day. I know what you’re thinking, but please keep it to yourself – I feel stupid enough already and besides I’ll never hear the end of this from Chris. That morning, pulling on his tattered and tacky old jeans, he told me I was crazy to wear anything new to a rigsite. So I of course puffed up and ignored his advice.
Distracted by the turkey conversation I stumbled, striking my leg on something unnaturally hard, which immediately opened up a gash in my new jeans and my old knee. In the process I lost my hardhat, safety glasses and my pride. As is typical with my work, I was the only woman in an EXTREMELY macho infested environment. Being a product of the bra-burning, equal-rights, women’s-lib 1960s, I take the role of standard-bearer for my gender seriously. I was physically hurt, but worse, I was humiliated.
The testosterone population south of the Mason/Dixon (don’t stop at the U.S. border, keep going all the way south to Tierra del Fuego) seems to have a particularly hard time figuring out how to act around me on the jobsite. I’m subjected to an inbred cultural chivalry that makes them insist on carrying my equipment even though they visibly resent me invading their turf. They expect me to fall – even secretly hope I’ll fall. If Chris had stumbled, they would have glanced at him to make sure he was OK, and that would be it.
Back in the hotel room that night, I gingerly removed my now worthless clothes. The wounded knee would heal in time, but what about my wounded psyche? As I stared, depressed, at my naked reflection in the bathroom mirror (more reason for depression), I suddenly realized I had the recipe that would make me feel ‘mo bedda’.
I began the recovery process by ‘medicating’ the turkey repeatedly (using a straw instead of a syringe) with a tangy martini. Next, I lowered the poor plumbed-up carcass into a tub of steaming bath water. There, I happily bobbed, slow ‘n lazy-like, for an hour or so…
Today was typical. I woke to the alarm clock screaming at 4:00am. I knew exactly how it felt. Chris and I threw on our clothes, checked out of the hotel and drove 4 and one-half hours down a kidney jarring rocky road to reach our first shoot site. There, amidst the mud and dirt and dangerous conditions that exist in the oil field, our assignment was to somehow create art. Challenging work? Yes. It’s not easy making something butt-ugly look good. Glamorous? Hell no.
But later, as part of the assignment, we drove through and shot in the spectacular Flaming Gorge region on the border of Utah and Wyoming. Challenging work? Hell no. Any idiot can point a camera a something that is already gorgeous and get a great shot. Glamorous? Hell yes. It was brilliant.
God, I love my job. I really do. I get to travel all around the world to exciting, exotic places. I work with top-notch communication professionals who are outstanding in their field. But I also work with minimum wage guys who are out, standing in a field. Those poor hardworking guys simply cannot believe that all we do is push a button on a camera to get paid. If they had any idea how much we get paid, they would fall over dead. But we are among a very fortunate few in the wacky world known as freelance photography.
About once a month we get a call from someone who wants to become a rock-star professional photographer like us and is seeking our sage advice (I can hear our kids and clients laughing at that one). I have a set speech I give them. I don’t talk about the exciting travel and the fun parts – they already know about that or they wouldn’t be calling on me. I am brutally honest because this is a brutally tough profession and they should know that. Generally they are shocked. I tell them the competition from other professionals is cut-throat fierce which is true. I tell them the world is their competition because anyone who has ever been lucky enough to take a good photo thinks they can do what we do. Most of these wannabes are young kids who have been told by someone (their moms or their art teachers) that they have “talent”. Most don’t, I’m afraid. I’m also afraid that most are really just looking for some way out of working for a living and think taking pictures would be cool and easy. Cool? Yes. Easy? Far from it.
They don’t want to hear about the fact that the average annual income for a full-time photographer (according to 2004 US Census numbers) was around $26,000 or that to be considered in the top 10% earners you only have to make $55,000. Surveyed successful freelance photographers say they spend on average 2 days or less per week shooting and the rest of their time is spent on boring paperwork and ego-shattering marketing. I make a point of saying (hopefully within earshot of mom, otherwise known as The Neverending Wallet) that the startup costs are very high. Our current camera bodies cost around $5,000 each and that doesn’t even get your toe in the water as far as gear is concerned, and then there are computers, etc., - and repeat all that about every 2 years to stay current.
The vast majority of freelance photographers go out of business within the first 5 years – many not from lack of talent, but because of lack of business acumen. As I tell the wannabes: It’s a photography business – you must give as much or more time to the business side as you do to the photography part. They don’t want to hear that.
I shamelessly do everything I can to discourage them. I pull no punches when I review their portfolio. I am a dasher of dreams, an ego eliminator. I’m downright cruel. Why? Because I know how hard this business is and how many times they are going to be turned down, in a harsher fashion than I handed out. I know it takes unending resolve, nerves of iron and limitless faith in yourself – despite how many times anyone (including me) tells them they don’t have what it takes. God knows we heard that enough times! Photography can be very hard on the ego. If they can’t take me telling them no, how are they ever going to face their first less than kind art director?
Most of the time I do my part to perpetuate the myth of the glamorous life of a professional travel photographer. I feel like I’m breaking some fraternal code - like magicians have about divulging magic tricks - if I say otherwise. But that’s the point. There is no magic trick to success in freelance photography - just a lot of hard work, dedication, some luck and some talent – in about equal measure. If you have that, after 20 years you too can lead the glamorous life!
Ding-Dong the Bells are Gonna Chime!
Dan & Amy got married in the morning. At exactly 11:00 in the morning, on October 14, 2006 to be precise.
They say parents find true happiness when their children find true love. Chris and I couldn’t be any happier. I can’t remember seeing a couple more well suited to each other and more in love. Amy is a lovely young woman from a fine family. She is as sweet and fun loving as she is smart and that’s saying a lot. We welcome her along with her Mom and brother into our family with open arms and warm hearts.
Wedding Bell blues…
and oranges and maroons - and an array of rich fall colors were selected by the bride for her bouquet, which set off her knock-down gorgeous cream colored gown to perfection. Amy chose stylish black halter-top tea-length dresses accented with satin and sequins for her bridesmaids. They were pretty AND practical, which is hard to achieve in a bridesmaid gown. I can see those dresses being happily worn by the girls at their next cocktail party!
The groomsmen consisted of Dan’s brother Jeff, a couple of old school friends (Ty and Malcom) and the charming Nathan, an Army Ranger buddy. My personal most heart-bursting-with-Mommy-pride wedding moments were those when Dan’s friends - one by one at various times - took me aside and told me how much they admire him. They spoke in halting guy-words, describing what a great person he is and how they would literally walk through fire for him. It takes a lot of love to make a Ranger choke up. I’m very proud that Dan inspires that kind of admiration. What a great group of guys and what a tribute to Dan’s character!
I have been to many weddings. I’ve never enjoyed one more. It’s a compliment to Marilyn, Amy’s mom, that everything from the bridal showers, the bridal tea, right on down to the fab and fun dawn hair styling marathon at the church - all went off without a glimmer of a hitch amidst gales of laughter and a few happy tears. And the beautifully orchestrated reception! The location at the tasteful Bella Terrazza was dazzling, but the fantastic and creative food (martini mashed potato bar!), coupled with champagne and dancing, motivated nothing but glowing compliments from all. Our thanks to everyone who helped us celebrate!
More weddding photos here!
Photography is HOT
I’ve been in demand lately. I would get a swelled head over it but I know it’s not me that’s hot, it’s photography. There is a rising tide of image creation and use in the world. Surf’s up and I’m hanging 10 - 8x10s that is. Read how this effects everyone on the planet including you in an article I wrote for the September/October issue of The Journal of Employee Communications published by Ragan Communications. And look for a couple of musing of mine to appear in the October issue of the IABC Communication World Bulletin. A sign of the times, the entire October issue of CWBulletin will be devoted to visual communications topics.
Find out what I’ll be doing instead of picking out tile for the house in Italy or canning tomatoes from the links at right.
After begging, pleading and multiple assurances that I really REALLY wanted to help, our good friend and fabulous cook, Vilma, asked me over to participate in the annual making of passata di pomodoro. I was on the invite like red on tomato - tomato sauce, that is. In kitchens all across Italy, bushel baskets of red, ripe tomatoes - picked minutes before from the family garden - are being turned into bright jewel-colored jars of passata di pomodoro (tomato sauce). Last year Vilma put up over 150 jars, with each jar enough for two meals. But with pasta on the menu virtually every day (truly, that is not an exaggeration) and tons of other uses for this pantry stable, she has once again run out before this year’s crop was ready to harvest. Mama Mia! That’s a One Ton Tomato sauce!
Lucky us, not only did I learn how to process and preserve the precious pomodori, we were asked to dine afterwards. The typical Piemontese family meal started with tomatoes stuffed with tuna and a plate of salami. Our seconda piatta (second course) was a tender veal served with a mayonnaise made from eggs Vilma’s chickens had laid that morning. She feeds them the peel and seeds discarded from the tomato canning process. The yolks are a stunning reddish yellow that looks down-right artificial.
Three hours after sitting down to eat, I was regretting my lack of stomach space as Vilma encouraged me to take one more of her juicy and flavorful peaches (from her orchard, of course). She had marinated the peach halves in Moscato di Acqui, a local sweet wine, baked them, filled them with gelato, and topped it all off with shaved chocolate. The meal finally culminated with plump cherries soaked in a so-called digestivo, a take-the-top-of-your-head-off grappa kinda thingy. Did I mention the prima piatta (first course) of pasta with , of course, fresh pomodoro sauce? We could have stopped there and my stomach would have been happy and full.
Looking forward to the day when I can put all of Vilma’s teachings to use with my own veggies!
Here’s an amusing site for all you fellow Road Warriors. It’s an interactive packing checklist. Depending on where, how long and what you plan to do on your trip, it builds a personalized list for you. I like the fact it encourages packing light. The old adage ‘pack half the clothes and twice the money’ is still good advice. Chris and I once went to Norway (think big, thick coats) for 10 days without checking a bag – and that included camera equipment!
This easily portable kit includes camera gear, computer AND clothes for both Chris and I for a week. With this we can stay on the road forever!
This site, along with my No Jetlag - EVER article will have you arriving at your destination refreshed and able to navigate any situation with ease.
Buon viaggio!
It’s been really hot here in northern Italy. I pity the foolish tourists further south in sweltering Florence or in the Inferno that is Rome. If you have access to the European news you know that behind our designer sunglasses we have been sweating through our stylishly skimpy clothes in record setting fashion. Last week in the UK the mercury rose to a point never seen before at any time on any date in the history of The Empire. If Churchhill was in London now instead of the 1940s the quote would be, "Nahva in the field of human perspiration was so much sweated by so many in so few days." At midday, mad dogs and Englishmen were spotted in local pubs, trying unsuccessfully to cool off by drinking lukewarm British beer.
How are WE dealing with the heat? Without A/C it’s been hard. I would bitch-slap the next person who tells me, “but it’s a dry heat”, except I’m too hot and dry to move that fast. In the shade with enough un-British very cold beer it is tolerable, as long as you don’t budge and don’t have to think too hard. Next summer we will be in our house which sits on a hill and is much cooler than the town-apartment where we are now living, or more accurately where we are now sweating.
We’re surviving on salads and sandwiches – avoiding anything that involves turning on the stove or god-forbid the OVEN, which I’m currently using as storage for winter coats. I was getting prickly just seeing them hanging in the closet so had to move them and the oven is the last place I’ll be looking in for awhile. It’s been so hot in the apartment I’m convinced we could cook on the stove without turning the blasted thing on.
We could go to the coast for relief, like lots of Italians do. The beautiful blue Mediterranean Sea is only 70 kilometers (44 miles) away and a sea breeze would feel lovely. But neither Chris nor I like sand between our toes. So we headed in the other direction. We spent the weekend happily shivering in the cool of the Swiss Alps. I’m gonna like living where you have those kinda options.
This is so weird it just might be true. Like the prayer I say when the plane takes off, what could it hurt? I’ll be jumping for joy and hope you do, too. Spread the word: July 20 is Jump Day
Read the ABC News back story about the nutty non-existent professor: Jump to Prevent Global Warming. At least this story has taken my mind off the heat for a bit!