England’s London Underground, widely referred to as the Tube, is the oldest of its kind and the busiest in Europe after Moscow and Paris. Much like the octopus of the New York City Subway, the sophistication of the Tube services hundreds of stations across England’s Greater London Area, albeit in a cleaner fashion. Its world-class transit network is the second largest in the world, and like an old, lumbering friend, screeches to a halt for underground visits with Big Ben and St. Paul.

My journey begins on Earl’s Court Road in the royal borough of Chelsea and Kensington, where before her engagement to Prince Charles, Princess Diana took residence. Director Alfred Hitchcock and Freddie Mercury of British rock band Queen also lived in the posh community, home to the famous concert venue Earl’s Court Exhibition Centre. The narrow European thoroughfare is sandwiched between Internet hubs, banks, restaurants, quaint cafes and a flurry of French whistling through the streets. It’s been months since the London Riots, the city now restored to its safe and friendly nature.

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Inside Earl’s Court Station, I purchase a convenient and affordable smartcard that can be reloaded at any transit station in the city. The Oyster pass can also be used on the London Bus, but after a few bumpy rides, I prefer the iconic double-decker – equipped with the city’s overabundance of CCTV cameras – from an admiring distance. Down a flight of stairs and onto the navy coded Piccadilly line platform, I board the train moments after it barrels to a stop. All the seats are taken. Of what I can decipher, a Parisian couple discusses dinner options for the evening – Le Gavroche or Pied à Terre – they just can’t decide – and a trio of Italian girls drool over the shopping on Kensington High Street, which happens to be my first stop.

An unsurprising mix of British and American stores line the main shopping district, which I end up preferring for its quiet, hipster scene over the spectacle of Oxford Circus. Here, shoppers spill in and out of Selfridges, House of Fraser, Top Shop and Primark, a popular low-cost clothing outlet with runway knock-offs. Recently opened in the eastern side of the city where the 2012 London Olympics will take place, Europe’s biggest shopping centre, the Westfield Stratford City Mall, teems with curiosity seekers.

Back on the Tube, I exit at Knightsbridge, where Chanel and Burberry beckon me to enter Harrods. Founded in the 1800s, the globally renowned department store offers the ultimate in luxury shopping and a gourmet food shop where you can feast on sushi and imported cheese. Like a time machine, the train rushes towards the past at South Kensington station, where the grand architecture of the Natural History Museum is enough to skip its interiors. But I cannot not indulge in my interest of dinosaurs. Outside, on the other side of me, a couple metres away, buses and cars leave the space of a nose hair between their flanks and scurrying pedestrians. A stairwell walks underground to a crowded platform, and the ancient artifacts take a distant backseat to what’s waiting at the London Bridge tube station on the Jubilee line. Set across a high-level walkway above the River Thames, the Tower Bridge is the most famous in the world with reason. The suspended masterpiece is an ode to magnificent engineering and a page taken from a fairytale. A backdrop of blue sky and puffy clouds frame the bridge into a postcard, prompting a flash of cameras. Down towards Fish Street Hill, I adjust my eyesight upwards for the Monument Tower, a soaring symbol of the Great Fire of London in 1666.

Keeping time just a few stops away off the station of Westminster is the Big Ben, whose bells have sung through the central location of Westminster for close to 200 years. Majestic in daylight but more so at night, the clock tower’s gleam of gold sets a sheen of romance across the reach of the Thames. All of this is magnified with a ride on the colossal London Eye ferris wheel. I stay grounded by walking past the Houses of Parliament towards the quiet aura of Westminster Abbey. This generation’s royal wedding is still a topic of intrigue, with tourists forming a long, winding lineup to visit the gothic church and its buried monarchs. The adjacent gift shop sells mugs, pens, key chains and teapots emblazoned with the faces of Prince William and Kate, the Duchess of Cambridge.

I travel west through St. James Park to where the newlyweds had their first kiss broadcasted to the world: the royal, sprawling Buckingham Palace. It’s late morning, and I watch the dark, lustrous manes of horses trot towards its façade for the ceremonial changing of the guard. Even though you can’t see her, you feel the presence of the Queen Mother, and I can’t help but stand a bit taller. Early next year, the Palace will celebrate her ascension with the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth II. Tearing my eyes away, I follow the pigeons to Trafalgar Square, London’s political epicentre and heart of sculptural splendour. Families and couples mill about the beauty, and it becomes clear, even through the rain, that the quietly European city of London rivals some of the world’s best metropolises. My journey concludes with the endless reach of the London Tube, which delivers me to Heathrow Airport, my final stop.

Every year, thousands of Canadians travel outside our borders in the hopes of some much-needed rest and relaxation. For the most part, stories about these foreign adventures are filled with sunny skies, blissful scenery and cultural enlightenment. Yet there are rare tales so terrible they resemble a Hollywood drama – stories of detainment, abuse and blatant disregard for personal rights. These horrific circumstances often result from a simple lack of knowledge about local laws and customs. The idea of the law of the land is a very real and powerful concept that still holds true today. Understanding your rights and responsibilities when traveling to another country is incredibly important, especially when entering a state whose laws and customs are drastically different than our own.

While vacationing in Cuba, Smith was allegedly beaten almost to death by her boyfriend. The Cuban authorities were reluctant to press charges because they were Canadians. Canadian authorities couldn’t press charges because the alleged crime was committed in Cuba, and under the Canadian Criminal Code 6 (2), crimes committed outside of Canada cannot be charged within Canada. A shocking scenario, one that seems more fiction then fact, but this was the reality for Smith.

“I’ve had a very good life and was very blessed … and then it crashed. The assault would have been 14 years in prison in Canada if there was a law – that’s how great the assault was,” says Smith, who describes the ordeal in her book, Holiday in Hell (Asteroid Publishing, 2009). “There is a Canadian compensation board when you are a victim of a crime: you are compensated for medical, not being able to work, not being able to get a lawyer – I was not able to receive anything because [the crime] happened abroad,” says Smith, who is an artist and teacher.

“Section six parentheses two of the [Canadian] Criminal Code says that offences, generally, that are committed outside of Canada are not to be tried as criminal offences within Canada,” says Peter Rosenthal, a lawyer and professor of mathematics at the University of Toronto. “It is generally recognized in international law that states should have sovereignty over crimes that take place within their borders. And so, the way it works is that if someone commits an offence in a given jurisdiction, they’re tried under laws of that jurisdiction, generally.”

This law is a general respect for other countries, but upon visiting the Foreign Affairs and International Trade Canada (DFAIT) website, our government further drives the point home: ignorance is not an excuse. Even when travelling to the U.S., the DFAIT website clearly states: “The decision to travel is the sole responsibility of the traveller. The traveller is also responsible for his or her own personal safety.” No immediate links or warnings for Canadians regarding the legal concerns of traveling abroad are available on popular sites such as Canadiantravel.com and Travelocity.ca.

Smith’s story – who is still desperately seeking justice and compensation – may seem so rare that it could never happen to you. But consider the case of Cody LeCompte, a 19-year-old Simcoe, Ont. resident who was stranded in Cuba for three and a half months after being involved in a car collision. While vacationing this past April, LeCompte and his family rented a car, and while driving, were broadsided by a dump truck, injuring all four occupants in the car and seriously injuring a local woman.

“Section six parentheses two of the [Canadian] Criminal Code says that offences, generally, that are committed outside of Canada are not to be tried as criminal offences within Canada.” – Peter Rosenthal

Cuban authorities informed the family that because LeCompte was the driver, and a local had been injured, he would have to stay in Cuba while the accident was investigated. This shocking piece of information meant an extended stay in Cuba – his family paying the bill, of course – while he waited for the verdict.

Luckily, there was uproar in Canada from both the public and media, urging the government to step in and alleviate this stranded teen from a precarious situation. LeCompte has recently been able to return to Canada after posting 2,000 pesos (about CDN $80) for bail and signing an agreement stating he would return to Cuba if the case goes to trial.

Although both the above scenarios took place in Cuba, these issues are not limited to that Caribbean island. In 2007, Nazia Quazi, a Canadian Muslim, was a student at the University of Ottawa, where she fell in love with a Hindu man. Her disapproving parents convinced her to take a religious pilgrimage to Mecca, Saudi Arabia before any wedding took place. Like any loving daughter, Quazi trusted her father, but upon arriving, she says he confiscated her Canadian and Indian passports, preventing her from leaving the country. For three arduous years, Quazi allegedly endured violent abuse, and was unable to leave due to the country’s male guardianship law. This Canadian citizen says she became a prisoner in Saudi Arabia, and again, the Canadian government was unable to intervene.

If Canadian citizens are subjected to the judicial system of a foreign country, then what is the Canadian government’s role? “The government of Canada cannot interfere in the judicial affairs of another country. That being said, the government of Canada will make every effort to ensure that you receive equitable treatment under the local criminal justice system. It cannot, however, seek preferential treatment for you, or try to exempt you from the due process of local law,” states the DFAIT website, which provides information to Canadians travelling, working, studying or living abroad.

With its relativist position, Canadian law accepts that the laws of other countries are valid, even if they seem unjust. “It’s just a general respect for other sovereign states. It’s not different from one sovereign state or another sovereign state,” says Rosenthal.

It could be understood why a country would want to pursue legal action against a Canadian who commits a brutal crime against a local (i.e. assault), but for those like Smith, LeCompte and Quazi, these laws seem drastically unfair. LeCompte, for example, was held for something he had not been convicted of, and it was not until an outcry from the public and media that the government stepped in.

Quazi claimed she was held prisoner because of a custom allowing men absolute control over women. Although she was finally able to marry her husband in Dubai this past May, she endured years of alleged abuse because of a medieval custom.

In the case of Smith, her alleged assailant was eventually sentenced to jail time, but for breach of parole from another crime, not for the alleged attack on Smith. Smith voices her opinion that she would like to see changes made to the CCC 6(2). Due to the nature of law, changes seem unlikely. “The Criminal Code is enacted by the Parliament of Canada. So they would have to get Parliament to change that section of the Criminal Code. But I would think it would be very difficult for Parliament to even consider that, given the fact that it relates to international relationship between nations,” comments Rosenthal.

This concern for international relationships appears to be more important to our government than the safety of its citizens. The stern, paternal advice of “you’re responsible” serves as both a warning and a hard lesson: the government is in no rush to bail you out from the legal system of a foreign country. As a modern, free and democratic nation, should we not expect a level of responsibility from our government to provide justice and protection to Canadians, even on the international stage?

“[Travellers] should know and respect the domestic laws wherever they are. And then if they have a legal problem they should investigate the legal situation there and they should call on the Canadian Consulate for assistance,” advises Rosenthal.

If you are faced with legal problems in another country, the best mode of gaining support appears to be turning to local authorities, friends, family or the media. Public pressure can often motivate political action, so go ahead and Facebook or tweet your despair.

Understanding the cultural and legal environment of foreign countries is extremely important, especially if you plan on travelling outside of Canada. Make sure you understand the laws and customs of the nation you are traveling to – and don’t forget your passport.

THE FACTS
• Canadians took more than 53 million trips outside of Canada in 2008.*

• In 2008, over 2,000 international arrest and detention cases involving Canadians were opened. More than one third of Canadians arrested abroad were drug-related.*

• 597 Canadians were jailed abroad in 2006.(Rush, Curtis. “Nearly 600 Canadians Jailed Abroad in 2006.” – The Toronto Star, Wednesday August 15, 2007)

*Statistics taken from the Foreign Affairs and International Trade Canada website.

www.travel.gc.ca
www.holidayinhell.ca

Mandranova brings you all the beauty of an island with true Italian hospitality. A comfortable atmosphere, authentic cuisine, first-rate amenities and beautiful surroundings epitomize the Mandranova experience.

To appreciate Italy and all it has to offer, a Mandranova tour package is available. Starting off at the Mandranova hotel, this tour is six days, five nights. From Day 1 to Day 6, there is endless sightseeing in various Italian cities and towns, visits to museums, cooking courses, wine tasting, and leisure activities. Enjoy the architecture, history and overall beauty of Palermo, Agrigento, Caltagirone, Palma di Montechiara and Modica.

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Mondranova’s overnight tour exposes all your senses to the sights, sounds, and tastes of Italy. An experience of a lifetime awaits you!

www.victours.ca

As the 12-hour flight from Toronto to Tel Aviv nears its end, I have a leg-stretching chit-chat with one of the flight attendants in the centre galley. After asking me where I’m from, he tells me how much he loves flying to Israel, because he takes pride in being able to bring tourists to such a special place. As the Airbus A330 barrels down the runway at Ben Gurion International Airport, the reality of Israel hits me and instantly, I understand that this is a different kind of destination. “It’s our pleasure to welcome you to the land of milk and honey,” an eclectic group of flight attendants excitedly announce over the aircraft’s loudspeaker. Unlike the dull, unenthusiastic broadcasts that become all too common when arriving elsewhere, this group actually means it.

Touching ground, I immediately experience welcoming comfort that lasts throughout my stay.

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Israelis are blunt and pushy, while at the same time nurturing and humble. Maybe this has something to do with the fact that most Israelis take pride in their country and the remarkable accomplishments it has experienced in the short 61 years since its official birth. From doctors to career soldiers, cab drivers to rabbis, and street merchants to waiters, Israelis of all stripes recognize and respect one simple fact – all life is precious and that life is for living.

The streets of Jerusalem’s Old City are packed with people from all backgrounds – Jewish, Muslim, Christian and others – all happily interacting together in the markets, at restaurants and around the countless religious sites. On the streets, tour buses carry passengers from nearly every corner of the Earth, all anxious to experience everything that Israel has to offer. The casual observer would expect Israel to be a homogeneous nation. However, every street sign is printed in three languages – Hebrew, Arabic and English; an in-your-face reminder of Israel’s desire to be an inclusive and welcoming society.

At the Western Wall, Christian tourists flock to see this impressive and ancient structure, some even placing a kippah on their head as a sign of respect for this holy site. At the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where it is said that Jesus was crucified and buried, visitors from all backgrounds gather in awe of this magnificent structure, and the history buried within its four walls. In the Druze villages, restaurants and pastry shops bustle as hospitable owners happily serve all who enter. “This is my home, and I’m happy to be here,” a Druze restaurant owner tells me as he points to pictures of himself serving in the Israel Defense Forces.

Israel is a modern and advanced nation. Aside from the Hebrew and Arabic writing, one could easily mistaken the boardwalk of sunny Tel Aviv for that of Miami or California. Tel Aviv is a cultural hot spot, featuring world-renowned fashion, music, dance and film. I am thoroughly impressed by the liveliness of Tel Aviv, abuzz with multi-million-dollar high-rise condominium towers, restaurants and shops on the boardwalk, and a nightlife that would rival that of any other trendy metropolis. This is without even mentioning the world’s saltiest body of water, the Dead Sea, fabulous hotels – like the Atlas chain – tourist destinations and fabulous food. Hummus and pita is huge in Israel, as are olives and wine. There is obviously something to be said for fresh, local ingredients.

You might not know it, but Israel is also a world leader in high-tech, agricultural and environmental ingenuity. Everywhere you go there is evidence of Israel’s long-list of  accomplishments. Using my Blackberry to send an instant message back home, I was reminded that Israel invented Instant Messaging with ICQ, not to mention the cellular telephone by Motorola-Israel. Israel also proudly lays claim to having pioneered voice mail, the Intel Pentium computer chip, and life-saving medical technology, like the PillCam and cardiac stents.

Twenty-seven years in the making, I look back fondly on my first trip to Israel as an invaluable opportunity. It’s not everyday that you get to travel thousands of miles to the other side of the world, and yet still feel remarkably at home. Whatever your background, Israel welcomes you. www.goisrael.com

Canada is glowing with pride as it gears up to host Vancouver 2010 – an event to go down in history. Buzzing with anticipation and overflowing with international guests, there’s no better time to visit this attraction-laden city. If you’re lucky enough to have tickets to the Olympic or Paralympic Games, there’s no doubt that you are in for a show-stopping display of athletic prowess. If not, there is still much to see.  

“The Olympic rings have been lit in Coal Harbour; the torch returns to British Columbia  on February 4, and we have an exciting line-up of sport and cultural events for visitors. We’re definitely ready and excited to welcome the world and proud to show off our city,” says Emily Armstrong of Tourism Vancouver.

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Patrons and businesses alike offer Olympic-sized events and promotions on virtually every corner. Cultural Olympiad 2010 is the official arts festival, bringing more than 600 ticketed and free arts events to some 50 venues in the Sea-to-Sky corridor. Running from January 22 to March 21, 2010, this celebration will have spectators tapping their toes to the cutting-edge theatre, dance and music, while its visual arts displays leave them breathless.

Walking through the city’s charming cobblestone streets, Vectorial Elevation, a grand scale light show, will illuminate the night sky. This gorgeous spectacle will light the way to some of Vancouver’s starriest attractions, like the fashion-savvy Robson Street, the monumental Grouse Mountain, and the iconic Vancouver Art Gallery (VAG).

Adding to the mounting excitement is the impressive list of celebrity and dignitary attendees. Supermodel Cindy Crawford and superstar swimmer Michael Phelps will be attending the Games, along with NASA astronauts Buzz Aldrin, Thomas Stafford and Eugene Cernan. Vancouver will also welcome British Prime Minister Gordon Brown and Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin, and there have even been hushed hints that U.S. President Barack Obama is on the guest list.

Of course, we can’t forget the most important guests of all; the athletes. With a promising roster of young competitors – at 19, Torontonian Patrick Chan is one of the country’s top hopes for Olympic gold – propelling towards the podium this year, it’s bound to be a riveting, excitement-filled race.

www.vancouver2010.com
www.travelsmart2010.ca

The other strange thing is the Albanian half-built houses that are all adorned with either a scarecrow or a teddy bear that has been impaled on a protruding metal rod or lynched to hang limply from the roof. This macabre cultural idiosyncrasy is apparently intended to bring good luck to the home.

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A trivia question: Who is the only Albanian you’ve heard of?

Answer: Mother Teresa. They even named the country’s largest airport after her.

Bonus fact: She was actually born in Macedonia. Jim Belushi was also born in Albania but I’m sure that doesn’t make it onto many tourist brochures.

Until recently, the country’s borders were shut to tourists; only business travel was permitted. The result of this is that Albania and its people are not used to foreigners. The flipside is that much of the country is undiscovered and unspoiled by tourism, although this is changing quickly, as there are plenty of Albanian tourists available to spoil the spots.

Tirana, the capital, doesn’t look to be much of anything when we get let out at one of the bus stations. It isn’t really even a bus station, just a random dirty parking lot Somewhere along Tirana’s main street, I realise we don’t have any Albanian money.

Fortunately, a Western Union bureau de change comes into view. The 12,907 denars we have left over from Macedonia, our previous stop, equates to about $323 Cdn. The man behind the Plexiglas window – a squat, short-necked man with an Elvis-like lip – changes our money into Albanian leks, prints out a tiny receipt and pushes it all back to our side of the window.

We settle into a hotel – thankfully payable in cash but twice the price indicated in the guidebook –  and head out for dinner. At around nine o’clock, I sit on the saggy hotel bed and take another look at our money. “Nineteen thousand three hundred and sixty leks,” I announce to no one.
“That doesn’t seem right.”
My wife Jane’s ears prick up. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I thought the exchange rate was more like two Albanian leks to one Macedonian denar. This guy has given us 1.5 leks.” I punch a few numbers into the calculator. “That’s a difference of … six thousand four hundred and fifty-four leks. That’s … 80 Canadian dollars!”
“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Right, let’s go kick his ass.”

We march back out into the quiet streets of Tirana, clutching our little receipt and ready for a fight. The exchange guy is entitled to a commission, that’s how these places work, but 80 bucks on a $320 transaction? No way, Goran.

Between our hotel and the Western Union office, we happen to pass the Albanian Police Headquarters, an imposing square edifice with several stone-faced policemen standing around outside. Jane walks up to one of them and asks if he speaks English, just on the off-chance that they might have some advice for us. He doesn’t, and neither do any of his colleagues. Fortunately, a couple of English-speaking passersby overhear our inquiries and come to help. We explain the situation to the young guys, who translate into Albanian.“He will call someone,” says one of the English speakers. We thank him for his help and they continue on their way. After a few moments, another policeman comes rushing over. He speaks a little English so we explain again, brandishing our postage stamp-sized receipt. He nods intently and confers with the first policeman, who also nods intently. A moment later, four more policemen walk briskly towards us, one hand on their guns. The assembled lawmen discuss our predicament with much nodding and serious-looking expressions, and several of them make calls on their cellphones.

“This is very serious,” he declares, while we try to keep a straight face. “These officers will drive you to the exchange office and we will fix the situation immediately.”

Suddenly, three police cars come tearing around the corner, sirens wailing. We figure that there must have been a terrorist attack or some similarly serious emergency in Tirana and that the group of policemen will be called away to deal with it. Instead, the cars screech to a halt right in front of us and another seven or eight police officers burst out, like circus clowns out of a Mini. We feel like we are on one of those reality shows, like Cops, and that someone is going to demand in an Albanian accent that we “reach for the sky.” The highest-ranking officer speaks some English and we sheepishly explain our exchange dilemma once more.

“This is very serious,” he declares, while we try to keep a straight face. “These officers will drive you to the exchange office and we will fix the situation immediately.”

“Uh, okay.”

We climb into the back of one of the squad cars and race off onto the main road, sirens blaring. The other two cars follow closely behind. Traffic veers to the side of the road and pedestrians dash for cover as we race through the streets. The police cars speed through red lights and take sharp corners like rally drivers, then stop abruptly outside the exchange office. Locals stop to look at the commotion, forming a small crowd. The security guard from the building that houses the exchange office is an older gentleman who was no doubt settling in for a quiet night with his feet up. He leaps to attention when the parade of police officers assembles outside.

Once all the cars in the chasing pack have arrived and everyone has emptied out onto the footpath, there must be about a dozen cops milling around, including a young lady officer who speaks English. We explain our situation once more to her and she also nods earnestly. The collective investigative skills of the Tirana police force determine that the Western Union office is in fact closed for the evening.

“That’s OK, we’ll come back tomorrow,” we offer. The group of police officers gradually disperses back into the night.

As it turns out, in the cold light of day, we don’t really have much of a case. The Western Union office’s published rate is indeed 1.5 leks per denar. Although we ended up paying a 25 per cent commission and effectively losing $80 Cdn, we didn’t have a ‘lek’ to stand on.

We are traveling up a meandering mountain road decorated by fresh foliage perfectly fit for photo-ops. Olive trees and grape vines lead the way to our next destination – Quinta da Pacheca Estate and Hotel, a famous family run company that’s recognized for its historic port wine and, most recently, for its elaborate hotel renovations.

It is here that we are warmly welcomed by the Serpa Pimentel family and escorted across glossy hardwood floors to our intimate lodgings. My priorities peter out as I enter a charming chamber that’s outfitted with a Vichy shower, four-poster bed, oak armoire, flat screen TV and French doors that open out to a private balcony with a picturesque view of the Douro Valley. This place is a personal favourite.

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Needless to say, the sun rose far too soon for me to fully enjoy all of Quinta Da Pacheca’s enchanting yet contemporary amenities. After a glorious breakfast of warm croissants, fresh fruit and hot cocoa, our incredibly informative guide, Lusia Freitas of Traveltag, takes us to our next spot – the town of Fatima. Along the way we stop in Coimbra to visit the five-star Palace Hotel of Bussaco – a Manueline-Gothic style castle originally built in 1885 for Portuguese royalty. The balcony view is sublime. Set on a hill in the middle of a forest, treetops diffuse the sun while morning dew caresses a maze of grass below and a single swan swims in a nearby pond – a page torn out of a fairytale.

We arrive in Fatima at dusk, a town that became religiously significant after three local children claimed to have witnessed apparitions of the Virgin Mary in 1917. Sometime after the supposed sightings, a holy shrine was built in Mary’s honour. After being told that thousands of peasants come from all around the world to visit the Basilica every year, I make it my mission to go exploring at sunrise. I admire its neo-classical style and feel comforted by the local congestion despite the early hour. It’s nice to finally meet back with the Victours group for breakfast to exchange stories of what each of us saw – it’s not long before Julie, Luisa and the rest of the group feel like family. Our next stop is Évora, the museum town of Portugal.

After visiting some historically remarkable museums, we arrive at our dining destination. I have to say that the M’AR De AR Aqueduto five-star hotel’s cuisine is truly the crème de la crème. Unique contemporary décor and romantic ambiance aside, the menu is entirely constructed by its award winning chef António Nobre. With three flavoured butters to harmonize our heated bread, and whipped potatoes that ineffably melt on our palates, our group leaves feeling divinely fulfilled and dying for the recipe.

Our last two days are spent exploring Lisbon. Pasties de Belem is a huge hit amongst the Victours group. Established in 1837, this Portuguese pastry shop is truly a succulent success. We break for an afternoon tea at the five-star Hotel Tivoli Seteais in Sintra and I feel like Alice in Wonderland. Words become mere mutters as we sip warm tea and nibble on ham and cheese croissants beneath a hand-painted backdrop in a private crimson-coloured room.

It’s been only one week and I’m unbelievably familiar with this formerly foreign place. Though the flight back home is bittersweet, a new group of friends and a montage of Portuguese memories have given me all the entertainment I could ask for. www.victours.ca 416.736.6613

Nestled in the heart of Naples, Florida, rests the gorgeous LaPlaya Beach and Golf Resort. With an inspired landscape and inviting suites, this hidden gem gives its guests the secluded, far-off feel of an island oasis with all the comforts and amenities of a familiar five-star resort.

Reflecting the contemporary lifestyle and easygoing attitude of South Florida, the ambiance of LaPlaya makes guests feel instantly at home. An updated twist to Florida’s classic Old World style, the resort’s décor is elegant yet comfortable. This casual elegance is echoed in all of the property’s 189 rooms and suites, with a tasteful blend of wrought-iron furnishings, luxurious fabrics and cheery colours. Unique works of art – not to mention spectacular views of the ocean – create the ideal atmosphere for a beachfront vacation.

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A place where families relish in exciting activities and couples stroll hand in hand against a picturesque background of swaying palm trees and a glowing horizon, LaPlaya is an ideal getaway, sure to satisfy all kinds of travelers. So whether you’re looking for relaxation or a little adventure, LaPlaya Beach & Golf Resort delivers. Safe and quiet surroundings melt your worries away, while exciting outdoor activities quench your thirst for adventure.

A recognized golf resort, LaPlaya’s 18-hole championship golf course is designed by renowned architect Bob Cupp and satisfies every golf enthusiast’s wildest dreams. Guests craving a little excitement often find themselves exploring the neighbouring regions of this charming town to visit local shops, museums, art galleries and attractions, go sailing or simply soak in the history and culture.

One such spot, known as Florida’s Paradise Coast, is a delightful town designed to deliver the essence of this eclectic state’s tastes, cultures, and captivating waterfront environments. There are any number of other places to visit, from Fort Myers to the Florida Everglades, offering miles of beach and natural surroundings to explore.

If action-packed adventure isn’t your cup of tea, retreat to the ultra-exotic SpaTerre, where expert estheticians make your comfort their top priority. Rejuvenating mind, body and soul, the boutique spa takes guests on a stimulating sensory journey. Decorated with charming décor features, this elegant sanctuary showcases white wainscoting, 1920s-era brick tile and porcelain fixtures juxtaposed with Asian-inspired furniture. Whisking visitors away from the outside world, this unique experience begins with an intimate spa massage tailored to each individual guest. With holistic rituals and traditional outdoor Japanese Relaxation Tubs, SpaTerre promotes a combination of health, peace and relaxation through its decadent treatments, leaving you exhilarated and refreshed. Offering guests the comfort of personal rooms with private balconies and in-room showers, SpaTerre accommodates just about any whim.

After a long day, there’s nothing quite like the savoury comforts of Baleen, LaPlaya’s signature restaurant. The unique waterfront dining room features a whimsical monkey motif that lends a lighthearted air to its candle-lit elegance, marvelous views and gourmet fare. This fine eatery blends the fresh tastes of land and sea, artfully infused with regional flavours to create a palate-pleasing dining experience. Whether seated in an indoor enclave or a barefoot beach table, happy diners feast on dishes like seared Asian-spiced tuna served with tempura scallions and honey wasabi or roasted natural chicken with goat cheese dumplings, wild mushrooms and tomatoes.

With such romantic air, it’s not surprising that LaPlaya is the venue for dozens of destination weddings every year. Countless couples have said “I do” on Naples’ sandy white shore, while a glowing Florida sun sets over the sparkling waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Complete wedding packages take care of all the details, from the ceremony arrangements right down to the place settings, so that the bride and groom can focus on cherishing every second of their fairytale nuptials.

A quiet escape bursting with charm, LaPlaya Beach and Golf Resort is a place where dreams are awakened, memories are made, and bonds are strengthened. Offering something for everyone, it’s the perfect setting for a lovely lover’s jaunt, a fun-filled family retreat or an invigorating golf getaway.
www.laplayaresort.com
239.597.3123

Important Tips for Traveling.
With the recent airport security enhancements, travelers are justifiably confused about how to travel safely. Here are some tips to help you survive the airport unscathed.

• The temporary restriction of carry-on bags on flights to the United States resulting from the December 25, 2009 security incident was removed on January 20, 2010. Travelers are now permitted one carry-on bag in all Canadian airports as long as they do not exceed a size of 23 cm x 40 cm x 55 cm. In addition to the small carry-on bag, travelers may also bring one of the following: a small purse, laptop or camera bag.

• Canadian Air Transport Security Authority provides travelers with a complete list of updated security guidelines.

• When travelling domestically, try to abide by the weight restrictions on your carry-on baggage. Travellers are permitted one personal article (purse) and one standard article (roller bag) – each 22 pounds or less. It saves you the time and embarrassment of having to open and rearrange you bags in the middle of a busy airport.

• Pet carriers not exceeding 55 cm x 40 cm x 23 cm and a maximum weight of 22 pounds, animal included, are allowed on board. Pets are not permitted in Executive First Class, due to cabin configuration.

• If you bring liquids onboard a domestic flight, ensure that they are 100 millilitres or less, enclosed in clear plastic baggies.

• Wear comfortable footwear. Security requests that you remove your shoes before passing through, so fancy stilettos with zippers and laces might not be the best choice.

• And, most importantly, try to look your best … you never know who you’ll meet upon arrival!
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After a month in Pangani spent teaching English and slowing down to the rural pace of life, my wife Jane and I feel ready for a change of scene. Pangani is a lazy fishing town on the Tanzanian coast, with a beautiful beach that welcomes the warm waters of the Indian Ocean. On a clear day you can catch a glimpse of Zanzibar, perched on the horizon. Most tourists fly there from the mainland or take the big fast ferry from Dar es Salaam but those options are too expensive for us. Mr. Iddy, our Pangani expert on everything, recommends the sailing boat from Kipumbwe, a remote village further down the coast.

‘Kipumbwe is actually closer to Zanzibar so it won’t take as long to get there,’ he continues. ‘I will come with you to arrange things with the captain.’

We are starting to learn the way things work here. We know that ‘arrange things with’ really means ‘collect my commission from’, but we trust his judgement. And so, at two o’clock on a hot and humid Thursday afternoon, we find ourselves at the edge of the Pangani River waiting for the bus to Kipumbwe.

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‘It’s only a short way, right Mr. Iddy?’

‘Yes, of course. It is only 35 kilometres. This should take maybe one and a half hours.’

The bus is overflowing with people, as every bus in Africa is, and we are lucky to get seats. On this typically hot May afternoon the smell of 60 bodies’ worth of sweat fills the bus as quickly as the bodies themselves. While we are in motion, there is the slightest of breezes through the window. This bus, however, is the mechanical equivalent of a game of American football: 10 seconds of action followed by a three-minute break. Or 10 minutes if luggage needs to be hauled off the roof. Or 20 minutes if some part of the wheel falls off and some guys have to bang around randomly underneath until it is fixed. Or 25 minutes if the bus reaches the spot where the sun is shining most brightly into our window and there is no shade, and the driver gets out to have a chat and a joint with his buddy. Actually I don’t know if he is smoking a joint but anyone who takes three hours to drive 35 km must be under the influence of something.

‘No mosquitoes? On the coast of equatorial Africa? During rainy season?’ I respond doubtfully.

Darkness settles like a mosquito net over this remote edge of the African mainland. The bus limps into Kipumbwe, the end of the road where, being the day’s only traffic, it is greeted by the entire village swarming around it. Amazingly, in a country where staring at foreigners seems to be the national pastime, none of these people are interested in the two sweaty white people who tumble out of the bus, except for our curiosity value. This is probably because they have nothing to sell us – there are no taxis, no onward buses, no safaris, no hotels. The bus stops here for the night, blocking the only road in or out, and heads back early the next morning.

Kipumbwe is a tiny settlement on the beach that happens to be the closest point to Zanzibar on the African mainland. Only the most intrepid or cost-conscious, or foolish wazungu – foreigners like us – take their Zanzibar voyage from a place like this. The only accommodation in Kipumbwe is a nameless guesthouse opposite the bus. To describe the rooms as ‘spartan’ would be a disservice to those thrifty Greeks of years gone by. Had our room been offered to the hardy soldiers of ancient Sparta, I think most would have gone AWOL and opted for the resort 20 kilometres up the coast.

The guesthouse is six tiny rooms around a central open-air atrium. The rooms even have traveller-friendly names like ‘Paris’ and ‘American’ as well as less romantic sounding ones like ‘Pakistan’ and ‘Iraq.’ The atrium is in fact merely a concrete floor with some puddles; puddles that look like water but, on closer inspection seem to at least partly consist of urine. The shared toilet, to the side of the atrium, is simply a roofless enclave that doesn’t even have a hole in which to deposit anything. Instead, it seems, you just pick a spot on the floor and let fly.

Our room is almost exactly how I imagined Nelson Mandela’s prison cell to be, minus the law books. It is a two-by-three-metre concrete cube with a thin mattress laid across a raised concrete ledge. The window, barred and partially covered by a limp, tatty curtain, has mosquito mesh, but this is riddled with so many holes it defeats the purpose. The landlady notices us noticing this and says something in Swahili to Mr. Iddy.

‘She says they have no mosquitoes here’, he translates.
‘No mosquitoes? On the coast of equatorial Africa? During rainy season?’ I respond doubtfully.
‘That’s what she says.’
‘Then why do they have mosquito mesh on the windows?’
‘Aha, you make a good point.’
‘We’ll take it’, I say in mock enthusiasm. The landlady smiles; Jane frowns and mentions how many insects and spiders she has counted in the room so far. At around US$1.50 for the night, the room is probably quite fairly priced.
‘Right, that’s that sorted,’ I say positively, ‘Now, Mr. Iddy, take us to Kipumbwe’s finest restaurant.’

After dinner we retire to the Paris suite to count the cockroaches while Mr. Iddy heads to the beach to negotiate the terms of our passage with any boat captains that might be going to Zanzibar. It is a quarter to midnight when he knocks on our door, unsteady on his feet and smelling strongly of beer.
‘I found the boat that is leaving tomorrow.’

‘Oh good,’ I say, anticipating a good five or six hours of sleep before an early sailing as the sun rises. ‘What time do we leave?’
‘The problem, you see, is that they must leave when the wind is best. So the boat will go at two o’clock.’
‘We have to wait around here until two in the afternoon?’
‘No, no, 2 a.m.’
I go back inside to update Jane on developments while Mr. Iddy heads back to the bar.
‘Are you all nuts?’ Jane asks me, ‘Sailing in a little boat on the open sea in complete darkness for four hours?’
‘Well, Mr. Iddy said it usually takes three hours – and we have a torch … Besides, we don’t have much option; this is the only boat leaving today. Hey, how bad can it be?’ I really must stop saying that.

At 1.55 a.m., without having had any sleep, we are collected by Mr. Iddy and we walk down to the dark beach with our tiny torch. The drizzly rain has stopped and our path is lit by the incredible array of stars that covers the sky, like a bowl of sugar spilt on a black tablecloth. Being near the equator, I can’t work out whether we see the northern or southern hemisphere stars here. It looks like both, just judging by the sheer number of them. At least once a minute a shooting star appears for a brief moment, zipping across the night sky.

We have paid US$25 each for this voyage, five times what locals pay, so we expect that there will probably only be a couple of other passengers and we will have our pick of seats.

It’s too dark to see the vessel moored a little way out from the shore, in deeper waters. We imagine a simple but sturdy engine-powered boat for our voyage. The captain will be experienced and courteous and maybe even speak some English. We have paid US$25 each for this voyage, five times what locals pay, so we expect that there will probably only be a couple of other passengers and we will have our pick of seats.

There are actually about seven or eight other people waiting on the shore. ‘Are they on our boat?’ I wonder out loud, a little snobbishly but surprised that we are sharing with so many others.

‘Okay then, have a nice trip,’ Mr. Iddy slurs as we shake hands on the shore. ‘I’ll see you back in Pangani.’
We are helped into a little dinghy that paddles us out to the main boat. ‘It looks a good size,’ Jane says optimistically as the shadowy dhow starts to emerge in the darkness. Indeed it does, probably 10 metres long by three across, very basic – no fancy electronic navigation gizmos or safety equipment here – but strong-looking. The basic design of the dhow has changed very little in over a thousand years. It is basically a hollowed-out hull with a mast and a strong canvas sail. Our boat only varies from this ancient design by the addition of a small outboard motor at the back.

The dinghy pulls up and we climb aboard the dhow, calculating the best place to claim a seat. I turn on our torch and slowly pan the length of the boat. That’s when we see them. Masses and masses of human bodies, squashed together like sardines in a tin. Every possible inch of this boat is covered by a passenger’s body or their typically eclectic luggage. Some people have sacks of rice, some have suitcases, others have baskets full of tiny fish and one is even clinging to a bed headboard and frame. There must be 50 people on board this vessel. In normal circumstances it would have a capacity of maybe eight or 10. Most of them are asleep, no doubt having boarded when the boat arrived hours before. They cringe and shield their eyes when our torch beam hits them so I switch it off again, leaving us with only the light of the stars.

Someone calls out something that includes the word wazungu. Passengers groan and reluctantly retract an extended leg or roll onto their side until there is enough room for us to squeeze aboard. We realise that the inflated amount we paid for our passage will buy us no preferential treatment on this boat. The two of us have exactly enough space to sit on our backsides on the deck, knees up to our chests and bags clutched tightly in the darkness. The boat is sitting very low in the water, thanks to all the passengers and cargo. We can reach over and touch the sea from our seats. The boat floats around for another hour while the dinghy delivers more and more passengers. Somehow they all manage to get on. The outboard motor is finally started up with some vicious yanks of the cord at around 3 a.m. and we head out to sea. We are very uncomfortable. Our pampered western backsides are not accustomed to long periods sitting on hard wood and our limbs and joints are not flexible enough to be in such positions for any length of time. We concentrate on the beauty of our surroundings – the breathtaking night sky and its reflection on the gentle waves of the Indian Ocean. After all, the journey will only take three hours. Half an hour out to sea, the motor is cut and the sail hoisted. It’s an old-fashioned dhow sail with the distinctive Arabic shape and it puffs up elegantly as the wind catches it. The 50 or so people and their assorted sacks and suitcases and bed frames clearly weigh a lot and the bulwarks of the poor old boat are barely above the water line. Any time we hit a wave on the wrong angle, a good portion of it drenches those of us seated around the sides. After one or two of these, we are soaked through.

‘Are you all nuts?’ Jane asks me, ‘Sailing in a little boat on the open sea in complete darkness for four hours?’

I check my watch: 4.15 a.m. The distant lights of the African mainland still seem less distant than the distant lights of Zanzibar. Perhaps three hours was a bit optimistic. Wouldn’t it be funny, I ponder during a shivering moment with my head between my legs, if the sail and the outboard motor both broke? Ha! What would we do? There’s no mobile phone coverage out here, we’re a million miles from land in any direction and there is no safety equipment whatsoever on board, not even so much as a lifejacket. I guess we could all hang on to the wooden bed frame. On the positive side, the sea is very warm.

Shortly after I close this internal conversation and begin a much happier one involving a seafood buffet, a loud ripping sound from above jerks awake the sleeping passengers and causes panicked shouts among the crew. The sail has snapped off the masthead and torn. The crew lowers it to investigate. Even from where we sit in the dark it does not look good. But, serious though a ripped sail is, we still have the outboard motor. All heads turn to the back of the boat. The outboard motor guy pulls the string with a flourish. Nothing. Another tug. Nothing. A nervous smile then five more tugs in quick succession, this time with a little more desperation. Nothing.

The captain impatiently makes his way to the back of the boat and has a try. Tug. Tug. Tug. Still nothing. The frightened cries and uneasy attempts at humour have stopped. There is an eerie silence. We are swaying silently in the vast expanses of the Indian Ocean, an unlit, uncovered, overloaded old dhow with no lifeboats or lifejackets. Radio communication is many years away from this part of the world – no one on the shore knows where we are. It is the dead of night. We are past the point of no return but nowhere near the point of nearly there.

No longer propelled forward by anything, the boat is rocked by the heavy ocean waves. Left. Right. Left. Right. Gaining momentum on each tilt like a playground swing. People begin to shout to each other in Swahili. Children start to cry. No one is asleep now. At one point we lean so far to one side that we dip under the water line and the sea slurps in over the bulwarks, before the boat is hurled back the other way, splashing more water into the already wallowing boat. Two men are steadily bailing out but the ship’s only bucket cannot compete with the endless waves. I begin planning our post-capsize strategy and get as far as ‘scream for help.’ It was only a week or so ago, we learn later, that a dhow sunk in almost identical circumstances and all of its passengers drowned.

There is a call from the bow end – the sail has been patched up. Everyone watches anxiously as it is hoisted and attached to the mast. Any extra-strong gust of wind could tear it again beyond repair. I check my watch again – 4:30 a.m. I’m reminded of Einstein explaining his theory of relativity: ‘One minute spent talking to a pretty girl seems a very short time but one minute with your hand on a hot stove feels like forever. That’s relativity?

The sail holds out, although every gust of wind causes the mast to creak and everyone on board to hold their breath. The waves are strong out here and we continue to pitch from side to side. The antinausea pills we popped before getting on board are no match for this kind of situation. ‘I feel sick,’ groans Jane, who never feels sick. She twists as far as she can without kicking anyone and aims off the side of the boat. Her lack of gag reflex means she can’t produce anything more than some spit. I have more success when my turn comes. I point my head downwards but the ship is so low in the water that I don’t need to. Last night’s dinner of egg and chips is recognisable even in the dark as it floats out to sea. One portion of vomit doesn’t make a clean break from my mouth and ends up blowing into the shirt of the man downwind from me. He doesn’t even flinch.

Four hours in, it’s six o’clock and we don’t seem any closer to the glow of Zanzibar’s lights than we did two hours ago. The water continues to soak us and increase the layer of salt on our faces. We can’t lick our lips because they are covered in warm salt water and we can’t dry them with anything because everything is soaking wet. At around 7 a.m. it begins to get light, just as the drizzle starts. We hardly notice it. The man sitting next to – and I mean right next to – Jane has to pee. Without even standing up, he just slides the leg of his shorts up and relieves himself on the deck, letting out a little sigh of relief.

Still no sign of Zanzibar. The lights from the towns have gone out and the grey sky is blocking any view of land. We are both shivering from the wind on our wet clothes; our teeth are chattering. We have lost all sensation in our backsides and I start to get cramp in my legs. As we close in on Hour Six, we wonder what else could possibly go wrong. In our sleep-deprived, broken-spirited state, we think we can see the Pirates of the Caribbean on the horizon but it turns out to be just a lone fisherman beating the morning rush. We are thankful for small mercies. The sun that starts to push its way through the clouds is symbolic, the start of a new day, offering the possibility and hope of finally arriving somewhere. The faint view of some hills appears on the horizon. Either we have gone in a big circle and are heading back to Kipumbwe or we might, just possibly, be within sight of Zanzibar.

It is only another one-and-a-half hours before we make landfall at the small town of Mkokotoni. The boat drops anchor 30 metres from shore and a series of little metal dinghies race out to pick up passengers, at 100 shillings (about US$0.20) a head. There is a lot of push and shove to get on the first dinghy and we can’t blame people for being in a hurry to get off this thing. The man and woman who win the race quickly climb onto the dinghy but their haste causes it to capsize, bags and all. They flail around in the water, not sure which piece of baggage or floating item of clothing to retrieve first. We feel sorry for them, but our sympathies are not shared by the rest of the passengers, who howl with laughter, clutching their stomachs and pointing at the poor couple like schoolyard bullies. We feel sorriest for the dinghy ‘captain,’ who must now haul his upturned boat back to shore with the prolonged guffaws of the passengers ringing in his ears, knowing he won’t get any revenue from this boatload.

It’s 10 o’clock when we touch dry land: 27 hours since we slept; eight hours of sea-borne agony on a trip that had been described to us as three hours of romantic comfort. There will be time for recriminations later. Wet, cold, stiff and stunned, all we can think about is getting down to Stone Town, Zanzibar’s capital, and finding a hotel with a soft bed.

From its rocky inclines, ships speck ocean vistas as Doric columns dot villages scarcely trodden by tourists’ feet. Sculptures and sketches, pottery and frameworks flourish and flabbergast with romantic influences, inspired by revolutionary apotheosis and the Bronze Age born on the island of Crete.

Exposed to the masterful subtleties of true Greek design, Khajetoorian travelled east to west, north to south, beginning her inaugural interior design tour service on the medieval isle of Rhodes. There she was greeted by Orthodox and Catholic churches, The Palace of the Grand Master and Turkish structures, found in Rhodes’ Old Town, a medieval World Heritage site.

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She expanded her design collection with uniquely authentic decorative arts – vases, textiles and furniture – for clients yearning to peak their homes with Mediterranean culture. “Because Greek art is more simplified, more pure, you can create an airy atmosphere in your home, whether it’s formal or laid-back,” she explains.

Her know-how of a region where human woe originated was splashed with mythology and friendly chats with locals. She relished in the archaeological site of Lindos, a limestone-laden islet surrounded by beach and rock and remnants of the 1453 Ottoman Empire invasion.

On she went to the homeland of the Minoan civilization, to marvel at Crete’s Palace of Knossos. “To see the details of a palace built by hand and completed in 2,000 BC was invaluable to my imagination, to my understanding of grand architecture,” says Khajetoorian, her skin tanned; her hair sunkissed. Next was the caldera of Santorini, popular for its blue-domed churches as much as a  honeymoon destination, where the talent of local art explodes just as the archipelago of Santorini was formed – from a volcanic eruption. “Their pottery reflects the mythology and the Greek key, which is a sign of infinity,” says Khajetoorian.

Her journey continued with sightings of medieval monasteries, the Acropolis of Athens, Apollo temples, cherished citadels and gallery halls such as the newly opened Acropolis Museum. “To feel how structures were built with bare hands, to see the simple tools used to carve stone, was simply inspiring,” she says.

To book your spot on Marina Khajetoorian’s next architectural tour or schedule a consultation for your home, please contact her at:  www.mkinteriordesigns.ca, 905.832.9899