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!
www.catsa-acsta.gc.ca
www.aircanada.com

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

Starting in economy class, each seat features more surrounding space, deeper recline, and a 23-inch widescreen television with more than 1,000 channels of on-demand movies. “If you have a buddy or family member sitting on a different part of the aircraft, you can interact with them by telephone or play video games together,” says Emirates station maintenance manager John Barnard. For a little more of an elite feel, the A380’s second level is more than a step up, with deluxe services beginning in business class. Individual mini-bars and wireless touch screens accompany every flatbed seat, which folds on command. “There are a lot of Wi-Fi controls that allow you to access the privacy screen, seat functions, and massage feature,” Barnard says.

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The icing on the cake comes with an ultimate package in first class. Individual privacy suites flaunt a vanity table and wardrobe, separated by an electrically operated sliding door. An à-la-carte menu allows guests to choose from gastronomic treats like roasted lamb and salmon tartar. And for stroll-inclined flyers, a nearby cocktail lounge is equipped with an abundance of liqueurs and a personal bartender. But what makes Emirates the crown jewel of airlines is the A380’s exclusive shower spa. Private cabins allow passengers to bathe and shave 43,000 feet in the air, ensuring a squeaky-clean arrival.

Offering direct flights from Toronto to Dubai, Emirates has thought carefully about going the distance. The 550-tonne aircraft, with a wingspan wider than a football field, uses its size to circumvent turbulence and air noise. The result is an ultra-smooth, superbly comfortable ride.

www.emirates.com

Most  often enough, couples looking to celebrate their love escape to the warm climate and laid-back atmosphere of a tropical resort. But in my case, commemorating my wedding anniversary with my husband demanded a bit more adventure, mixed in with culture and fast-paced action set in the historically rich region of Tuscany. With that said, booking the ultimate vacation was easy – just by signing up for a touring vacation with Italy by Vespa, founded by Stanley and Patsy Gallery.

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Arriving in the sun-drenched city of Florence, we first settle in at Hotel Radda, where we rest our heads amidst the essence of 11th century architecture and impressive stone walkways. As we settle in for the first part of our trip, we admire the majestic view of the surrounding countryside, then quickly make our way to the Vespa orientation. While we do encounter scooter-challenged members in our group, after a little concentration and courtesy, all 16 of us Vespa enthusiasts are soon zooming around the picturesque town on our very first afternoon. The next day, we relocate just minutes away to Hotel Vignale, still in the heart of Tuscany. The refined hotel boasts carefully restored craftsmanship and ancient architectural features.

Every morning, our group gathers in anticipation, for an exciting new day of endless discoveries. As we speed along winding roads to our next destination, there’s plenty to admire: vineyards bearing some of the world’s finest grapes, stately lines of towering cypress trees, silvery-green olive groves, and fields of swaying, crimson poppies. Not just a wine-producing region, Chianti bursts with Romanesque churches, hamlets and castles, which still bare witness to the area’s history and culture. Each village we travel through is embellished with clusters of fragrant and colourful flowers. The floral scent floods our noses, and our eyes widen to capture and remember the picture-perfect terrain.

As our adrenaline is in full swing with every turn on our Vespa, the sound of scooters cuts through the wind. We all can’t help but laugh out loud as we zoom by on our fiery red Vespas, which catch the attention of curious locals.

Each day brings a new finding. We visit Il Borro estate, the medieval hamlet that since 1993, has been restored by the fashion-saavy Ferragamo family. Travellers can rent a villa, discover hidden local artisans’ shops and dine as we did at L’Osteria Del Borro, on a terrace overlooking the medieval village. Apart from Italy’s masterworks, the one thing I miss the most is the extraordinary flavour of the locally grown food: lush tomatoes, salty prosciutto, savoury goat cheese, and more. Every day, we indulge in meals that are five or six courses long. Most meals begin with simply displayed antipasti, including bruschetta, pecorino cheese dripped with honey, and an array of cured meats. At the Michelin-starred restaurant La Bottega del 30, we participate in the art of food preparation, helping to create fresh homemade noodles, tossed in diced tomato and a scintillating sauce of porcini mushroom. More than that, you can’t go to Tuscany without trying the classic cinghiale (wild boar), which is a favourite amongst Tuscans in every restaurant. After every satisfying feast, we find ourselves lingering around the table, sipping Vin Santo, a source of great pride for Tuscans. Chilled limoncello and grappa also make it to the table, to cleanse our palate and restore our senses.

During the rest of our week-long trip, we embark on guided wine tours through some of the most distinguished wineries. This is where we taste, indulge, discuss – not drink – wine made from San Giovese grapes, each glass accompanied by cheese or bread. Next on our list, we fulfill all of our guilty pleasures by slipping through the doors of the only Prada outlet store in Montevarchi, lunch at the 13th century-built Castello di Verrazzano, and a walk through the awe-aspiring Duomo in Siena.

Italy by Vespa successfully takes you past stunning panoramas, lively town squares, authentic gelato shoppes, quiet chapels and every Italian extravagance you can conjure. An adventure of a lifetime, the sweet sound of a scooter or the taste of Chianti Classico on my lips, always transports me back to that fabulous Tuscan voyage. Cin Cin!

www.italybyvespa.com

No matter where you spend it, a run-of-the-mill beach vacation is loosing its allure. With physical activity and eco-awareness on the rise, people are seeking new routes when it comes to the ultimate getaway. It’s a trend that’s picking up speed, as travellers combine bicycling with voyages to distant lands, provided by first-rate tour companies.

Whether you seek to explore the Hawaiian volcanoes or venture along Croatia’s Dalmation Coast, Backroads can help. As one of the world’s largest active travel companies, Backroads specializes in feature bike tours all over the globe. “I simply can’t imagine a better way to immerse yourself in the life of a region; to explore hidden corners and appreciate nuances while travelling under your own power,” says founder and president Tom Hale. Since the company’s first biking trips 30 years ago, Backroads now offers a variety of exotic getaways, including excursions to the Incan town of Ollantaytambo in Peru and the Chorten Nebu Monastery in Bhutan.

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The spirit of exploration is a key driving force behind another expedition leader like Discover France. When it comes to cycling, clients quickly discover it’s the business’ savoir-faire. Featuring self-guided bike tours throughout the country, Discover France provides a full network of local expertise and support to make every trip a pleasurable escape. Travellers can pedal back in time and visit the beaches of Normandy, once invaded by Allied forces in the Second World War. For the royal-minded, outings to the Loire Valley’s many Renaissance-era castles promises a majestic experience. Recognized by publications like Maison de la France, the company remains one of Europe’s pristine providers of adventurous retreats.

The best of both worlds comes together when explorers discover Pedal and Sea Adventures. An ultimate cycling quest unfolds with the company’s imaginative guided bike and cooking tours in Atlantic Canada and Europe. “You’ll encounter camaraderie, fresh air, great cuisine, wonderful inns, and if you’re lucky – wildlife, too,” says founder and co-owner Dana Gallant. Destinations include the snow-capped Canadian Rockies, complete with pines, elk and mountain goats. “Of course, our most challenging tours are the Viking Trail in Newfoundland and the Cabot Trail in Cape Breton,” Gallant says. For buccaneers seeking extra European flair, Pedal and Sea offers tours through Galway – Ireland’s cultural heart – and Sicily, a haven of Greek temples and Phoenician ruins.

With a never-ending list of places yet to be explored, the Earth remains an open field of adventure.

www.backroads.com
www.discoverfrance.com
www.pedalandseaadventures.com