If you’re visiting Vancouver and the sheer sense of city life starts to wear you down after a while, flee up north for a soothing retreat. That is to say, enjoy a good deal of repose — and green — at the Capilano Suspension Bridge.
It’s not something you can indulge in every day, certainly — admission rates are at least CAD$25, depending on the season — but it’s definitely a must-see, and you should certainly enjoy it at least once while you’re in the area (and if you live within Greater Vancouver, well, you really have no excuse not to go a few more times).
To get there: Take the Seabus from Waterfront Station to get to North Vancouver, that grab the #236 bus to Grouse Mountain (check the Translink website for schedules).
A few tips:
View for the strong. The landscape steals your breath away as you gain a whole new respect for Mother Nature, but keep in mind that the Capilano Suspension Bridge isn’t for the tender-hearted. If you’re afraid of heights, this must-see is a strong mustn’t, and if you’re prone to motion sickness, be warned that the bridge does sway slightly with every step (the more people on it, the more it sways, so going in large groups will definitely not make it feel any better).
Ladies, leave your heels at home. Flats are the only kind of footwear you’d want to venture forth with here, and not just because of the obvious reason of crossing the bridge. If you want to venture down the Cliffhanger Boardwalk — and believe me, you won’t want to miss it — one end consists of a path made up entirely of loose stones, at a slightly steep angle. You’ll want to be able to plant your foot down sturdily.
Come out with the sun. Clear, sunny days are the best times to visit, not just because of the bright blue sky and crisp air adds to the view, but also because the bridges and platforms are slippery when wet. Certain paths and walkways may also be closed for safety reasons then, so make sure you don’t go on damp days if you want to make the most of your experience.
After crossing the main suspension bridge, you can engage your inner Ewok by going on the Treetops Adventure. One may feel that after crossing the suspension bridge the first time round, these mini-bridges don’t really feel that high off the ground. But there’s no denying the view as you make your way through. There are signs all over that provide fascinating tidbits about the forest, such as the various types of trees growing. or the fact that the platforms around the trees have to be adjusted every several years to accommodate the trees’ growth.
After walking high above the ground, through a canopy of trees that are many generations older than you, you’ll leave feeling refreshed and content, knowing that there’s not much a city can do to take you down after this. I know I did.
To travel is to expect much of the places you visit; to move to one of these places is to expect much of yourself.
— Mark Jenkins, “Leap Year”, The Best American Travel Writing 2005
My whole life, I’ve always been going. Just going. Sometimes it’s a small distance — growing up in an oil palm plantation, the mere act of grocery shopping required a family-planned excursion to town. Sometimes it spans oceans — at age 19, I hopped off a plane onto US soil and stuck around since.
I’ve been traveling since before I can even remember. Literally — my brothers and I were born in three opposite ends of the country. By the time I was in primary school, my family were making regular weekend trips to Singapore. Every year until I departed for college, we joined other families on three-day ventures to various destinations, chattering on tour buses while some brave soul with a microphone in front attempted to keep order.
People have asked if I ever get homesick for Malaysia. No, not really. I may get a really intense hankering for mutton soup, spicy rendang, mihun goreng, and especially roti canai with some good chicken curry — hey, what can I say? Food is key — but the truth is, I’m so accustomed to traveling that I couldn’t imagine anything else. In fact, “anything else” would equal cabin fever. One of the most agonizing years of my life was when I was not able to travel at all. Now that drove me stark raving mad.
Of course, that doesn’t mean it was any less of an enterprise for this Malaysian girl to get used to brutal Midwestern winters. We’re talking born and bred in the tropics, after all.
But now it’s time to move on again, and this time, it’s even further north. Yes, the irony of that strikes me too. I will be pulling up stakes, packing all my worldly belongings, and moving to Vancouver, Canada.
The last time I made such a major life move was ten years ago. I’ve accumulated quite a whole lot since then, both in terms of physical belongings and actual experiences. As time goes by, I’ll be sharing my adventures, tips on the process, and learned lessons on such a move. Watch for ‘em.
Because traveling isn’t always something short-term and limited; sometimes it’s a way of life.
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You don’t have to visit museums or art galleries in order to get a feel for the local culture. Sometimes all it takes is a trip to the market to find a true representation of the people and their lifestyles. An afternoon stroll through a pasar (market) in rustic Kota Bahru was a prime example of this, as I found out.
Onward, to the pictorial tour!
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This week, we feature an article by guest writer Emily Ding, who traveled to Stromboli, Italy. Emily notes of Stromboli: “‘Bigger than my body,’ John Mayer sang. Indeed. It was an exhilarating feeling, like standing on top of the world. Originally written on June 12, 2006 and edited for clarity upon return.”
I’m currently lazing around on Stromboli island, which is one of the islands of the Aeolian group above the Sicilian mainland. My two travelmates (Jo + CH) and I, we’ve been trying to kill time the whole day, pretty unsuccessfully. We’ve been in Stromboli since yesterday and we’ve basically seen most of everything we needed to see, but because the cheapest option to Naples is a 10 pm ferry tonight (which will get us there in the morning) we have to spend a whole day here, doing just about nothing. It’s rather painstaking, to be honest. It’s such a small town that we’ve walked the same route at least three times, and seen the same people over and over, even gone to the same café twice.
I bet all of the residents are gossiping about “those three Japanese kids.” Though of course we’re not Japanese, but everyone thinks we are.
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This week, we feature an article by guest writer Sabrina Gaylor, who traveled to Iceland this past summer. Here she shares the mesmerizing sights of her visit.
Lupine by Akureyri |
As amazing as Iceland is, it’s just one of those countries that gets overlooked or bypassed for more traditional vacation spots. I had the good luck of getting a chance to tour the country this summer, which I jumped at because the global warming crisis means that Iceland may not be the same in the future. My tour guide told the group as we passed Vatnajökull, the majestic largest glacier in Europe, that it was receding at a steady rate and soon would be gone.
Even if Iceland is just the white-outlined dot on the map next to Greenland, it turned out to be a much more diverse country than I’d thought. Reykjavik itself was very hip and urban, but close enough to the water and to national parks that it was possible to get away. The rest of the country was filled with bleak, endless, rocky plains and fields of moss-covered lava, volcanoes, eerily blue lakes, small villages nestled in between the mountains, and hillsides covered in waterfalls and lambs. At some points, we drove over unbridged rivers.
But there are perils of traveling through very rural areas.
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I slid up the ramp of the I-35 toll road, pausing briefly to catch the ticket the cheerful, blue-shirted man held out the window of the toll booth. My stomach gurgled, complaining about the Mickey D’s double cheeseburger I’d ingested half an hour prior. The underthigh of my right leg was cramping, and a dull ache knotted at the base of my neck unless I rolled my shoulders every three minutes or so, making me look like someone out of a Richard Simmons workout. Or a reject from a Ricky Martin music video.
Ah, road-tripping. That maddening, perilous, oh-so-traditional pastime of Labor Day weekend. Like a dutiful sister-slash-sister-in-law, I was headed to the heart of Kansas to visit my brother and his wife for the holiday.
The first CD I ever bought was Shawn Colvin’s A Few Small Repairs, which I listened faithfully to until I accidentally left it on the TGV to Paris. Track eight was a song called “Wichita Skyline,” and while I had not yet then been to the Great Plains, I was captivated by the wistfulness of the lyrics coupled with her throaty-yet-little-girlish voice.
And then I moved to the Great Plains, and took a road trip to Colorado, and as the flat, flat land unrolled on every side, I crunched myself into the back seat, horrified, expecting tumbleweeds to blow across the road at any second. Yes, what I had been forewarned about was true—driving across Kansas was about as exciting as watching toast being made.
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One powerful site in Paris is also one of its most unassuming, at least from the outside. A passer-by might easily overlook the small patch of land partially hidden by hedges as he or she hurries off to Notre Dame, which is a mere stone’s throw away. But the Mémorial de la Déportation, located at the edge of Ile de la Cité, is far more compelling than one could expect.
The memorial, dedicated to French victims and survivors of the Holocaust, actually lies at a lower level, down some steps from the little park above. I had arrived during the lunch-break hour, so I waited at the park for the memorial to reopen. I initially wasn’t even sure I was at the right place, despite having read the small sign by the even smaller gate. I had expected to find a skinny black brick building, inside of which would be lined with pictures of the Holocaust and some placards of history. With its lovely, serene view of blue skies and the surrounding Seine, this park above—and whatever waited below—was at odds with that image.
Just before the steps is a signboard for visitors, describing the history and purpose of the memorial. I read it as I waited. A row of triangles, consisting of various styles and color, lined the bottom of the sign. One has to be truly stoic of heart not to feel a lump in the throat on reading the meaning of each triangle, and to whom each symbol is sewn on to: German Jews, French Jews, homosexuals, stateles persons, gypsies, Jehovah’s Witnesses, anti-socials, “deviants”. . . .
Those who don’t, according to some definition, “belong.”
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Centre Belge de la Bande Dessinée Rue des Sables 20 1000 Bruxelles +32 (0)2 / 219.19.80 http://www.cbbd.be |
It’s always seemed to me that European comics have a more tangible “feel” to them, in comparison with American comics. Not that it’s any surprise—after all, here comics are called the Ninth Art, lauded and studied in its own right. In Brussels, comic shops abound with gorgeous graphics and visceral images, not as something for “nerds” but as something to be marveled at for its artistry.
Well, I have to admit I’m a little biased, myself. . . .
Nevertheless, it goes without saying that the Centre Belge de la Bande Dessinée—Brussels’s very own Comic Strip Art Museum—was a definite must-see for Tonje and I when we invaded the city last week. Stepping in, we were greeted by a red-and-white rocket from Hergé’s Tintin: Destination Moon, while a five-foot-tall Asterix model beamed from inside a glass case.
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If I could keep but one memory of the Abbey of Pontlevoy, it would be this:
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When I sat down for breakfast on my first morning in Paris, Brigitte fanned a heaped collection of brochures and coupons on the dining table. “Do you know where you want to go?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,“ I said, and immediately launched into a whole stream of locations. Well, more of a gushing torrent than a stream, I should amend. I knew exactly where I wanted to visit and what activities I wanted to indulge in, complete with preferred order and ideal time, not to mention grouped by arrondissement.
(I would love to tell you that I’m far more casual now, but a few days ago Tonje took a look at my list of Belgian must-see’s and responded, “Good lord, woman. You do know we’re only going to be there for a week, right?”)
One place I knew I did not want to go was the Eiffel Tower. I know it’s the very symbol of the city—and it was rather charming to watch it buzz with flickering blue light from my bedroom window at night—but it was more than a little too touristy for me. Visiting a sight just for the sake of saying you have is fulfilling an obligation to others, I think, instead of to yourself.
Still, I wanted to get a panoramic view of Paris. One option was a hot-air balloon ride I had learned about.
“The hot-air balloon is tied to the ground the whole time,” Brigitte broke the news to me. “But if you want a 180-degree view of the city,” — she pulled out one of the brochures on the table, a twinkle in her eye, and laid the brochure beside my plate of pain au chocolat — “you should go to the Samaritaine department store.”
Located at the very heart of the city, I learned, right next door to the Louvre and facing the River Seine, La Samaritaine lets you do some old-fashioned shopping, but more importantly, lets you view Paris all you want from its rooftop. All for free.
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