Adventure of the month

Iceland and Natural Beauty. The two go hand in hand like Bey and Jay. Like Brad and Angie. Like Bert and Ernie. From the moment you step off the plane in Keflavik, you are struck by how dramatically gorgeous the surrounding landscape can be. If it happens to be June and you are not bundled into 17 wooly layers and are not tearing up against the harsh winds every time you step outside, you enjoy it all the more. My most recent visit was during the "summer". I use quotes around the word "summer" because the Icelandic average "summer" temperature is in the mid-fifties. This is remarkably similar to Miami's "winter". Mind you, this is way better than their usual climate, which is somewhere in the range of apocalyptic freeze and "Why can't I feel my toes?"  But what Mother Nature takes away in beach days, she more than makes up for in other ways.

Knock, knock Who's there? Four days off in Martinique Four days off in Martinique who? Four days off in Martinique at the very same time that my good friend's husband, a born and bred Martinican?/ Martinese?/ Martini?/ On the rocks?/ Shaken not stirred? (Note: ask Sebastien what exactly his people are called) is there to celebrate his mother's 60th birthday. That's not a joke.  That's just you bragging about an incredible stroke of luck. And if you would just spend 2 seconds googling, you would know that Martiniquais is the preferred answer. What's that, fictional construct that I created in my head?  I can't hear you over this jamming soca music.  And hey, since you are over there, could you pass me the sunscreen?

Back in the days when I was a bored law student, longing to get out of my small college town, I got wind of the possibility of a summer study-abroad program. I would pay for the credit hours and flight and the University would take care of my room and board. There were three options. Belize, London or Yugoslavia. Belize held the promise of beaches, which I had in ample supply back home. The London program, at Oxford I believe, was rumored to require actual studying.  Nope. I knew next to nothing about Yugoslavia. Couldn’t have pointed it out on a map if I’d been asked but this program was led by a favored professor, a notorious good time guy who liked to throw extravagant parties at his home. (extravagant, at that time meant that he used actual glassware and provided beers from actual bottles and not whatever keg was on sale at Mike’s Beer Barn). Additionally, word had trickled down to us about how cheap everything was, words that sing loving harmonies to broke college stude...

Regular readers (hi Sans, Roly and Yale)may have noticed that this blog has been silent for the last few months. Others, (hi, people who have stumbled upon this page whilst googling the importance of size and are now sorely disappointed) will see that thanks to the magic of back-dating everything is business as usual. To both groups, I apologize. Anyhoo, last time I checked in, I was in Munich for five days, drinking beer in quantities that led me to believe that buying a dirndl was a good idea. Fortunately, I did not have the space in my bag for the five underskirts and push-up bra the outfit requires, so a change of scenery was in order. As luck (and basic geography) would have it, there was also a country I had not been to a mere 2.5 hour drive away. Thus it was decided, we were going to Liechtenstein. Situated in the Alps,  somewhere between Austria and Switzerland, the world's sixth smallest country (it's only 62 square miles) promised, if nothing else, a really ...

Fifteen years ago, I had the good fortune of going to one of Europe's booziest cities at the peak of its drinky drunkenness.  More specifically, that would be Munich on the opening day of Oktoberfest.  From the moment the first keg was ceremoniously tapped (noon-ish?) until the wee hours of that evening, my friend Michelle and I swung heavy tankards to and fro, all whilst becoming increasingly proficient in the art of German drinking songs.  As we stumbled from tent to tent, I remember trying to find something non-meatlike that I could eat.  The sole menu item available to me was the giant pretzel. I must have had at least a half dozen in a misguided attempt to somehow soak up all the alcohol that was coursing through my system. That day was as messy as it was fun.  Falling asleep on the train and ending up in the wrong part of the country the next day...not so much.  But we survived it and had a story to tell...but not a single non-ale related photo to...

There are times when friends, colleagues or perhaps chatty strangers compliment me on my photos. I love that. I've always wanted to take a photography class, but that- along with those French and sushi-making classes- tend to get pushed aside to some vague undefined future date. In the meantime, those pictures aren't going to take themselves, so I have to make do. In order to get maximum results with minimum training, there are a couple of tricks that I employ. First of all, I carry a camera, a Canon Powershot SX20is. This should seem fairly obvious but we now live in an era where Apple, Samsung et al have convinced people that phones= cameras. They don't. A phone will do when you absolutely positively have to get a photo of your Spaghetti Bolognese because, man oh man, that Olive Garden is off the chain but if you are in the middle of the Serengeti, trying to capture the majesty of a pride of lions with your iPhone5s, I am going to mock you two ways. Loudly and of...

I have always had mixed feelings about Salt Lake City. In my very limited experience, I have found it to be an interesting study in contrast.  One look around and you find a city with magnificent mountain vistas and a proximity to some of the country's most spectacular national parks but to get to them you have to run the gauntlet of all these seemingly lobotomized women who refer to each other as Sister-so-and-so and are very intent on getting your home address. It would be easy to infer that they were escaped inmates from a nearby asylum, but they are not.  They are Mormons and they want to make more Mormons. Salt Lake City is a beautiful place but the heavy hand of the Mormon Church always manages to creep me out a bit. How heavy is the hand? The city itself is built around the well-maintained yet still slightly off-putting Temple Square (home to the largest concentration of loboto-sisters)... but like literally built around it.  If someone gives you the address 3...