Jan/Feb 2011

e c l e c t i c a  
t r a v e l


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Honeymoon with Kate
I'd wanted to elope to avoid the scripted orgy of excess that weddings usually become, but Kate swore our wedding would be different. Our friend Matt whom she broke up with in fifth grade because he winked at her in the cafeteria, and who grew up to become a beer-drinking Justice of the Peace, married us on the beach at Rye, New Hampshire.
Scott Cohen


Death Camp Tours
Some places have an atmosphere, an aura, which is more vague and yet more pressing than an association, which cannot be seen or photographed, and yet which hangs over the name, long before (and long after) the actual physical world, the phenomenal outrage, impresses itself on the senses. Associations are easier to identify, file and forget about, because they are personal and temporary, prone to ageing and refurbishment.
Piers Michael Smith


Finding Hannah in Budapest
Peter ordered dinner for us: jokai bean soup, chicken paprikas, and dobostorta, a delicate sponge cake layered with rich chocolate cream and crunchy caramel. Biting into the dobostorta, I remembered sitting on a raft in Lake Velden when I was ten years old. My father looked at the Austrians eating and drinking lakeside, and said, "Ah, Austria and Hungary. Life mit schlag—life with whipped cream."
Loren Stephens


One Man's Paradise is Another Man's Beer
I'm really reluctant to borrow anyone's car for a trip to the Andes. "But it's in perfect shape," she boasts. And, yes, it does seem to be humming along nicely, over our dark mountain to Maracay at five in the morning, along the quick run to Valencia, through the building morning traffic to San Carlos and across the open cattle country of Los Llanos. But after eight hours, now climbing into the foothills of the Andes, the perfect Toyota begins to overheat.
William Reese Hamilton


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