A-friend-of-a-friend stabbed me in my wanderer's heart recently with a comment that was something like, "Hawaii... I dont get it... it's just sand and palm trees, like Florida."
I sputtered as I tried to keep my composure and restrain from launching into a diatribe about the differences between the two tropical retreats.
OK, it's true that both of these disparate locations offer soft white sands laden with beautiful greased bodies soaking in the sun, and palms that rustle when breezes flow in from the omnipresent oceans. But that's where the similarities (exquisite as they might be) stop. To say these locations are the same is to say that rock and classical music are the same by virtue of the fact that they share a world of tone and pitch. Would anyone believe that a hamburger from McDonald's can be mistaken for a steak au poivre from Le Bec Fin, simply because they share the parentage of beef?
The difference between Hawaii and Florida is like the difference between the sun and the moon (two solar bodies), or between red and blue (both primary colors) or even between man and woman (two delightfully companionable but decidedly different human forms).
Florida: Think oranges and boiled peanuts, flat land, water skis and jet skis, alligators, Everglades, trendy South Beach, kitschy inner Miami, Disney characters, retired Northerners, mainland culture.
Hawaii: Think plumeria blossoms and sweet pineapple, volcanic mountains jutting up from the sea, surfboards and outrigger canoes, sea turtles, Diamond Head, Wakiki juxtaposed to downtown Honolulu, hula dancers, adventurous relocaters, the spirit of Aloha.
Florida is a wonderful escape from northern chill; Hawaii is a wonderful escape from the mediocrity of life. Florida is a Spring Break romp; Hawii is a visit into heaven itself.
I understand that some people "go on vacation" while other people "travel." The difference lies in discovering what rests beneath the surface --- it is not sand or palm trees or four-star hotels that suggest the personality of a destination. Rather it is found in the culture, the traditions, the languages, the dress, the history, the hopes and dreams of indigenous people, the pride and sorrow they maintain and overcome. It is always, for me, the personal discoveries that cause me to love an island, a city, a state, a country.... And just as I love two friends for the individuals that they are, so do I love Florida and Hawaii--- for their completely different character and willingness to transport me to two vastly contrasting worlds.
Final note: Last time I referenced free air travel. And one of my blog readers (and I don't have many!!!) asked me how I did it. That trick was accomplished by opening a Southwest Airlines credit card which offered enough bonus points as an incentive to qualify the recipient (me) for a free trip! Nice! Will I go to Florida, or Hawaii, or..................

So..... here it is just after 9 p.m. on Thanksgiving night. I've had my fill of turkey and wine and wonderful conversation.... so I check the blog to see how many thousands of people have added comments to my personal little publishing empire.

Eegads! Noone new has said a word. Not a single syllable. I have the same 6 comments I had yesterday (and a hearty thanks to each of you). I've mentioned it to friends and they glaze over.... "Yeah, great, a blog...." is what they are thinking in an internal deadpan tone so loud that even I can hear it! One friend, a fellow writer, opened it and then -- upon seeing more than 50 words -- read the first paragraph and the last paragraph and condescendingly pronounced, "Oh , that was nice." (You know who you are!! Laughter included here. Wish this came with sound effects.) Another person told me this is "good therapy" for me! And still another conveniently "lost" the web address..... Oh sure, and I still believe the world is flat!

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Blogging does demand a sense of humor!

Maybe when I tell you how I got a free roundtrip plane ticket last week with just 10 minutes of effort you'll pay attention. Maybe you'll even write back.

Maybe.
But I won't hold my breath.

Think "Calgon" is simply dish detergent? Think again.

Calgon is a "he" -- John, actually-- and he is "legendary" for his freakishly complete packing list. I discovered him, or more correctly his Ultimate Packing List (known among travel junkies as simply the UPL) on a cruises-only message board.

(Calgon, by the way, has thrived on message boards and even met his wife, Sunflower Star, by way of cyber surfing. It's been smooth sailing ever since, as he tells it. )

Calgon's UPL first came to my attention in 1999 and I promptly made a copy of the list as I readily admit that I am among the "packing-challenged." I come by this disability genetically -- my mother taught me a long time ago that if packing one cocktail dress is good, then packing 12 must be exponentially better! And shoes! Nine pairs (still in single digits, mind you) seemed within reason!

On a cruise to the Mediterranean in my youth, I recall sitting in a public lounge on board American Export Lines' S.S. Constitution (the same ship seen in the classic movie "An Affair to Remember" and the one that carried Grace Kelly of Philadelphia to Europe when she married a young Prince Rainier and became Princess Grace of Monaco...)

The conversation in the lounge was between two ample, prissy women seated side-by-side sipping afternoon tea and nibbling the requisite crumbly cake. They were discussing a shipboard rumor about "some woman who came onboard with 21 suitcases, and still left all of her husband's clothes at home!"

That was no rumor -- that was my mother! In fairness to her, those suitcases held the "essentials" (evening gowns, bathing suits, hairdryers, perfumes, creams, unmentionables, and shoes, shoes, shoes) necessary for a woman as well as her two emerging-into-young-womanhood daughters. Somehow in our haste to depart from Philadelphia to make the drive to the Hudson River pier in New York City, one hang-up garment bag containing my father's clothing had been left on the back of a closet door. That precious, unperturbed man borrowed bits of clothing from fellow passengers along the way, and all was well -- although I recall that at one formal night he had to wear sandals with a white tuxedo because he hadn't found anyone willing to give up dress shoes. And as he had no button studs to close up his shirt, I remember sharing gales of laughter with my dad as I SEWED up the front of his gaping formalwear.

If only Calgon had been around in those days..... We surely would have packed duct tape to seal up the seams of that shirt!

Oh yes, duct tape is Calgon's number one must-pack item. He never goes anywhere without it! He closes gaping cabin curtains with it (and mentions that the Caribbean sun can be soooo bright on a morning when you might be suffering a hangover), tapes over overly drafty air conditioning vents in staterooms, fixes Sunflower Star's drooping hemlines with it.... Calgon would NEVER forget the duct tape!!

With permission from Calgon himself, I hereby give you the link to his website and his looney but inventive, totally comprehensive packing lists --- one for warm climates, one for cool climates, and more. Oh, one more note: Calgon told me just yesterday that he is now working on a UPL which will comply with the newest airline regulations and will be ready this month. So you may want to bookmark him. Or better yet, write his web address on a chunk of duct tape and slap it onto your forehead!


You can find the master of luggage packing at
http://www.geocities.com/Calgon1/Ultimate_Packing_List.html

I came to an appreciation of exploring the world at the tender age of 4. Trust me, travel is not wasted on one so young. Give a child her first journey into the global unknown, and she'll remember it her entire lifetime.

It was then that I took my first ocean voyage, on a "tin crate" called the Queen of Nassau. My "stateroom" was nothing more than a canvas sling for a bed, with a wool blanket thrown across a rope to form a door for this makeshift compartment. I shared the quarters with my father while my sister and mother had similar accommodations just one blanket away.

It was still the dawning side of the 1960s and we were headed from Miami, Fla., to the still-primitive and under-developed island of Nassau. We were going for two reasons: To visit the straw market and buy impossibly unwearable hats and purses woven from dried palms, and to see Blind Blake, a native performer whose name was Blake and who was (any guesses?...) blind.

On the first night onboard ship, I was allowed to wander from stern to bow with my sister -- two years my senior, so what trouble could possibly befall us? Armed with a roll of pennies and a roll of nickels, we were quite sure we could afford any luxury the ship might allow. However, we stumbled upon an unexpected thrill when we found the saloon.

Think of a Wild West saloon, if you will, because this was similar in kind ---smoky, dingy, men playing cards at small tables, women with preposterous makeup slurping down cocktails, and a man hammering out music on a single steel drum. Then, much to the delight of two little girls, there was also an unfathomable machine -- a one-armed bandit -- beckoning from the corner of the room.

A kindly gent explained to us that if we put our nickels into the hungry machine's gaping slot, we might magically turn one nickel into two. Being the younger and more naive of our twosome, I plugged my nickels in as fast as I could, watched little windows of fruit spin and turn, and walked away with nothing at all.

But my sister had a different experience. On the fourth nickel, the machine lit up like a Christmas tree... bells sounded, lights flashed and the bandit began spitting nickels at us in a fury we could never have imagined. It was like a peanut scramble, as five-cent pieces rolled across a makeshift dance floor. And every time the ship lurched, the coins would shift direction. As we ran and giggled and gathered our winnings, the hardened crowd softened and applauded and laughed and helped us find our coins.

We were tired tots the next day as we went to hear Blind Blake perform something new -- "calypso" music. And when we returned to our little ship, we thought it quite odd that the entire island had turned out at the pier to bid the two young gamblers farewell. There was a marching band, and there were school children, and police in dress uniforms marching in formation. There was music, and shots fired into the air, and a grand red carpet leading to the gangway.

And then there was a dose of reality.

None of this was for the two little girls from Pennsylvania! It was, instead, a salute to the Duke and Duchess of Windsor who were sailing with us back to the States. Of course, at such an age as I was, I couldn't imagine what could be so captivating about a man who gave up the throne of England just to marry an American divorcee. Indeed, I had never even heard of Dukes and Duchesses! I only knew that I was delighted that they had managed to cause such a colorful commotion.

That evening in the shipboard dining room, the D&D were seated in a corner all to themselves, while other passengers stretched their necks to get a glimpse of displaced royalty. As for myself, I was much more interested in the fact that rough seas caused our dinner plates to slide right across the surface of the table and to drop (crash!) right onto the floor! What heaven this sailing experience was for a wide-eyed child!

As we pulled into the port of Miami the next morning, I had my first "Loveboat"-like experience, right along the rail of that aging Queen of Nassau. A rascalian "older" boy --- age 5 or 6 I would estimate -- wanted to give me a remembrance of our brief meeting on board the vessel. Out from his pocket he pulled the gift: a 5-inch long stick, meticulously wrapped in waxed paper and bound with string.

A strange thing to give a girl, I said. But better than a frog...

He instructed me to unwrap it and take it to my lips. And never one to turn away from what may have been an imprudent suggestion, I did just as he commanded. "Take a bite," he said.
And again I followed orders.

Then and there I tasted the sweet, raw, intense juice of sugar cane, just cut from a Bahamian field. And in my innocent acceptance of an awkward gift, I drank in a memory that would last a lifetime. And I would never forget......

When I was 18 years old, I met Deborah. She was a kindred spirit who would eventually become my college roommate, a partner in innocent "crime," a patient heart --- a special friend. But little did she know that when I first met her, the one thing I noticed most of all was her gorgeous pink suitcase. It was a big, vivid, luscious watermelon pink trunk in which to pack up the world, or at least an Italian bathing suit... or Paris-inspired evening gown ... or -- more likely-- faded jeans to wear on some imagined trek to the ends of the world.

Debbie and I dreamed of places we'd see, and people we'd meet in that infinite space called "sometime." Some of those dreams came to fruition, others are still waiting to be realized. But one thing is true: I do have my own pink suitcase... and as I travel or experience the world in some way that seems unique, I offer a companion ticket to anyone who ventures into this space. Together we'll explore the Pacific islands, some languid Caribbean corner or the exquisite elegance of Europe -- if we're lucky; the neighborhoods of Philadelphia or New York -- if our budget falls short; or merely the longings of my heart -- which will lead us to places as yet still undisclosed.

To the world-at-large I admit, this is my virgin blog. So be kind...