TRAVEL THERE: SAN ANTONIO – MY FAVORITE TRAVEL DESTINATION

If someone asked, “If you could choose only one city to visit for the rest of your life,” what would it be?  I’ve seen major capitals in Europe, ridden a camel in Egypt and enjoy big American cities like New York, but I love San Antonio, Texas again and again and again.

Of course, I enjoy the Riverwalk, but the river’s not San Antonio’s most important attraction.  My first piece of advice is, “Don’t miss the Marion Koogler McNay Art Museum.”  The art alone is worth a visit, but the real reason to go is the courtyard.  The home housing the museum was designed in the late 1920’s, but in my imagination I can see caballeros and senoritas from an earlier era dancing in the moonlight.

Visit El Mercado.  You’ll want to experience the exhilaration of hard bargaining for a carved agate donkey, but don’t spend all your money there, because the art galleries outside have wonderful treasures and you’ll want to enjoy a pastry at Mi Tierra, too.

Thinking of museums again, I recommend The Institute of Texan Cultures, a fascinating cross section of artifacts from many ethnicities.  Another lovely museum is the San Antonio Museum of Art.  It’s divided into two parts.  On the left side of the large lobby is ancient art from pretty much every civilization you could name and a few that would surprise you.  The other side is supposed to be contemporary art, but I can’t testify to that, because I always wear out my companions before we get there.

But what about the Alamo?  Well, certainly you should go there if it’s your first visit, but it doesn’t beckon me back every time I enter San Antonio.  The famous missions are another story.  If at all possible, I plan my visit to include a Sunday,to attend the Mariachi Mass at Mission San Jose.  Even if you’re not religious at all, you shouldn’t miss it.  You’ll be amazed to see people from all over the world and every walk of life, but more importantly, when the musicians begin to play, hair will stand up on the back of your neck and your heart will beat in tempo.  First timers should obediently follow the Mission Trail, but no matter how many times I return, I love to go to the remote missions at the far end of the trail and walk among the ribs of edifices which only whisper of their past.

I’ve only scratched the surface of San Antonio.  You should see La Villita and the hip gathering place created out of the old Pearl Brewery.  You should hop aboard VIA’s downtown streetcars, have dinner on a Casa Rio Fiesta Boat and spend the night at the Omni La Mansion del Rio.  There’s Six Flag’s Fiesta Texas and Sea World.  And of course, there’s always the river.  You’ll want to see it all, but to do so, you’ll have to visit again and again and again.

TRAVEL HERE: DALLAS MUSEUM OF ART A FEAST FOR THE EYES

My Dallas Museum of Art

My mom loves the Dallas Arboretum and Botanical Garden. While I admire her devotion to that institution, gardening is not my passion.  I found another way to connect with my hometown:  The Dallas Museum of Art.

Memories of The Dallas Museum of Fine Art

We moved to Dallas in 1966 and the following summer, Mom signed me up for watercolor classes at The Dallas Museum of Fine Art.  In those days, the museum was housed in one of the Art Deco architectural wonders at Fair Park.  The class was downstairs in the basement and so were my watercolor skills.  I was not going to grow up to be a painter, but before the class was over, I’d fallen for the museum – and hard.  I loved strolling through the galleries and memorizing the pictures.

I remember the museum’s exciting milestones, the first African Mask exhibition and the acquisition of ancient South American gold.  Perhaps most distinctly I remember how proud Dallas was when our museum was designated as a stop on the tour of Pompeiian artifacts.  Along with everyone else in town and many out-of-town visitors, I stood under green and white awnings in the hot Texas summer to see the wonders of a city caught in time by lava.

Moving Downtown and Dropping the Fine

Then the DMA moved to its present site, anchoring what would become The Dallas Arts District, but looking nothing like its current configuration.  I was a frequent visitor, but I was also busy going away to college, spreading my wings in a job away from home and other life events.  One day, I found myself back in Dallas and ready to put down roots separate from my parents.  An article in the Dallas Morning News told me about something new at the DMA, the PM League.  Touted as an organization for Young Professionals and designed to support the museum with evening and weekend volunteers, the PM League was a perfect fit.

The DMA became my second home.  It seemed I was there every time the doors opened.  I manned the visitor’s desk on Thursday nights.  I was there for gallery talks, exhibit  openings and PM League events.  I served on the PM League Board as the director for special events, which meant I recruited and managed volunteers.  And I met my husband one evening up in the restaurant at something we called Six O’Clock Views.

The museum collection was growing all the time, but when Wendy Reves chose the DMA to house her La Pausa Collection and the Bybees deposited their Colonial furniture, things really took off.  The museum itself, which had been evolving architecturally, morphed into a swan.  I’ve heard people complain about the way the museum is organized, but I like it.  All of my favorite museums require a map and some fortitude.  Been to the Louvre or the Chicago Institute of Art lately?

My Museum Today

Though I’ve dialed back on my number of visits, the museum still plays an important role in my life.  I make time to go to each new exhibit.  I love the lectures and special events.  The DMA’s Seventeen Seventeen Restaurant is one of my favorite dining venues.  I’ve upgraded my membership to the Friend Level to have special access to the Decorative Arts program.  I love Jazz in the Atrium, Late Night at the DMA and Jazz Under the Stars.  I attend as many Arts & Letters Live lectures as my pocketbook will afford.  Some of my favorite possessions came from the gift shop.

Most of my visits to the DMA have a particular purpose.  I park in the underground garage (for free), ride the elevators up to the museum, and then hightail it to a particular gallery or theater.  On my last visit we heard a recital of modern operatic songs matched to works from the DMA’s collection.  On another recent evening, I galloped up the steps to hear some friends read their recently published poetry.  Next year, my nephew has a wedding planned there.

However, my favorite visits are still all about the art.  occasionally, I will take the time to wander through the permanent collection and visit my old favorites.  I met many of them when I was twelve.  I love the Chihully in the Atrium, the Icebergs and the Reves Collection.  The Decorative Arts wing boasts pieces of  Wagon Wheel Frankoma Ware, just like my mom has in her cabinets.  But none of these pieces holds a candle to Wyeth’s old man with the shoes, Linder’s Rock Rock or Faustulus carrying the twins carrying Romulus and Remus in a bright blue cloak, because these are the works that carved themselves onto my heart as I carried my cold pressed watercolor paper and sable brushes down to the basement of the Dallas Museum of Fine Arts many, many years ago.

Recently, the museum honored me with a “Meet a Member” spotlight in their quarterly members magazine.  They asked me why someone should join as a member.  I said the DMA is the brightest star in the Dallas firmament.  If you visit Dallas, you should make sure the DMA is on your itinerary.  If you live here, you should join – NOW!  What’s your favorite thing at your favorite Museum?

TRAVEL HERE: ENJOYING A WOMEN’S RETREAT

I love vacations! All of them! And usually the further I get from home the better I like it. The exception is getting away with the girls. I made the small hop from Dallas to Waxahachie lately, but I might as well have been on the other side of the world, because it was just me and the girls.  The occassion was a retreat with the women of my church, but the principle works for mother and daughter getaways, reunions with sorority sisters or just a bunch of girls who get together for a night of chick flicks and popcorn.

The Rules

• Rule Number One:  Be comfortable.  Whether your usual wardrobe best befits a soccer mom or a corporate VP, on a girls’ trip, the number one criteria for clothes is comfort.  Elastic waitbands, stretch jeans, one size fits all – it’s all good.
• Rule Number Two:  The clock is your friend.  Unlike the real world where the moving of the clock’s hands mean it’s time for yet another chore or performance, when you’re with the girls, the main function of the clock is to tell you when you’re going to eat again, when nap time arrives and when the yoga class will be, but only if you really want to do yoga.

1. Rule Number Three:  Food’s your friend, too.  Nothing on a girls’ trip has any calories, cholesteral, fat or salt.  If you gain any weight while you’re away it’s all water weight.  Go ahead and eat the waffles.  You want cereal and strawberry blintzes from dinner, fine.  There’s nothing wrong with grabbing a snack before dinner, having three helpings at dinner and then topping it all off with a bag of vanilla wafers.  That is if you’re willing to share the vanilla wafers.

• Rule Number Four:  We’re all in the same boat.  There’s no jockeying for position with the girls.  Your presense is the price of admission.  If the speaker tells you to form a group with the women at your table and discuss any difficulties you may have gaining satisfaction in your sex life, then in five seconds flat we’ll all know each other’s name and begin sharing intimate secrets we wouldn’t tell our doctors.  If you’ve known these people your whole life, you met them in the lobby or you were magically transported to the table without previous contact of any kind, group discussion is real, it’s honest and there are no holes barred – NONE!
• Rule Number Five:  The Las Vega Rule.  What happens on girls’ trips stays on the girls’ trip.  You never, ever, under any circumstances, reveal what you did, what someone else did, what you said or what anyone else said on a girls’ trip.  If your significant other asks, “What did you do?”  The answer is, “Oh, you know girl stuff.  What did you do?”  This is usually sufficent to distract them from further questions.  If if does not, try unhooking their belt.  That should do the trick.

There are other rules, but they are girls’ rule.  We know them and no one else has to know anything about them.  It’s all just girl stuff anyway, right?

TRAVEL HERE/TRAVEL THERE:  FRANCES IS MISSING AGAIN

No matter how much some things change, others stay the same.  One of my best college friends was Frances.  She disappeared for the first time during our Freshman year.  She’d gone with her roommate to East Texas State University for homecoming.  The roommate was in love and hadn’t worried overmuch when Frances made herself scarce, but when it was time to head back to Nacogdoches, concern set in.   We didn’t have cellphones in those days, so life was a little more exciting.  When the pair did finally return, many hours later than anticipated, we scolded Frances, thinking her disappearance an aberration, but over the years her disappearances were legion.

Diappearing in the Bahamas

Frances’ most dramatic disappearance occurred in the Bahamas.  The first couple of  days Debbie, Frances and I stuck together like glue – visiting a casino, shopping in Nassau and hanging out on the beach.  Then one morning Frances announced she’d spend her day on a sailing excursion with one of the dealers from the casino.  As Frances gave us a telephone number, penned on a piece of notebook paper, we reminded her to be back in time for dinner.  A gala celebration with our very first lobsters was planned.  She assured us she’d be back as she boarded the shuttle to the other side of the island.  Stuck at the hotel while Frances sailed with her new love connection, Debbie and I felt a little smug when Frances failed to show up in time for the long-anticipated meal.  Hours later, when there was still no Frances, we felt a little less smug, but we went to bed certain Frances would come in giggling some time before the night was over.

Not only was this in the days before cell phones, it was long before Natalee Holloway disappeared in Aruba, so when Frances didn’t come back we were concerned about her, but we were also a little jealous.  Over breakfast we discussed what should be done with our fellow travelers and arrived at the general consensus that Frances was somewhere having a marvelous time.  So we tried to have a marvelous time, too.  Debbie and I borrowed bicycles from the resort to explore our end of the island.  In the late afternoon, when Frances had been gone for well over twenty-four hours, we tried to call the number she’d left behind for us.  That’s when panic set in.  The people at the other end of the phone had never heard of Frances and didn’t recognize the name of her casino dealer either.  We called the casino, who did know of him, but they hadn’t seen him since Frances disappeared.  They did agree to convey a message.

As night fell, Debbie and I went to the tour desk in the lobby to report Frances’ disappearance.  The tour company sponsored a lot of college trips.  They didn’t seem too upset by the whole thing, but promised that if we hadn’t heard from Frances by noon the next day, they’d take the situation to the next level.  Our circle of friends spent the evening drinking coconut rum at the pool, where we could keep a close eye on the lobby.  Once again, Debbie and I went to bed hoping our rest would be interrupted by a late-arriving friend.  Early the next morning the phone rang and a giddily giggling Frances assured us we’d gotten ourselves in a tizzy over nothing.  Debbie and I were washed by that strange dichotomous relief everyone has felt at one time or another – we were joyous our friend was okay, but we also wanted to kill her.

Now She’s Missing Again

Now decades later, Frances is missing again.  We’re all grown up and live all over the States.  We’ve married, divorced and married again.  Children have been born and have graduated from college.  One year, the usual Christmas card failed to arrive.  All of us, in this little circle of friends, have called her number and listened to the innocuous greeting in her husband’s voice.  We left messages, none of which have been returned.  We’ve sent letters to the address asking what happened to Frances, but have received no replies.  Other Christmases have passed.  We’ve searched the internet and it keeps telling us it thinks Frances is where we last knew she was, but she’s not there.  We continue to compare notes about the details we recall from her life, hoping to find one that will lead us to where she is.  Sometimes we agree she’s just being rude or has been taken into the witness protection program, but at other times we’ll discuss sadder options.  Perhaps we should report her disappearance to the tour desk, but as much as we want to know that she’s OK, I think we’re also reluctant to have her laugh at us again.  Do you have a Frances?  If you were us, what would you do?

TRAVEL HERE/TRAVEL THERE: TRAVEL PLANNING WITH TEXAS HIGHWAYS MAGAZINE

Texas Highways is the only magazine I subscribe to. Oh, I buy Poets & Writers with great regularity and I never mind spending a little time in a grocery store line, because I get a kick out of the celebrity-filled weeklies, but I can live without them. I can’t live with out my Texas Highways.

Other Magazine Loves

In my single days, when travel was not in my budget, magazines were a necessity.  I took Smithsonian , Gourmet  and Conde Nast Traveler .  Each page was a promise to the future.  Since those days, I’ve realized many of the dreams those slick magazine pages inspired. Now, my dreams focus on finding a literary agent and getting my novels published (something wilder than my hopes to visit the Taj Mahal), but I read Texas Highways.

Love of Hard Copy

Though completely connected to the digital world, I still love my paper.  I might enjoy my Kindle, but it merely feeds my ongoing addiction.  It couldn’t replace any one of my twelve Bibles,  my hardbound set of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings trilogy or my Don Quixote with notes from Dr. Cotter’s class.  Nor will email ever replace the thrill of opening the mailbox.  Yes, I get snail mail rejections from agents out there, but more often the box is filled with coupons from Market Street, greeting cards and invitations or my latest Texas Highways.

Vicarious Subscription

For most of my adult life, I just depended on my parents’ copies of Texas Highways.  I can’t remember a time when their coffee table didn’t sport the latest three issues.  I was tempted to get my own subscription while I lived in California, but I feared the arrival of each issue would set off a crying jag.  I was already suffering from the world’s most severe case of homesickness and didn’t need any encouragement.

Once I returned to Texas, the joy of being home manifested itself with an uncontrollable desire to steal my parents’  Texas Highways.   Some picture of an attraction just an hour or so from home would make me think , “I could go there if I wanted to!”  I would never take the latest copy of the magazine, just something from their horde of old issues.  (We do not throw away Texas Highways in this family.  If you don’t believe me, check out my parent’s front bedroom – decades of Texas Highways fill the bottom shelf of a built-in bookcase.)  When I discovered the few issues I thought I’d borrowed had become significant stack of reading material, I decided it was time for my own subscription.

My Own Copy

Now one of my favorite days of the month is the day my magazine arrives.  I try to guess what the picture on the front cover will be, before I even pull it out of the mailbox.  When I’ve guessed correctly and it’s someplace I love, like the Riverwalk in San Antonio or the beach on Padre Island, my face can barely contain my smile.  And my favorite month for Texas Highways is March, because that’s when the April Wildflower Issue will arrive.

This April’s edition did not disappoint.  The cover is a field of bluebonnets taken in Washington County.  The contents page sports Black-eyed Susans and Indian Paintbrushes from Austin’s Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center.  Then page 30 starts an eighteen page orgy of wildflower blooms.  If wildflowers are not your thing, then there’s an article about ecotourism in East Texas, a Fine Arts Center in Granbury, bakery treats in Presidio and tales from a road trip to Wimberly.

Since I subscribe, I could already tell you what’s in my May issue, but you’ll just have to get your own subscription.  Like my parents, I horde away all my old copies.  Sometimes I just pull them out for entertainment and get as much comfort from them as I do from my own scrapbooks.  Or I might be writing about an area and need a reminder of the way it looks.  Another time I refer to my Texas Highways is when I’m planning a trip.  On my last vacation, I found articles that allowed me to appreciate the Texas Grasslands, find a place to eat in Amarillo, plan the most scenic route through the Palo Duro Canyons and add Cadillac Ranch to my itinerary.  One of the advertisements pointed me to a website where I found a Pullman Railway Car to stay in at Fredericksburg.  And those are just the articles that I actually used on the trip – I had others in reserve that we didn’t utilize.

Most everyone has a magazine they’ll read every time it appears, whether that’s a doctor’s waiting room, under the dryer at a salon or in line at the grocery store.  What’s your favorite?

TRAVEL HERE/TRAVEL THERE: EGYPTIANS WHO DON’T VISIT EGYPT

I stood in reverence before a glass-encased mummy at the Cairo Museum. My Egyptian niece stood a few steps away – her arms crossed, her foot tapping.  When we left, I apologized for staying so long.  “I’m sure you’re here all the time,”  I added.   She answered, “I think we came once when I was in school.”

A few days later, my husband and I were in a hired car on our way to the Pyramids.  I asked him about his trips to the site as a child.  “I don’t remember going,”  he said.

Finally, later in the week, as we strolled into the gates of the Citadel, Bill related fond memories of picnics on the lawn under the trees.  I began to pepper him with questions about the museums housed in the buildings scattered throughout the fortress.  “We just came up here for picnics,” he replied.

OTHER MISSED OPPORTUNITIES

Unfortunately, my relatives in Cairo are not alone.  Sitting in a pub in northwest England, chatting with some locals, my traveling companion and I related the difficulties we’d had earlier in the day.  I was anxious to see the Gladstone Pottery Museum and a traffic circle kept dumping us someplace else.  Our new friends thought going to the potteries was a capital idea, but they’d lived there all their lives and hadn’t made the fifteen minute trip themselves.

WHAT ARE YOU MISSING?

How about you?  Do you split your leisure time between Starbucks and the couch in front of the TV or do you make the effort to be a tourist at home?  I’ll admit it’s easy to be a tourist in a big city like Dallas. So, you might say, “there’s nothing to see in my little town,” but I’d say that’s just because you’re not looking.

A LITTLE TOWN CALLED GODLEY

What about Godley, Texas?  In 2000, there were less than 300 families living in Godley.  Imagine how few there were back in the early 1970’s. Yet, I went there with a friend from Stephen F. Autin State University and she thought I was lucky to be making the trip.  She was sorry we’d miss the girl’s basketball game.  I wasn’t a big fan of basketball, but after she shared stories of the team’s heroes, successes and defeats, I knew I was missing a real treat.

At least we’d be in time for the party after the game.  Win or lose, after home games there was always a party.  And by the time the party broke up, it would be late enough to see the Godley Cemetery where odd lights shone out in the wee hours of the morning.  We’d sleep late on Saturday morning and then go to the mall.  According to my friend it was the best mall in the world.  Of course, her parents expected us to go to church Sunday morning, but the dinner her mom would cook after would make it worth the effort.  My friend thought it was just too bad that we’d have to head back to Nacogdoches so quickly, because there was so much to do in Godley.

I want to tell you that this city girl had a blast out in the boonies.  The big post game party was an ice chest with sodas and a bowl of pretzels.  The lights in the cemetery didn’t appear and we had to drive all the way to Fort Worth for the mall.  Yet my friend’s attitude toward her home made the trip a winner.  The lives of the almost-300 families in Godley sounded more exciting than Peyton Place, when my friend described them.  Though we didn’t see the weird lights of Godley Cemetery, she regaled me with plenty of stories about nights when the lights had spooked both the young and the old.  Every mile of dirt road had a tale of drama and wonder attached to it.  My friend was thrilled with Godley and she made it exciting for me.

BECOME A HOMETOWN TOURIST

So get up off the sofa, google your hometown, drop by the Chamber of Commerce, talk to your next door neighbor.  You probably live in a great destination and don’t even know it.  Let me know what you discover as a hometown tourist.

TRAVEL HERE/TRAVEL THERE: TRAVELING BY DAYDREAMS

The water laps gently against the pool’s edge. On my table, sun shining through beads of condensation illuminate a pitcher of margaritas. At the next table, a waiter delivers a sizzling skillet of fajitas. I’ve ordered the traditional dinner, so my large cheddar-covered tortilla chips will arrive soon and they’ll be followed by waves of other Tex-Mex favorites.

A wave crashing on the shore of Moonstone Beach reminded me Joe T. Garcia’s Mexican Restaurant was about 1500 miles away.  Around me, travelers from all over the world snapped pictures of seals sunning on wave-drenched rocks.  Cambria, California is a popular tourist destination, but I wasn’t on vacation.

Bill and I lived on the Central Coast of California for six years.  We built a beautiful house over-looking Pismo Beach and I’m proud to call a lot of people who live there friends, but it wasn’t home.  When life in the land of fruits and nuts closed in on me, I’d grab Precious, my darling Shih-Tzu, and drive to Moonstone Beach.  I hate to admit it, but I’d stand there on that beautiful beach and cry my eyes out, wishing I could be in the Fiesta Gardens at Joe T. Garcia’s Mexican Restaurant in Fort, Worth, Texas.

DAYDREAMS IN REVERSE

So, now I’m back in Dallas.  Instead of staring into the Pacific Ocean from my rooftop patio, I sit in my office and look out at a leg of White Rock Creek making its way to the Trinity River.  Given my California tears, you’d be justified in thinking that I’m at Joe T. Garcia’s every Friday night, but I really only go there a few times each year.  It’s one of the places I save for special occasions – but from California, Joe T.’s seemed to epitomize every thing I missed about Texas.

JOE T. GARCIA’S MEXICAN DISHES AND FIESTA GARDEN

Let me take a moment to tell you about Joe T. Garcia’s.  No matter where you live in the world, you need to put Joe T.’s on your bucket list.  The fact that it’s been left out of 1000 Places to See Before You Die is a crying shame.  Naysayer’s will tell you there’s better Tex-Mex in the world, but don’t believe them.  For an experience which transcends mere dining out, you need to go to Joe T.’s – but go early or you won’t get a seat.  (And bring green, because they don’t take credit cards.)   Since I’m making confessions here, I’ll tell you that every time I walk into the Fiesta Gardens these days my eyes tear up.  I’m tempted to fall on my knees and kiss the ground, but instead I order a pitcher of margaritas and that seems to help.

THE VACATIONS I CARRY WITH ME

Joe T.’s Fiesta Garden is one of the vacations I carry in my head – along with sitting on rocks in Oak Creek Canyon‘s Indian Springs, riding a camel next to the Pyramids, watching ballet in Schonbrunn Palace and strolling through the pre-1991 Jeu de Paume in Paris.  There’s no airfare, no rental cars and no bags to pack.  I can just close my eyes and go there.  It’s OK, that they’ve built  a bunch of houses on my favorite stretch of Sedona and moved my favorite Impressionists paintings to another museum.  I can even be sitting at a stoplight and immediately escape to one of my favorite places.  Everyone needs to carry their vacations with them.

I go to Moonstone Beach often, now.  There’s a lot on my plate and the sound of the crashing waves, the smell of the verdant vegetation and the taste of salt on my lips can transform a bad day.  Now, I don’t even have to put up with all those tourists chattering in a polyglot of languages.  I just listen to the seals bark.  Where do you go on the vacations in your mind?

UPDATE January 1, 2015 – I took an actual road trip to Moonstone Beach in June of 2014.  Read about it here.  I also sold my creekside home and am building one in Heath.

TRAVEL THERE: MAPS -MY FAVORITE TRAVEL TOOL

National Geographic’s The American Road Atlas & Travel Planner is where my road trip planning  begins!  My copy is at least a decade old, but still does the job.  When I open it up, the smell of opportunity fills the air.  If I’m having a bad day, all I have to do is pick up my atlas and imagine my next trip – or follow a road I’ve highlighted to remember an old favorite.

Digital Travel Tools

Yes, I have a GPS for getting around and Mapquest is great for planning routes, but those travel tools are only useful when I know where it is I want to go or if I’m actually in the car.  Unfortunately, I’m driving my desk much more frequently than my car.

HOW I USE THE ATLAS

The front section of the book is devoted to regional guides.  If I need some help deciding where to go, I can browse the gorgeous pictures until one captures my interest.  Then National Geographic helpfully locates it on a state map and gives me  a quick description of the attraction.  Once I realize I’ve found the highlight of my next vacation, I go to the big two-page spread of interstate highways to imagine what other places I can include on my route.

But, I’m not going to spend all my time on the interstate.  Nosireebob!  As soon as I understand the general direction I’m headed in, I flip to the back of the book to find scenic drives anywhere near my potential route.  So far I’ve only made it to a handful, but once you’ve seen wonders like Oak Creek Canyon, The Adirondacks and the Natchez Trace, you know it’s worth going a day out of your way to enjoy them.  A list of National Parks is right next to the scenic drives and I insert them into my travels at every opportunity, also.

Eventually, I’ll actually look up the state maps, which constitute the bulk of the book.  The first thing I’m looking for are routes with red dashes next to them.  These are not necessarily scenic routes officially recognized and named by some entity, but all are lovely roads pointed out by the nice people at National Geographic.  I might not go a day out of my way to see them, but I’ll replace the interstate stretches with them every time.

Then I look for little red boxes.  National Geographic calls them points of interest.  Looking at a map of West Texas, I see “Caverns of Sonora”, “Judge Roy Bean Visitor Center” and “McDonald Observatory”.  (I wonder how soon I can head that way?)  Now I’m ready to start my research in earnest.  I’ll spend hours on the internet, browse my favorite bookstores and quiz all my friends, but if it weren’t for my trusty atlas, I’d be lost in cyberspace.

USING THE ATLAS FOR WRITING

Recently, as I worked on a novel, I needed my characters to get from East Texas to Reno, Nevada in a motor coach.  Out came my atlas.  I figured out their route, found RV parks for them to spend the night in and likely spots for truck stops.  I guessed where they’d run into traffic jams, where they’d have poor cell phone reception and which bits would be the most exhausting drives.  For several days, my atlas stayed open next to me, pointing out what I should write next.  It was almost as much fun as taking the trip myself.

Technology is great.  I’d fight you for my GPS and my Mapquest page is bookmarked in my favorites.  But when it comes to planning a road trip, I want a map.  Which travel tools do you prefer when you make travel plans?

UPDATE January 2, 2015 – I still love my atlas!

TRAVEL THERE: OFF THE BEATEN PATH – A TRAVEL BOOK SERIES

Off the Beaten Path (OTBP) books have led me to destinations I wouldn’t have found any other way.  These books have become so much a part of my travel experience that I can’t even remember when I picked up the first one.  Though many of my travel books have long since been thrown away, I’ve kept my OTBP’s.  With them I’ve taken dirt roads not found on any map and waded beaches even the locals didn’t know – but like any travel resource, OTBP has led me on a few misadventures, too.

AN OFF THE BEATEN PATH MISADVENTURE

Take the steamed fish in Florida for instance.  According to OTBP, the restaurant in question was a series of frond-covered shacks along a pier and the specialty was steamed seafood pulled from the sea on the day of your visit.  Who wouldn’t want to go there?  The OTBP authors apologized for recommending this restaurant, because even though it was off the beaten path, it was well-known and reservations were needed.  So, before I left home I made a long distance call and reserved a specific table recommended in the guide.

The clerk at our motel provided the first clue that we might be making a mistake.  When asked how to get to the restaurant, the clerk responded as if asked for directions to the Congo – he’d heard of it, but had never actually known anyone who’d been there.  My traveling companions were momentarily daunted, but we reminded one another that the name of the book was Off the Beaten Path.  Besides we’d already followed a few of its suggestions on this road trip with great success.

After a scary ride through some questionable parts of town, we found the restaurant.  Yes, there were palm fronds, but not only were they mildewed; bare patches of darkened wood showed between their bedraggled remains.  Everyone was starving or I doubt they would have walked down the dark rickety pier.  OTBP promised,even with reservations, we’d spend some time at the quaint bar at the far end – only the bar hadn’t been open for quite a while – as in years.  Though it was actually too chilly to sit at the table I’d reserved on the pier, getting another table was not a problem; we were the only patrons in the restaurant.

Safely seated in a musty hut, we had time to grow beards before a waiter showed up for our order, even though we hadn’t needed all that time to look at the menu.  We were sold on the steamed fish before we left Texas.  But you guessed it,  the steamer was broken.  Perhaps it was merely my imagination, but the way the waiter imparted the information, I sensed the steamer had been broken for a long, long time.  We made other choices, and then we waited.  Probably almost as long as the steamer had been out of use.    We drank every drop of liquid on the table, none of it alcoholic, and carefully inspected every dish, utensil and glass.  I entertained my traveling companions with napkin tricks.  Then we got a serious case of the giggles.

MISADVENTURE RESOLVED

We barely stifled our laughter as the meal was served.  Our appetites had long since dissipated.  The waiter offered to-go boxes and that was hilarious, too.  Just as our check was delivered, a couple was escorted to a table across the restaurant – the only other people to appear during this never-ending ordeal.  Someone suggested the couple had come for the steamed fish and fresh gales of laughter echoed through the restaurant, earning irritated stares from the newcomers.  Finally, sobered by our embarrassment, we left.  When we finally got back to the motel, we crawled out of the car and fumbled with our keys.  “Are we planning to eat at any other restaurants recommended by this book?” someone asked.  The hilarity returned.

Does your family have any of these cherished travel mishaps?

TRAVEL THERE: THE EXPEDIA VS. AMERICAN AIRLINES FEUD   Last week was great. I started my blog, heard Target had lower prices than Wal-Mart and found a great bag at Chico’s – but the really good news was American Airlines divorced Expedia.  These two have been fighting since December, but an American Airlines radio ad alerted me I must go to AA.com or Kayak to get American Airlines tickets.  I won’t be going there.  I’m definitely on Expedia’s side.   WHY I LOVE EXPEDIA

This will be bad news to Expedia Victim – a nice guy who follows me on Twitter.  He’s apparently had a bad time with Expedia and I’m very sorry about that.  I’d love to commiserate with him, but the problem is, Expedia has been very, very good to me.  Whatever gearhead wrote the logic for their site understood me.  I can always find what I want and if I go away and come back another day, I can find it again.  Buying stuff is easy.  I understand what the word “non-refundable” means.  They send me nice emails, but don’t bother me with spam.  We have a great relationship.  From time to time friends and family convince me to go check out the latest, the greatest or the cheapest, but I always end up back at Expedia.  I don’t like bidding, and I don’t like playing hide and seek, but I like cheap prices, easy.

I don’t feel the same way about American Airlines.  To me, American is sort of the bully of the airport, because I can’t go from A to B without having to deal with them – but I didn’t always feel that way.

WHY I USED TO LOVE AMERICAN AIRLINES, BUT DON’T NOW

As a Dallasite, who’s lived here since the days Love Field was THE airport, I grew up thinking all planes had either Southwest or Braniff on the side.  Nonetheless, we were all very excited when DFW was built and American Airlines came to town.  Then I started flying on American, but soon I felt that  ‘doing what they did best’ meant making my travel experience as miserable as possible.  They gave me rotten seats, lost my luggage and made me late – a lot.  They probably don’t care, because I’ve never racked up enough frequent flyer miles to matter to them, but when I do fly, I hate it when the only reasonable way to get where I’m going is on an American flight.

FROM CALIFORNIA’S CENTRAL COAST TO DALLAS AND BACK

I won’t pretend American is the only airlines that knows how to ruin an itinerary, but I was living on the Central Coast of California when I decided American was a bully.  A teeny tiny little airline started a route between Love Field and LAX.  I had to drive four hours to get to LAX, but I’d do it to fly Legend Airlines, because Legend was the only airline flying into Love Field (besides Southwest, which is not part of this story).  My elderly parents were scared to death of DFW.  Whether they were flying to me, putting my little sister on a plane or coming to pick me up, they felt at home at Love Field.

Legend did a lot of things right, but their schtick was flying planes small enough to bypass the Wright Amendment.  However, teeny tiny little Legend bugged great big American.  It’s not like Legend was going to put American out of business or anything.  Still, American hammered them in the courtrooms of America.  As soon as one judge upheld Legend’s right to fly, American would go file another case.  Then American reconfigured a fleet of planes so they could fly out of Love Field, too, and set off a price war in which no teeny tiny airline could compete.  But did the giant go after Legend so American could serve passengers who wanted to fly out of Love?  No – when American won it shut down its Love Field operations.

That’s when I began going out of my way to avoid flying American and that’s why I’m cheering for Expedia.  American may not remember Legend Airlines, but I do.  Do you?

UPDATE: January 1, 2015 – A lot has changed since 2011.  The Wright Amendment has expired, American Airlines made up with Expedia and Southwest Airlines can fly anywhere it wants to.  Some things haven’t changed.  I still avoid American Airlines and I still love Expedia, but I also love Trip Advisor these days.