Tackling the Globe…

Today’s guest post comes courtesy of one of my favorite commenters, Orion, whose mom unknowingly dubbed this glaring pink site “Camel Cupcakes.” (It’s partially for him that I have a new gender-friendly banner and theme that will go live in the next month!) Orion has a riveting life working in the oil industry up in Alaska; he promises he’ll stop by in the future and share just what that’s like. But for today, he tells about one of his favorite Caribbean spots, Saint-Martin(/Sint Maarten), which is fitting as I’m off in Bonaire for Celebrate the Planet Week. Thanks, Orion! (Show him the love, guys.)

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The Caribbean isle of Saint-Martin is situated about 200 miles east of Puerto Rico and is the smallest island in the world that is split between two entities. The northern half is the French overseas collectivity of Saint-Martin, while the southern division is the Netherlands Antilles territory of Sint Maarten. The entire island is collectively known as Saint Martin, as English is the predominant language.

There are a few entrance points onto the island. A deepwater harbor is situated just outside the Dutch capital of Philipsburg, which is used by cruise ships. Princess Juliana International Airport, also located on the Dutch side, is the main hub for the whole island. A secondary local airport, called Aérodrome de Grand-Case Espérance, is just outside the French capital of Marigot. Relations between both sides are amiable (hence the isle sobriquet of “the Friendly Island”), with three hundred years of separate sovereignty celebrated in 1948.

Marigot is the most populated city, with a scant 5,700 inhabitants. The island’s most wealthy patrons live on the French side: Julia Roberts, Slyvester Stallone, Nick Maley (creator of Yoda from the Star Wars franchise) and several Saudi princes. There are many sidewalk cafes and bistros, which remind one of a local town in France with the exception of a saltwater breeze and sand-filled cobblestone streets. A midmorning snack of escargot with fresh baked baguettes and mimosas will only set one back three euros. The entire settlement is in the shadow of Fort Louis (named after French King Louis XVI, who famously lost his head), which dominates the local skyline.

Beaches around Marigot are also known for being clothing optional, but sadly the signs did not point the way to les gens tout nus.

The Dutch side is definitely the flashy party nightlife side, as opposed to the more laidback French side. Gambling is legal only with the Dutch (with French citizens actually given punchcards of sorts to keep them from gambling too often each month), and plenty of casinos pepper the south side of the island. There are many jewelry and high-end designer stores, with most offering duty-free shopping and steep discounts from retail prices. The main district in Philipsburg is Front Street.

Front Street is located right on the water, but be careful of where you sit, as locals may charge you for the beach chairs and umbrellas. (This is true for many tourist areas of the Caribbean.)

Even though the island is either Catholic (French) or Protestant (Dutch), there are other religions represented such as this beautiful mosque in the hills on the Dutch side.

The International Lookout point is a great place to view three countries at once: the local Dutch side, the French side over the harbor, and the British overseas island of Anguilla across the water.

Another great feature of Sint Marteen is Maho Beach, or rather the small part of it known locally as Sunset Beach, adjacent to the Sunset Beach Bar and Grill and Princess Juliana International Airport.

Since the runway is so short (around 7,000 feet), aircraft must land as close to the beginning as possible. A world famous sign warns viewers on the public side of the runway fence.

There is no vegetation on the white sand Sunset Beach due to jet blast erosion. However, it is a popular beach for watching aircraft and sunsets. The Bar and Grill provide potent frozen cocktails and a mouthwatering swordfish burger. Also, topless women drink for free (no frozen drinks) and there was one topless woman, but she didn’t approach the bar for her free drink…sadly. The workers also have a chalk surfboard on which airplane arrival times are sketched daily. Approaching aircraft start off as a glint in the Caribbean sun, slowly growing larger until the vessel is straight overhead.

And as for takeoff, remember that sign earlier? Heed its warning. Be ye not so stupid (and sandblasted)(I blame the frozen pi ña colatas).

Saint-Martin was charming and colorful with a dash of Creole flavor. Between its lush rolling hills and white sand beaches, there is a good reason that one million tourists (and growing) visit each year.

-Follow Orion on Twitter or find him on his own blog, Swift Serenity.

*If you’re interested in guest blogging for me while I’m on future trips, drop me a line and we’ll chat.

As I mentioned, there was a glorious, expansive sand bar off the coast of Mataking Island that just beckoned for frolicking.

When the tide was low, it connected Mataking to its second, uninhabited isle.

When the tide was high, you could wade a bit out to the sandbar—if your feet could take the heat, that is. It’s so hot hot hot in Borneo, the water literally felt like one very steamy Jacuzzi

Naturally, as tends to happen when you stick a camera in SVV’s or my hands, a sandbar photo shoot meant one thing: Hang time!

(That’s my sun hat—no one wants wrinkles at 27, you know—not a bird, mid-flight.)

And then again…and again, every day after that.

Tell me you wouldn’t feel the need to jubilantly jump about in a place such as this.

It helps, too, that I have a partner who shares these childlike sentiments.

(And who also willingly offers up free tickets to the gun show.)

If I could claim one plot of sand in the world and call it my own, this would be it. Does anyone know how you go about doing such a thing?

*All photos taken with a Canon T1i, 10-20mm lens and 17-855mm lens, housed in a LowePro SlingShot.

**For more Photo Friday fun, visit Delicious Baby.

A few of you have asked how I pick where I’m going next, so I thought I’d indulge you. As it’s not unheard of that I’m in Dubai one day, Rwanda the next and Malaysia a few weeks later, I can see how this would be confusing, particularly as I often don’t blog in chronological order (largely due in part to limited Internet access and time while on the road and pre-scheduling posts before I go). Heck, it’s confusing enough for me; I don’t know how you all keep up! Truth be told, there’s often no method to the madness. Sometimes, I find myself passionate about a particular place or angle and continue to pitch and research it for months, on occasion even years, until some helpless editor gets overwhelmed and finally sends me there to cover said story. Other times, I’m invited out as a journalist to check out some newsworthy event or angle the country is pushing. But most frequently, I hear about hot new properties set to open and find a way to get there to scoop the story before every Tom, Dick and Mary has already done so. In any field of journalism, but particularly travel writing, being the first to cover something is crucial.

And that is precisely how I wound up in Tassie. It was a long time coming in the sense that this property (which you will hear ample amounts about in due time) had been buzzed about in my industry for two years. It wasn’t a long time coming in that I was going to stay grounded for the next month or two following the honeymoon, then got asked to head Down Under and, two weeks after landing from my six-week honeymoon, found myself on a plane bound for Sydney.

As an avid traveler, I feel I’m more educated than most in geography. In fact, I was obsessed with the subject as far back as elementary school. In ninth grade, when we were tested on every last country in the world, its capital, major landmarks and where it is on the map, I got a 100 percent. So I guess it’s no huge surprise that I ended up in a field that has me studying the globe on a regular basis. If you don’t believe me, take a look at my living room:

And those aren’t all of them either.

That’s all to say I knew virtually nothing about Tasmania other than that it’s the “final frontier” before reaching Antarctica. In fact, I assumed I would be flying for days before reaching Hobart, the island state’s capital. WRONG. It’s a mere hour-and-a-half flight from Sydney, or 45 minutes from Melbs. Following the 13-hour direct flight from California to Australia, of course, which was painless. I don’t mind a long haul—and, in fact, given this year’s number of trips that required two days to get there, 13 hours hardly seems long—if I don’t have to connect a number of times.

Even better? My travel partners Kirsten (above) and Jennie and I got upgraded to business class on Qantas. And, well, I don’t know if you’ve ever flown Qantas business class before, but let’s just say it’s nothing to scoff about. In 2009, when I headed to Queensland for “The Best Job in the World” launch, I flew Qantas economy for the first time, and even at the back of the bus, was impressed by the friendliness of the staff. So I was doubly excited to check out the next tier of service.

Yes, those are my official kangaroo-branded Qantas pajamas, that I may or may not now wear to work in from home most days. We had barely left the ground before I darted to the fancy-pants bathroom to change into them. And I got a second pair on the way back, too, so I have a spare should something happen to the originals, heh. The movie and TV options were endless (though, as often happens to me, on the return the entertainment systems for the whole plane weren’t working!), and there were so many covert nooks and crannies to stash my stuff, that I kept forgetting where I put things! The food was gourmet—like something I would find in a San Francisco—and they have on-board sommeliers to  assist in WINE PAIRINGS (on an airline…I know), a program helmed by celebrity Aussie chef Neil Perry. I may have sampled the chardonnay. And the pinot noir. And the dessert wine. You know, for the sake of research, just so I could give a well-rounded review…

While in Sydney on the way back through from Tas, we got the chance to tour the official Qantas control center. Truth be told, I was sort of dreading this as it didn’t sound like the most exciting way to spend a few of my mere 48 hours in such a fascinating city. Much to my surprise, the tour was riveting: The control center is where they do all the training of cabin crews and where we got to see the next generation of first, business and economy class travel. Let’s just say, I was—maybe still am—contemplating a career change to flight attendant after the tour. (Qantas seems like an excellent company to work for; I suppose I just have to figure out a way to gain Aussie citizenship first.) The crew spends weeks training in various aspects of the hospitality realm from food and wine to emergency procedures. And did you know the FAs are required to take courses such as beauty, where they learn to do their hair and makeup (even the dudes), and even have to walk out on a runway to be evaluated?! Sounds like a fun (yet, extremely challenging) line of work to me.

I’ve never been so excited to board a flight on the way as I was for the outbound Sydney-San Francisco flight—and that’s not only because we were getting upgraded again. The cherry on top was landing a pass to the official Qantas First Class Lounge, which had straight-up foliage growing from the walls on the ground floor, a Space Age-y/celestial entrance and was unlike anything I’d ever seen before. Nicole Kidman, Pink and John Travolta had all wandered these corridors just the week prior to my arrival. Of course, I was too busy trying to cram in as many meals as possible—brunch, light lunch and dessert, if you must know—before my flight out. That and getting my nails done.

image courtesy of Qantas

You read that right. The Qantas First Class Lounge has a SPA—and a darn nice one at that—and every guest is entitled to one complimentary treatment. Of course, I lobbied for the massage, but there was no time, so I settled for a manicure as my nails were in a terrible state of disarray. Next time I know to arrive the first possible moment I can to check in for my flight to take full advantage of all these five-star amenities!

image courtesy of Qantas

If this is the future of first and business class travel, I don’t want to go back to cattle class. Alas, I’ll be just there, a six-hour red eye flight in coach on Delta on Friday, followed by a three-hour layover and three-hour connecting flight. Oh well, being fancy was fun while it lasted. Thanks for making me feel like a rockstar, Qantas—even if it was but a fleeting moment!

This weekend was adventure filled. Just hours before we (finally)(after seven months of living here) had our housewarming party, two puppies arrived on a plane. (It sounds like the setting of a made-for-TV movie, no?) My poor mother: While they were as well behaved as could be and didn’t make a peep, the little boy, Marley, got a case of car sickness on the way to the airport in Nashville, and spewed all over the place. This continued across the country. When he arrived in San Francisco, it was no different: After a brief hug and pat to both of the pups, we got on the Coastal Highway to veer around Outside Lands traffic, at which point Marley decided to projectile vomit all over my car’s upholstery. Welcome to parenthood! (SVV is the best husband ever; he met us downstairs with cleaning supplies and scrubbed out my Altima for me!)

And, thus, after a traumatizing day, the puppies got their first bath shortly after arriving in their new home state. But all fluffy and clean, we’ve decided they channel ewoks, don’t you think? SVV’s mom said she could whip together an appropriate Halloween costume for the both of them.

That’s Ella. She’s our girl. Eight weeks and four days old, she weighs in at two pounds and a few ounces and is by far the feistiest of the trio. Shelty, the third pup, stayed at home in Tennessee, where she went to live with a family who has one of our Malteses from our very first litter 15 years ago. Marley, on the other hand, was a surprise for my niece and nephew, Kiva and Jack (upon their parents’ consent, of course).

It was so hard separating these two yesterday as they’re quite the peas in a pod.

Though I don’t think anyone took it harder than my mom, who is still mourning Marley’s departure. At least we know where to find him when we want to see him—at SVV’s brother’s house out near Folsom! Family get-togethers will, no doubt, be twice the fun with these two furry additions.

The kids weren’t out-of-control excited like we expected but we think that’s because a) they were shell-shocked by the revelation and b) they were afraid their dad was going to say no. (They’ve been asking for a puppy for years now, and he just finally came around.) Kiva even turned to him and asked, “are we allowed to keep him, Dad?”

I just can’t believe that, after having Malteses in our family since 1979 (three years and change before I was born), I finally have one of my own! Or rather, our own, I should say. And it should be noted that SVV is almost as excited about our new addition as I am. I don’t want to shoot myself in the foot by saying so, but the potty training is already going swimmingly (knock on wood). As long as a dry puppy pad is out and she knows where it is, Ella migrates to it 10 times out of 10 to do her business. That’s fully in part to my mom starting them off early with pads in the pen. THANKS, MOM. Once she’s a bit older, we’ll start moving the pad one foot closer to the door every day and eventually train her to go out (we have a side yard only accessible to our apartment building that no one uses and is perfect for a Maltese). But for now, baby steps.

Truth be told, now that’s it the work week again and I’m slammed with deadlines, I’m having a helluva hard time working. Could you do that with this face looking up at you and chewing on your slipper, begging you to come play?

Puppy Days from Camels & Chocolate on Vimeo.

This opens up a whole new method of living for SVV and me: Pet-friendly travel! We’ve been researching flying with her, since at eight weeks she’s clearly already a seasoned pro, and are appalled at how expensive it is to take a (what will be) full-grown, six-pound dog as a carry-on on a plane. (Any way for the airlines to make an extra buck or so, I suppose. But it’s still ludicrous.) Southwest is the cheapest we’ve found thus far at $75 per way; American and Virgin America charge $100; and United is a whopping $125. How about you pet owners out there? Have you found an affordable way to take your furry friends on the plane with you?