This is a gorgeous picture. Look forward to an eventual blog entry about Obidos from me - great food, and such a deep history.

travelthisworld:

Obidos, Portugal

I stand over a stone wall, both white and crème, that comes up to my waist. My hands are warm where they rest from the sunshine that has heated the material below me. The short skirt of my crème and blue pinstriped dress blows in the slight wind that tends to accompany an elevated locale, but I let the white, short-sleeved button up shirt that I had worn over the dress to make it a little more decent blow open. I had been walking around the entire city in my hemp wedge sandals with black leather straps, but my feet showed no signs of fatigue. In fact, I felt fantastic.

This wasn’t the first time that I had felt this elation – a sense of complete and utter freedom. I love how I looked, I loved where I was, and I loved who I was. This is, to this day, something that comes together for me very rarely, when I feel the most alone. Not isolated, of course, but physically alone, free, in another country or another city, away from everyone and everything. It is in these moments of my life that I realize who I am and what I am capable of, and that there is no reason for anything to keep me down.

In this particular instance, I am in Monaco. It is not the most memorable trip of my life – in fact, back at the cruise ship, there is a petulant preteen with a bad attitude who cannot wait to make my life miserable as soon as I return. But here, I am alone. I disembarked the cruise ship early from Villefranche, Sur du mer, on the French Riveria. With my limited knowledge of French, I made my way to the train station, boarded the packed passenger train, and rode it all the way to Monaco.

I had no plan, no reason, and only a poorly-detailed map. I felt wonderful.

I took time to watch the train pass by after I de-boarded, my sight travelling upward to the sparkling lights that illuminated the station, and I couldn’t help but think that, in a way, this was exactly what I expected of Monaco already. Fifth avenue and Las Vegas wrapped up in a classy, Monégasque/French package. Bright lights and beautiful architecture – I therefore expected the same as I headed down a rough stone path (after a flight of stairs) into the city.

I knew very little of what I wanted to see. All I knew was that there was a Casino, and a Palace, and it was a principality. I’d read about it, and devised a general walking plan, but this quickly fell to the wayside. I began to stroll down a main thoroughfare, making out signs that the Circuit de Monaco took this course each time the race track was laid out. Heading in the general direction of where I wanted to go, I found a small village at the base of a wall that led up to the Place du Palais. Here, small stands sold art and so did kitschy little shops, and you could not walk a block without coming across a coffee house, a café, or a patisserie. 

I was so caught up in my own world by this point, that I had forgotten how to speak. I had asked directions to a certain street of an old woman and spoken with her entirely in French, but as a young woman smiled at me and said “Good Afternoon”, I froze, and quickly squawked that I didn’t speak French, even though that was a complete lie.

Blushing from embarrassment, I waved and hurried back out into the busy pedestrian walkway, trying to devise a way to climb up to the Place du Palais. There was an expressway to one side of the main thoroughfare, and eventually a rock wall to the other side… so how did one go about actually finding their way to another level? As I meandered side-streets and thought to myself, I came across a small walking path. This path made its way across that busy street to a set of narrow stairs. I followed a gaggle of schoolchildren up those stairs into a beautiful public garden area. I had found my way.

Pleased with my own resourcefulness, I made my way past beautiful trees and shrubs, all atop a climbing cliff that overlooked the city of Monaco. As I reached the end of my path, I was there; the Place du Palais. This is where my narrative began, overlooking the other side of Monaco – the water, where more yachts than I could count bobbed on the peaceful wakes.

To my right was the Prince’s Palace, a stately and ornate building that housed a museum paying homage to the Royal family. To my left was a small tourist shopping area, and behind me was –as I overheard a tour guide saying – where the Prince really lived.

I spent a fair amount of time here, basking in my success at reaching my first goal, but I had too much that I wanted to do in too little time, so I began to move. On the far end of the shops, there was a small pathway along a garden area, with yet another wall that dropped over a cliff and into the sea. Here, I took off my shoes and walked on the warm cement, leisurely enjoying the fact that I was here, in Monaco. I found myself thinking how lucky one must be to afford a house here, overlooking the rest of Monaco or the sea, flowering vines adorning the front of your three, four, or five-story home. I was so busy admiring one such house decorated with purple flowers, that I almost walked past my next destination – the Monaco Cathedral.

This is an absolutely beautiful place of worship that words cannot do justice. This is the cathedral where the beloved Princess Grace Kelly was buried, as well as various other Monégasque royalty. Inside the tall, white Cathedral, there were a great many different statuettes, all displayed in their own individual alcoves. Following the intricately tiled floor all the way to the back, you found the solemn, beautiful white covers, indicating where the royals were buried under the church. I could suddenly imagine being a new Princess to the Monégasque Royal family, marrying here among the history of their principality.

I made my way out of the church slowly out of respect, before setting again on my way, smiling at an old man who had walked his dog to the church and was now taking a rest. The next stop on my list was the Oceanographic Museum & Aquaria, but I was taken by surprise as I arrived. There, right in front of my eyes, was the anatomic model – in true form, with half stripped away to show the muscles – of a Unicorn.

I couldn’t believe it. What was such a grotesque unicorn doing in the middle of such a beautiful place? Personally, I was shocked! Who would do something like that to a unicorn? Of course, I did what any other curious person would do – I took several pictures, and put it away in my mind for later research. As it turned out, this was one art piece by an artist named Damien Hirst, and it quickly became a subject of discussion for my enthralled friends back home.

So, I had seen the prince’s palace, the Monaco cathedral, and the oceanographic museum. I even had the added bonus of a partially-skinned unicorn. What was next?

Monte-Carlo, of course.

Now, looking at the time, I knew there was no way I would be able to walk all the way back down to Monte-Carlo, catch my train, and make it back to the cruise ship. Considering the sixty-or-more percent chance that I would get distracted or lost, that would be impossible. So, I got brave. Perhaps no more braver than boarding a train of my own accord and traveling to a neighboring principality when we were to be leaving the harbor that night, but… I boarded the public bus. Observing the route, I determined that it would drop me off near the casino. The friendly bus driver spoke to me in decent English, offering to drop me off even closer, and making sure I got off on the right stop. I smiled – despite French reputation, I had not yet met someone in Monaco who was not friendly. In fact, everyone just seemed happy. Perhaps it was because they were probably all very rich.

I found myself in awe of the elegance as I finally came across the Casino. I walked in and looked around – just to say I did. After all, I would not be able to place a bet in somewhere like this. Nor would I be able to understand what was going on. At the time, I knew nothing of gambling. Instead, I spent the time walking around the outside, where I could take in just about every expensive car in the world. Lavish Lamborghinis parked next to vintage cars – this was obviously a playground for the rich.

But what made me chuckle, perhaps more than anything else, was the nearest restaurant to the Monte Carlo. Attached to an elegant looking restaurant, the Bar Américain boasted a menu that sounded simply too good for its namesake. I moved upward, back toward the train station, through an expensive shopping area with names like Chanel, Gucci, and Prada. I skipped those, and went instead for the ice cream stand on the way. I shouldn’t have been surprised that it was too expensive for me to afford, and continued on my way toward the train station.

One of the most enlightening experiences was stopping in a typical convenience store, browsing around and buying a greeting card for my friend. I found one thing complimentary during this entire trip – everyone spoke to me in French. No-one looked at me and assumed I was an English-speaker, they simply trusted that I understood what they were saying. The few times I asked a question in English, they did their very best to respond. It was a sort of mutual respect that I have experienced in few other places.

As I slowly made my way up the last hill toward the train station, I noticed a car that was driving down the street. It was an expensive make, and they slowed down as they approached me, rolling down the window. 

“Bonjour..! Ca va?” The young man called, smiling at me broadly. 
“Ca va bein, et toi?” I called back as I continued walking, in too good of a mood to worry.
“Ca va biennn!” He called back.

And then, it dawned on me: I was being cat-called. I giggled the rest of the way to the train station. Anywhere else, I might have scoffed, or assumed I was being made fun of. But I felt so good about myself that day, and felt I had enough of an understanding of Monaco, that it could have been nothing more than the fact that they are an open, friendly culture of mostly-French speakers, who happened to think I looked particularly good on that day.

Setting aside my obligatory notes on safety, I think travelling alone is a fantastic experience. Everyone should go out someone unfamiliar to them, during the light of day of course, and just wander. This is the place, the situation, the times in which I really come into myself. I become who I want to be, and I fall in love with the world around me. These are the times where I truly feel like an explorer.

Riverside, California.

It may seem odd to the reader that this is the first place I choose to blog about. For someone who has been to fourteen countries and thirty states, there must be somewhere more significant than a small town in the middle of California, right?

Well, in many ways, you would be completely correct to assume these things. But herein lies the first of many beliefs that I do my best to embody: As a traveler, it is neither the amount of places that one has been to, nor the grandoise nature of the place traveled that makes you a real traveler.

In fact, I prefer the term “Explorer”. Anyone can be a tourist. It is simply a matter of transportation, money and time to get from one place to another in this generation of speed and travel. But to be an adventurer, to truly explore, one must do more than seek the common path and the heralded attractions. A true explorer must do exactly that: Explore.

I will get into that in another post. Here, I am writing about Riverside.

Riverside, California is a city about an hour outside of Los Angeles, with a population of roughly 300,000 citizens. It is surrounded by mountains, but it enjoys a semi-arid climate. If you enter Riverside through the main road through town, you are greeted with the sight of historic-looking buildings, often brick, and only several stories tall. Through the center of town, there is a walkway that is lined with shops and restaurants. Here, during the winter months, you can purchase hot chocolate and gingerbread to carry along with you as you meander down the barely-cooled brick as the shops begin to close.

Turning left, you walk with more of a purpose. There is nothing particularly interesting in between this walkway and your destination, but the distance is not too great. Here, you find the Mission Inn. Because it is the Winter months - perhaps December, it is lit up with more lights than you could count if you sat in the courtyard from nine in the morning until nine at night.

Making your way under the archway with the ornate lettering spelling out “Mission Inn”, you walk past a variety of different and individually gorgeous plants, as well as historic objects such as an old cannon. As you draw nearer to the entrance, a smattering of white-clothed tables sit near the walkways, and you can see that if you turned to the left and continued on, you would make your way to the Mission Inn Spa.

Instead, you step through the oversized wooden doors into the main lobby, where you are greeted by a formally dressed doorman. Because it is winter, there is a large tree with white lights adorning the spacious room, complimenting the red ribbions and holly down the banister of the large center staircase, which leads up to the first floor of guestrooms. Opposite of the staircase is the thick, wooden reception desk, and moving past that is the first of many conference rooms.

The hotel itself is a twisting labryinth of rooms and corridors, gardens and fountains. A step into the main courtyard reveals stories of climbing vines draped over terraces and balconies, hanging onto the levels belows them, flowering even in the winter months. Craning your neck upward, something that will inevitably catch your eye is the roofline, varied between the both rounded and peaked roofs, adorned with curved tiles (referred to as “mission-style roofing” for a reason).

The various open-air courtyards and corridors are each a new treasure for visitors to explore. Among the tucked-away sections of the hotel, you find an ornate medieval style clock, a Cloister Wing, flying buttresses, Tiffany stained glass windows, and over eight hundred bells. Many famous people make this a frequent vacation destination, some so frequent (Anne Rice), that their names are displayed on their usual rooms via a small plaque.

As for those of you curious about my personal connections to the hotel, I have been fortunate enough to take in its magnificent construction a total of three times, but the most recent provides the clearest and most descriptive memories.

I found myself in that first courtyard I described, full of vines and potted plants. White lights dusted the balconies, and from where I stood I could see the sky over the rotunda, clear and speckled with stars. Behind the set of stairs where I stood, another pair of enormous wooden doors was propped open slightly, and a young woman in a short black dress accompanied a tuxedoed man while they shared a cigarette.

I could hear clearly the music from inside the room. I had wondered vaguely, about an hour before, if there were any guest rooms above this venue - part of the reason why I had eventually meandered outside. As I had guessed (or perhaps hoped), there really were no rooms directly over the two-story, ornately decorated room. Today, there was a DJ set up by the wooden dance floor, a photo-booth in a small adjoining room, and large round tables set about the far side. The room was finished off with a small, rectangular table set in between two beautiful adjoining staircases leading up to a second floor, which subsequently led to an outdoor corridor. Across the corridor was the entrance to what is known as the “Oriental Courtyard”, which is where this evening started.

The small outdoor enclosure was set up with a white canopy and two short rows of chairs. This is where my favorite cousin was to be married, and where a new part of my life began. After the wedding, we were ushered into an adjoining room where we were given hor d’eouvres while the wedding party took photos, and then we moved to the aforementioned reception room.

Perhaps the Mission Inn made such an intense impact on me this time because of the moment in my life that I associate with it. This was a a time of complete freedom for me. I was just barely out of the grasp of the last year’s relationship - not to say that I tend to spend a year on relationships, but rather that this relationship defined that year for me.

In the wake of such a destructive relationship, I felt only the typical sorrow that one feels from something gone so horribly awry. From the ashes of that pain, I felt a complete and utter elation. I was free - perhaps more free than I had been before I had ever been in that relationship - because I now intended to truly appreciate every little thing I had taken for granted.

And it was almost immediately that I had flown to California, becoming quickly swept up in the joy and excitement of my cousin’s wedding.

Something very special happened that day, under the sky decorated with brightly twinkling stars in the center of that beautiful hotel, that made its humble beginnings as a tiny adobe guest house.

The year became two thousand and ten, and I felt like the Mission Inn itself helped me ring in the beginning of what I decided would be my new life.

It is easy to see why the Mission Inn is so dear to me, even as a single spot on a vast map of tourism destinations. But it is a place that I would recommend to anyone that loves beauty, eccentricity, and a little bit of mystery.