As we close out another year and say good-bye (for now) to one of the best travel editors and writers in the USA (John Flinn of the San Francisco Chronicle, who’s retiring today) it’s fitting to take a look at John’s collected Weird Travel Stories of 2008, and while we’re at it, how about an interview with him by Jim Benning on Worldhum?

Looking ahead to 2009 and the possible hangover headache that might greet you on New Year’s Day, why not see what people around the world do to celebrate, as compiled by NileGuide?

And after that, have a Happy New Year!

* Aloha means mutual regard and affection and extends warmth in caring with no obligation in return.
* Aloha is the essence of relationships in which each person is important to every other person for collective existence.
* Aloha means to hear what is not said, to see what cannot be seen and to know the unknowable.

So Aloha is much more than a scented lei placed around one’s neck on a brief trip to Oahu. Although a vacation to one of the islands can be a treasured experience, visitors from the mainland tend to mock or ‘Disney-fy’ the Hawaiian heritage. When one thinks of Hawaii, beyond the beautiful beaches, surfing, ukuleles and hula, we often don’t go much deeper.  Aloha is truly a lifestyle and world view; a way to interact with others and remain calm in a storm.  Take a look at Israel Kamakawiwo’ole’s “Somewhere over the Rainbow”.  This haunting rendition always stirs me in a way that makes me feel perhaps an inkling of Aloha.  Let’s hope 2009 brings more aloha into all of our lives. Happy New Year.

Christmas Carols in Adelaide

I didn’t have high hopes for Adelaide. No one I knew had ever said anything good about it. They’d raved about Melbourne and Sydney, even Darwin, but Adelaide hadn’t generated much enthusiasm. So I planned just one quick overnight before heading up to the tropical Northern Territory after a week in the arid outback of South Australia.

I was staying six miles from Adelaide’s city center in Glenelg, right on the beach at the end of a streetcar line adjacent to Moseley Square. The December sun was still high above the sea when I looked out my window and saw the party going on. The wide, brown beach was full of people enjoying themselves. The sea was calm, a bay without breakers, and people were strolling along a jetty that reached far out into the harbor. I was hot, tired, and dirty after a long ride from the outback, and it took a heartbeat to decide the best way to cool off was to go for a swim in the sea.

The water caressed me as I swam back and forth, floated endlessly under the blue sky wondering if I should just stay there until the sun went down. I didn’t, but after I took a shower and looked out my window again, I knew I had to be outside. It was one of those moments when everything conspired to create good feelings: the balmy evening, the sunset, the people enjoying the festivity of simply being out together seemingly with no cares.

I strolled along the jetty with toddlers testing their legs, kids chasing each other, adolescents and singles strutting their stuff, parents and infants and grandparents all out in a display too wholesome to be believed. Summer dresses, bathing suits, rollerblades, fine figures of both women and men, it was all there, bathed in the end of a fine summer day. The sun was a red dome on the horizon, rays shooting up from beneath the sea illuminating high clouds in breaths of fire. For a moment everyone fell silent in awe, except for the daredevils leaping from a platform where a sign read, “Diving or Jumping from Jetty Prohibited.”

I exchanged glances with a handsome grandmother in a blue sun dress and soon she was looking over my shoulder as I scribbled in my notebook.

“Oh, I thought you were sketching,” she said, both embarrassed and disappointed to see that I was a mere note taker.

“No, I’m afraid that’s a talent that’s escaped me.”

“Are you from the States?” she asked, and then we were off and running. She told me about her visit to relatives in Florida, how she was afraid to be in New York alone, about her son who competed in the Americas Cup and will do so again. Before long her husband was at my side showing me photos of the hovercraft he had built himself because a fisherman swore there wasn’t such a vessel in all of South Australia.

In time we said good-bye and I wandered to Jetty Road as darkness fell. The street was lined with pizza parlors, Greek delis, restaurants, and fast-food joints; people spilled over outdoor tables. I ate a souvlaki sandwich on the fly and watched vintage 1929 tram cars come and go from Moseley Square.

A crowd of rugby types drank loudly outside a bar at the edge of the square. Next door a jazz band was ripping through some riffs and inside people were dancing wildly. Outside, a three-year-old mimicked the dancers in a hilarious performance that soon drew the attention of everyone inside except those being mocked, even the band members nodded to the little impresario. Her mother stood back and watched, charmed to see her child entertaining so many people and happy to be relieved of her motherly duties for a spell. Inside, the non-dancers were doubled over with laughter.

I made my way across the square and past an amusement area with video games, a waterslide, dodge-em cars, a carousel. Ahead a Ferris wheel turned but I was drawn by familiar music, voices raised in song. The music came from a long, grassy area rimmed with Norfolk pines and sunken like an amphitheater. It was full of lights, burning candles in the hands of hundreds, maybe thousands, of people. The candles illuminated their faces, captured the sweet expressions of people singing with feeling in the warm, warm night. “Hark the herald angels sing” rose into the balmy breeze. On a stage at one end a woman led the song. Behind me the carousel spun. I stood there, inexplicably transfixed, moved beyond words. Christmas. Yes, it was almost Christmas. But how could that be? The days were so long, the nights so warm.

“Silent night,” the congregation began, and I felt a flush rise to my face. “They’re singing Christmas carols,” I thought, almost saying it out loud. Around me everyone held candles in makeshift holders to protect their hands from the hot wax. Lights glowed like fireflies in the darkness, and the band played. I stood there a long time, then sat in the grass with my neighbors, even joined in singing the familiar songs. It was astonishing how homey this moment was, how welcome I felt and how comforted I was celebrating Christmas with strangers in the dark so very far from home. I was suddenly aware of how important this kind of event must have been the first time it was staged, how symbolic of the settling of Australia it was. In the early years this would have represented the powerful need of these people to create something familiar, a piece of England in this distant, desolate land. Today, the settlers are settled, and this piece of England is thriving.

As if in a childhood dream I was drawn to the Ferris wheel. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been on one and suddenly it seemed important to take a ride. I’d spent most of my small bills but the operator let me ride for the change in my pocket, and as I rose up into the black sky the stars came out in the heavens. Descending toward the amphitheater was like dropping into a pool of lights. Rising again I entered the constellations, dropping I fell into candlelight. Christmas carols followed me high into the sky and greeted me as I dropped toward the glowing lights with that tickle in my belly you get when the bottom falls out beneath you. Up again into the stars, down again into the candles, stars and candles, stars and candles, until the sky and the ground and the sea and the breeze and the song all merged into one. Tears welled up and I thought, “My God, this is Adelaide? I planned only twelve hours here? Does this sort of thing happen all the time?”

I had no answers, of course. No longer a child, I just rode the Ferris wheel on the edge of the sea through constellations of stars.

I understand and share the concern for the planet but I also love the whole ritual of setting up the fresh tree. As a compromise, for the last few years we’ve bought a live tree in a pot and put it outside for the rest of the year, the idea being we would re-use it again the next year. Well, for the first time in four years, our tree survived the year and is resplendent in our living room trimmed and beautiful. So, when I suggested we go to this fabulous Christmas tree farm for a day of fun, giant swings, wreath-making, picnic, tractor ride, bonfire and marshmallows, like every year I got the same grumpy answer.  I persevered.

No, we were not going to cut down a tree this year, and yes it would be fun and exhilarating without the tree cutting fantasy fulfilled. The joke is, I’m actually half Jewish and I’m the one fighting for the Christmas spirit, but I digress. We always have a great time and this year we went again but without my better half: it turned out he had to work.

An hour and a half down the coast from San Francisco on Highway 1, near Davenport, is a family owned, no-frills, old-fashioned Christmas tree farm called Rancho Siempre Verde. If you’re not careful you might miss it. If you pass Ano Nuevo State Park, home of the magnificent elephant seals and worth it’s own trip, you’ve gone too far.The advertising is all word of mouth and honestly I don’t want it to get too popular so shhhh…don’t spread the word.

We have gone four years in a row and though it is fun to actually cut down a tree, swinging on the giant swings overlooking the farm and the Pacific is stellar. You get that tingly feeling like you are flying, half fear, and half exhilaration. The kids love the hay tunnels and always come running back for more hot chocolate.

Each year I make a slightly spazzy wreath, but I love to hang it on our front door and know I made it. Martha Stewart would not approve. They have these antiquated tables with built in wreath-making pinchers that you use on the wire skeleton for the wreath. There are piles of pine and fir tree branches, eucalyptus and some advanced wreath-makers bring their own holly and other supplies. The boughs are laid down in a circle and the pinchers close by pressing a pedal under the table, like an old sewing machine, and magically form the wreath.

Families gather around the giant bonfire and toast marshmallows; you can tell people look forward to this all year. Particularly this year, when the emphasis is, happily, more on family and quality time rather than shopping till you drop, it was a welcome respite from the usual holiday hubbub. This is the last weekend they will be open this year!

How many of us will continue fearlessly roaming the globe into our 90s? That’s right, our 90s? The odds are that few of us will even reach our 90s but the amazing Hugh and Elsie Chang of Walnut Creek, California did just that, and perhaps they would have continued into their 100s if their lives had not been cut short in a boating accident on the way to see Sapo Falls the day before heading to Angel Falls.

Hugh Chang was 92 and Elsie was 90. We should all be so lucky to live the way they lived, to see what they saw, and to keep going until only an accident can stop us.

The original model, the zero-kei (zero-series), was called the “dream superexpress.” The symbol of the nation’s recovery, the train attracted many fans and holds a special place in many Trainspotter’s hearts. The lighter and faster bullet trains today, carry millions of passengers and tourists around the island nation. The latest N700-series travels at nearly 200 MPH. There is a new line in the works; the maglev line will transport passengers from Tokyo to central Nagoya at more than 300 MPH! This train is expected to be in service by 2025.

A recent issue of the Economist provides a good summary of BA’s gay appeal, with its vigorous nightlife (including a gay milonga or tango dance club), Latin America’s most liberal domestic partnership laws, the arrival of gay cruises, and even the five-star “hetero-friendly” Axel Hotel on the edge of San Telmo.

Another of Argentina’s attractions, for all sexual orientations, is the country’s wine. As far as I know, though, Buenos Aires is the only city in the world with an openly Gay Wine Store, near Plaza San Martin in the upscale barrio of Retiro. Personally, though, I’m bewildered as to what constitutes gay wine, and would appreciate it if anybody could clue me in. Red, white, or rosé?

Usually what comes to mind when one thinks of traveling to Jordan is the ancient red-rock city of Petra or the modern metropolis of Amman sprawling over its seven hills. Not many people think of national parks, wildlife, eco-travel, or extreme sports, but Jordan has a lot to offer the adventurous traveler.

You can rappel down the waterfalls of Wadi Mujib, explore the desert and Bedouin camps of Wadi Rum, search for the Syrian wolf and horned ibex in the Dana Nature Reserve, and paraglide in the Mujib Gorge, among other adventures.

Jordan came to environmental conservation early for countries in the Middle East, establishing the Royal Society for the Conservation of Nature in 1966, and creating the Dana Nature Reserve in 1989. Associated Press reporter Dale Gavlak wrote about many possibilities for adventure in his Dec. 10 AP story.

There are lots of places on the planet that qualify as the back of beyond, but the tropical South American nation of Suriname can certainly lay claim to the title, as Andy Isaacson reveals in his Dec. 7 story in the San Francisco Chronicle.

Once upon a time, long before Costa Rica became a prime eco-tourism destination for North American travelers, Suriname was a haven for birdwatchers, but political troubles in the 1980s shut down the country’s small tourism industry. Just when the country was about to sell off big chunks of forestland to timber interests, Conservation International stepped in and helped convince the government to stake its future on conservation and eco-tourism development rather than strip out its natural resources.

Jungle lodges have sprung up, or rather, been built over time, and it’s possible to explore deep into the heart of the rain forest and stay in a lodge owned and operated by the indigenous people of the region. Tourism numbers are likely to remain small, and with 90 percent of the country covered in rain forest, the opportunities for exploring a world largely unchanged from its primordial state are excellent.

Paramaribo, the capital city, also has its appeal. Its main core is a UNESCO World Heritage Site because of the Dutch colonial architecture, despite being in the back of beyond.

It was the day after Thanksgiving and with stretched out bellies we threw our camping gear in our car, made sure we had hats, gloves, plenty of cocoa and we headed out of the city towards the Sonoma Coast. My husband had to work so I was initially reluctant to join our friends on the impromptu trip. I’m loath to admit it, but despite my claims of equality and the notion that I can do most anything I put my mind to, I usually wind up caring for the kids and organizing food when we go camping. Sometimes I over-think the food and this time I just raided the fridge and cabinets and grabbed what we had.

On a beautiful day, without much preparation, off we went. Near Jenner on the Sonoma Coast we turned inland to Pomo Canyon Campground; a stellar walk-in site for tents. The sites were nestled in the redwood forest, but rolling hills and coastal scenery were close by and the toasty autumn light accentuated the beauty of the surroundings. I discovered later in the week, that nearby, a new land trust had just been created called the Jenner Headlands. Run by the Sonoma Land Trust, the 5,630 acres were purchased adjacent to more than 13,000 acres of the Sonoma Coast State Park and will create more than 30 miles of a relatively unbroken stretch of preserved land from Bodega Head to Fort Ross.

The area is teeming with wildlife as we found out late at night when our camp was raided by a family of raccoons; the only moment I freaked out a bit on my own with my boys in the tent. Our group of three adults and four boys hiked, ate our motley, ad-hoc meals and explored the surroundings. We slept in our sleeping bags with both a quilt and a blanket to keep us warm. Tired from the day’s activities and looking forward to reading in the tent we all went to bed at about 8:30 and slept till 7:30; surprisingly we felt totally rested and chipper in the morning.

On our drive home, we stopped in Guerneville for possibly the best ice cream I’ve ever had at Flavors Unlimited. Now, if this getaway sounds appealing, minus the camping, I can recommend a lovely Bed and Breakfast in Gualala, just up the Highway 1 from Jenner.  The North Coast Country Inn would be fabulous in any season.  Great rooms, yummy breakfasts and a hot tub set in a redwood circle make this the perfect setting to experience the coast.  My husband and I spent a cozy, rainy weekend there without the kids, exploring the beaches, wineries and hiking trails of the Sonoma Coast.