How To Pick A Travel Agency
The trip of a lifetime can take a lifetime to plan unless you know how to pick a travel agency.
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A common misconception is that travel agencies add to the cost of your trip. In truth, finding and using a good travel agency to plan your trip usually saves you time, money, and frustration. So how do you pick a travel agency?
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Ask around!
The best way to find a good travel agency is through word of mouth. Ask your family and friends who they've used and then ask them about their trip. How did they travel? Where did they stay? Was their trip enjoyable? Getting a few referrals from friends helps you to know in ahead of time what to expect from a particular travel agent and helps you weed out the good from the not-so-good as well.
Are you a member?
Many clubs and organizations offer travel services for their members and many corporations have established relationships with travel agencies that their employees can use. "Members only" travel plans frequently offer the best values.
Compare
Shop a couple of experienced firms. Travel agencies come and go like any other businesses. The ones that stay in business add experience and know-how to each trip they plan. Make your first inquiry with a travel agency a listening experience; judge how well the agent listens to you and how comfortable they make you feel.
A good travel agent will ask you to outline your trip. They'll ask where you're going and why, how you'd prefer to travel, how long you plan to stay, and what your travel budget is. Be open and honest with your answers. A good agent will readily put together a sample itinerary that describes availabilities in transportation, accommodations, and estimated costs.
If you feel like you're getting the "hard sell" or the travel agency tells you there's only package available, keep shopping. You can always go back if you find that they're right!
In addition to finding the best rates in lodgings and transportation, an experienced travel agent can also give you some helpful tips about your destination and here's the bonus-- generally it costs nothing to use a travel agency! Because they can buy in volume, travel agencies get discounts on prices for both tickets and lodgings!
Bonjoie! 7 Lessons I Learned in Paris
After reveling in a mountaintop experience, it often takes one a couple of days to not only regain altitude and perspective; it takes a little while to fully grasp what--exactly--just happened.
Such was our trip to France.
Escorting thirty-six young musicians to Paris for a three-concert tour proved to be an amazing experience which I cannot fully communicate in this Newsletter. My words will fall short; our pictures will miss most of it; and stories re-told with enthusiasm to eagerly awaiting family members will only reveal a glimpse of the experience. What happens when vision meets strategy, passion meets energy, and divine inspiration meets faith cannot be comprehended by those missing the mountaintop. But because it is now part of who I am, I feel moved to attempt to share it with you.
Paris was, for me anyway, the fruit of nearly fourteen years of musical training in my kids. And it found my heart bursting with joy as I celebrated it. After listening to "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" played mostly with less-than-perfect intonation upwards of ten thousand times; of the foot-stomping, the eyeball-rolling, and the 'I hate the violin' when my children were too irritable to practice; of the 90-minute roundtrip weekly drives to Westport for lessons: watching not only my own Ben and Cristina, but the orchestra kids aged twelve to eighteen, perform Beethoven's "Fifth" and Barber's "Adagio for Strings" in a medieval cathedral in the center of Paris left me ebullient. Tears stained my cheeks as the music moved and carried my soul to a height previously unimagined. Friendships forged with the most unsuspecting partners, as commonalities were uncovered and shared. Barriers erected by political divisions, theological differences, and ideological disparities collapsed under the international love language of music.
It was an extraordinary experience, and I learned a few lessons along the way:
1) We stand on tall shoulders of the spiritual giants who lived before us. When one visits a city with cathedrals still standing after the frenzy of the Crusades and the numerous battles fought there, one realizes the magnitude of the spiritual convictions of those who came before us. Studying the Chartres Cathedral--and walking the halls of La Trinite and the Magdalena Cathedrals where our children performed--allowed me not only the luxury of admiring stained glass windows depicting prominent Biblical themes; it allowed me to ruminate on the vision, inspiration and dedication with which they were crafted. In earlier times in Paris, religion was not a part of life. It was life.
2) Art, music and literature are necessary components for creating a life worth living. As are good shoes, good mattresses, and good books necessary elements of every childhood; good art, good music, and good literature provide needed nourishment for the soul. Wandering through the rooms of the Louvre--and my favorite museum in Paris, the Musee D'Orsay--gave me even greater appreciation for the importance of fabulous art. They don't call these guys masters for nothing. I am convinced that the world would be both safer and happier if everyone learned to paint, played a musical instrument or sang in a choir, and read classical literature on a daily basis. Music remains the universal language of the heart; anyone who does not understand this had better start listening to Mozart.
3) Celebrate serendipity. Already a lesson explored in both my book as well as in earlier Newsletters, it is worth repeating here, as I witnessed, embraced and practiced what I preach. Most of you may know by now that I have an inordinate amount of passion for the color lime-green (or illness, depending on your perspective). It was pure serendipity that, while walking down a Parisian street in search of French ceramics and candles, we stumbled upon a lime-green sofa setting against a bricked store wall. I started laughing hysterically. Where but in Paris would I find a lime-green sofa in the middle of the street? I promptly sat down in it, reveled in the experience, and allowed it to be captured in film. It was serendipity that, while walking around a tony shopping district, I was grabbed from behind, only to find a Parisian lady who spoke no English attempt to communicate to me that her surname was "La Coq" and could I please tell her where she could buy the Vera Bradley backpack I wore which sported roosters and eggs? I happily told her--in English--that it was no longer available but sign-languaged her to get out a paper and pen so I could write down the internet site where she might have some luck. The serendipity of that encounter still makes me smile. Perhaps it was serendipity that our tour guide was darn near perfect; that our flights were uneventful; that our hotel was perfectly situated; and that the Parisian orchestra, which played in a joint concert with us, was well-prepared and delightful. Serendipity or angels watching over us: we celebrated each and every tiny victory.
4) Food plays a huge role in the celebration of life. To be French means to have a passion for all things related to food. They unapologetically indulge in the culinary arts and enjoy all of its inherent stress-relieving side benefits on a thrice-daily basis. They endorse a 'live to eat' rather than an 'eat to live' M.O. And it shows. "Take-out coffee" is an oxymoron. It simply does not exist in France. Coffee is meant to be drunk sitting down, preferably with a friend or two, along with a baguette or a sugar-or-chocolate-filled crepe as well. While French women may not get fat, American women visiting France just might. I embraced the French dining philosophy for eight days and came back with more "wiggle in my waddle," if you know what I mean. Que sara sara (or is that Spanish?)
5) Charm and charisma still work. They are not overrated. From the hotel staff to Parisian waiters to the clerk at the Ralph Lauren store: all met our needs with grace and charm. When an unsuspecting yet magnificent floral arrangement brought a constant tickle to my throat, the "Polo clerk" ordered up a glass of water for me. It was delivered on a cloth napkin atop a silver tray. (When was the last time that happened to you stateside?) When our orchestra met up with the community orchestra for a joint concert, we were--every one of us--enthralled by its Parisian conductor, Sylvan. Young and vibrant, he exuded charm with his humility and gracious behavior toward us; the hot pink tie against his otherwise all-black "uniform" proved once again, the magic of charisma.
6) "Bonjour" means something. The French refuse to start a conversation without it. Once, when I barged into my explanation of needing several Eiffel Tower charms for bracelets without the mandatory "Bonjour" opening, the store clerk stopped me mid-sentence, interrupting my banter with "Bonjour, Madame, how can I help you?" How wonderful to be reminded at every turn that today is, indeed, a good day!
7) "Bonjoie" means even more. Late on the second night of our trip, bubbling with energy and excitement after traveling to the top of the Eiffel Tower, I accidentally said "Bonjoie" (jwahr) rather than "Bonsoir" (swahr). Sarah, the perfectly-fluent chaperone to which I directed this mis-step, proclaimed: "Happy joy of life to you, too!" Giggling my way up the escalator to my hotel room, I didn't quite realize the extent of my error. But the next morning on the bus, everyone greeted me with "Bonjoie." And so it stuck. It became our password for life in April in Paris. I can think of none better.
Our children shone like sugar-coated gumdrops sprinkled around the streets of Paris, dotting major landmarks and sweetening each and every meal. I was thrilled and honored to have been part of an event of such historic significance for our young and tiny youth orchestra. They were goodwill ambassadors for our symphony, our town, and our country. Never have I been more proud as a music lover, a parent, and as an American. Perhaps my experience sheds some insight on how you, too, can celebrate life.
The Costa Brava Insight
Starting at Blanes to the south and ending at Cadaques in the North, the Costa Brava offers purchasers natural beauty, proximity to the great city of Barcelona, historic medieval villages, world-famous restaurants like "El Bulli" at Roses, innumberable excellent sporting opportunities including world famous golf courses and ski-ing in the Pyrenees.
Girona/Costa Brava airport now has four flights a day from London Stansted. There are innumerable fights from almost everywhere in the UK to Barcelona, and local train services are excellent, as is the road network. English is widely spoken, but it is a big asset if you speak a little Spanish. No-one expects you to speak the local language - Catalan.
Although cooler in winter than the Costa del Sol further south, it is also cooler in summer with daytime temperatures around 30c. Lunch on the terrace is a year round option except perhaps in December and January. The atmosphere is also very different, more sophisticated. Incomers are of many nationalities, usually retired or soon-to-retire professionals. Generally they are well travelled, fairly well-off, and sociable, but there are no foreign "ghettos" as occurs further south, so no English restaurants, pubs and bars. Eating out locally is however an inexpensive, and therefore frequent, pleasure.
This is not a travel guide. Our aim in telling you about the main towns and resorts of the Costa Brava, is to try to give you a feel for what would be the right area for you. When making a buying decision, do make sure that you are clear about what you want. Some parts of the Costa Brava die out of season. That may not matter if you don't plan on being here out of season, but can be soul-destroying otherwise.
The Hyduke Mine Road
Our family has been making bi-annual trips to the Colorado River for as long as I can remember. Tradition dictates that we go to the same place, a sand bar about a mile up river from Picacho on the California side. Picacho, a former mining town, is about 18 miles north of Winterhaven. Getting there requires taking the infamous Picacho Road. It's a long, ruddy dirt road that weeds out all but the heartiest of campers. It's a test of your vehicle as well as your nerves.
There is shorter way to get to Picacho from the west on a road called the Hyduke Mine Road. My brother John and I heard about it from a former trucker, who said he'd used it to bypass the Interstate 8 agricultural inspection station. We figured that if a trucker could do the Hyduke Mine Road, then so could we.
Our vehicle was a Chevrolet Caprice Classic; a cop car. John was driving, his future wife rode shotgun, and my girlfriend and I were sitting in the back. We assured them that this was the best way to go. The Hyduke Mine Road starts off of Ogilby Road and after about 16 miles it connects to the Picacho Road just 5 miles south of Picacho. While on Ogilby Road we saw the sign for the Hyduke written on a piece of wood and staked into the ground. We pulled onto the trailhead and assessed the situation.
To the east of us was Picacho Peak, a prominent Butte jetting out of the desert which can be seen for 100 miles on clear days. According to the map, all we had to do was keep heading towards it and pass on it's north side. How could we get lost with such a prominent feature to navigate by?
Within the first 8 miles we encountered only a few obstacles. We crossed numerous dry washes and plowed up a few sandy embankments. These things were good for a laugh and instilled in us some confidence that this was going to be a cinch. All the while we headed for Picacho Peak. I felt a little uneasy since we hadn't seen a soul and we were now at the midway point. 8 miles of walking in either direction would be required should there be problems with the car. On this day the temperature was about 95 degrees. We had the windows rolled up, air conditioning blasting out the cold and Van Helen tunes cranking all the while.
At this point we encountered difficulties in rapid succession. The car's check engine light came on and drew John's attention to the temperature gage approaching the red zone. John knew just what to do. He ordered us to roll down the windows and cranked the heater to full blast. As crazy as it seemed, shutting off the air conditioning and running the heater provided the additional cooling effort necessary for the engine to not overheat and thus leave us stranded in the desert. Grumbling passengers aside, this was a prudent move.
We came across an area where the road was washed out by a wide stream. The stream bed was now dry but the road on the other side was 24" higher than the stream bed. "We can't climb up that" was what we were all thinking. Out came the military shovel and a level of ingenuity that only desperation can muster. Within a half hour we'd built a ramp out of sand and rocks. John and I carefully studied the situation and decided we'd need momentum, timing, and perfect tire placement. After agreeing on the plan, John jumped in the car, gave the obligatory thumbs up, and slammed on the gas. I can still see the event so perfectly in my mind. John's car hit the ramp and the front end made it up the bank just as planned. The rear tires rolled halfway up the ramp and the tires began to spin. The spinning tires inched up the rest of the way and finally grabbed hold, launching the car up onto the road and tearing off its muffler. After a roaring applause, pats on the back and a sigh of relief, we all jumped in the car and sped on.
Up till this point, we always had Picacho Peak in sight. This aided navigation and provided assurance to the womenfolk who'd begun to lose faith in our plan. As we headed into the foothills of the Chocolate Mountains the peak fell out of sight. Our spirits sank along with it. John and I attempted to pacify the ladies by reminding them that we carried with us camping provisions for a whole weekend. Under the worst case scenario we would simply have to camp, which is what we came out here to do anyhow. Neither of us dared point out that water, our most necessary commodity, was already running out.
We came across a deep pond with a soggy earthen dam on the south side. The road passed over the dam which was only just wide enough for the car to pass. I got out of the car to spot John as he drove over it. On his right ride was a shear drop off, on his left was this pond which slowly leaked over the dam and under his tires. It seemed that as he passed over it, the dam crumbled, the tires slipped, and ever more water began to fall over the dam. After he crossed we had the impression that we could never go back over it again. No one could, for that matter.
Later we came to a fork in the road and decided to take the left since it seemed to be more traveled. We continued on for a half mile as the road turned to thick sand. John gave it gas enough to continue on. Soon we came upon a cul-de-sac, a dead end with the thickest sand we'd seen yet. I imagined this is where we'd be forced to camp that night. Here I think is where John's 4 wheeling instincts first manifested themselves. John slammed on the gas and whirled the car around this dead end in the widest allowable arc he could. The tires slowed and began to slip but the car continued to move forward. The car's speed gradually increased and soon we were back at the fork. This time we made the right decision.
Stopping for a rest I took stock of our situation. I realized this was a road for 4x4 vehicles. Not cop cars. In 2 hours we'd made it about 12 miles. We lost sight of our point of reference. Each of us was sweating, dirty, and embittered. We'd long since stripped down the least layer of clothing that decency allows. The secret of the water supply was now public knowledge. The car was running poorly because the muffler was torn off. This hurt our ears because we had the windows rolled down. We couldn't roll them up since we were in the desert with the heater running. Of course, we did this because the car was overheating, and so on. By this time, John and I felt we were way beyond the point of no return. The ladies on the other hand saw every bump and turn as a sign that we should turn back. Our stubborn refusal to turn back led to hurtful accusations and a "them vs. us" mentality which lingered well beyond the completion of the Hyduke Mine Road.
Late in the afternoon we crested a hill and took in the sight of the Picacho Peak on our right. It was close so we knew we didn't have far to go. Proceeding down the hill we entered into White Wash. We continued on in this wash at about 30 miles per hour daring not to slow down or even turn sharply for fear of digging in and getting stuck. After some scary points where we slowed to a crawl we were within sight of the Picacho Road. We saw that the road was flanked by sand berms used to keep drainage from flowing into the road. John didn't even consider slowing down. He hit the 2' sand berm at full speed, smashing his way over it and onto the Picacho Road.
Our misadventure was over. We found our way to Picacho and jumped into the Colorado River to cool off.
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