When I told my mom I wanted to be a foreign correspondent, she said, “You might get into dangerous situations,” and so I changed my mind, and then and there vowed to become a travel writer. I was 12.
Fulfilling that goal, however, was not simple. There was a long, winding road involved.
During the summer between my junior and senior years of high school, I attended Syracuse University’s School Press Institute on scholarship. This prize afforded me the opportunity to take classes at the celebrated Newhouse School of Public Communications, as well as to live in a dorm, have breakfast with newfound friends, and meet deadlines like a real journalist.
All of this was inspiring, but Syracuse was only about 150 miles from my home in western New York, and I so wanted, beyond the shadow of a doubt, to wander much farther than that.
After high school, I went into action, spending four years at Syracuse before earning a bachelor’s degree in journalism. Three months after graduation, I secured my first professional job in New York City at the esteemed McGraw Hill as associate editor of Engineering and Mining Journal.
This experience meant putting into use some of what I learned during my studies. However, because the subject matter was a far cry from travel, it didn’t exactly match my dreams.
During my first vacation, I booked a trip to London, Oslo, and Paris, an ambitious itinerary I couldn’t wait to begin.
During my first vacation, I booked a trip to London, Oslo, and Paris, an ambitious itinerary I couldn’t wait to begin.
Sadly, there was a wrinkle.
The night before I was to take off across the Pond, I came down with a horrible earache. A young resident at Manhattan Eye, Ear and Throat Hospital’s ER confirmed my diagnosis. So when I told him I was going to Europe the next day, he shot back, “That’s a very dangerous decision. You could very well puncture your eardrum.”
I was devastated, explaining that if I didn’t go the next day, I wouldn’t be able to go at all. Then I turned the tables on him, asking if he would go if he were in my shoes. Without even a pregnant pause, this beleaguered medical professional who was practically the same age admitted he would go.
So I did.
But his warning came to fruition. I did puncture my eardrum, which forced me to spend two weeks going back and forth to the local doctor (no charge). I was rooming in a walk-in closet belonging to a London friend. I spent that trip lying in the closet and trying to get some sleep while my ear healed.
So on that trip, I didn’t get to see Buckingham Palace or the Tower of London. I didn’t get to look Big Ben in the face, I didn’t get to stroll through Kew Gardens, and I didn’t get to gaze upon Westminster Abbey, Sir Isaac Newton’s final resting place. I didn’t even get to ride in a black cab or on a double-decker bus. In fact, I didn’t get to experience the place I was visiting. Not at all.
Following that debacle, my life took a turn in the right direction.
After three years, I left my job at the publishing giant in New York City to study for my Master’s degree at George Washington University in the Department of Human Kinetics and Leisure Studies. Though this may seem an unlikely place to continue my attempt to become a travel writer, it was in fact a good choice, as a top-rated tourism program was offered there.
When pressed, I would say my most thrilling assignment to date was to sit in the flight deck of the now-retired British Airways Concorde, a privilege no amount of money could buy.
Then, after a year-long stint back in NYC at a travel trade magazine and a relocation to Los Angeles, I took a wild chance and began to freelance. Finally, as I learned the ropes, I also began to live my dream. Not long after that, I became a full-fledged travel writer, taking assignments that sent me around the world and back again.
During my voyages, I have climbed the steps of the Great Wall of China; danced the tango in Buenos Aires; learned the art of flower arranging in Tokyo; and saw India’s Taj Mahal twice. I checked out the DMZ, the border barrier between North and South Korea, and I slept under a tent in Kenya’s Masai (or Maasai) Mara, falling asleep to the sound of baboons screeching nearby. I also experienced the opulent Orient Express as we rolled along the rails from London to Venice via Switzerland. Along the way, I witnessed snow-capped mountains as picturesque as those portrayed in “The Sound of Music.”
In Australia, I held a koala bear in the Sydney Zoo and I swam in the waters of the Great Barrier Reef. In Alaska, I fished for salmon with my bare hands in a Ketchikan stream. In Tahiti, I stayed in an above-water room with a window on the floor that I dubbed Tahitian TV since the clear blue sea was awash with all kinds of fish. While in Bora Bora, I learned about rare black pearls carefully nurtured in a local pearl farm.
All of these experiences were eye-opening. However, when pressed, I would say my most thrilling assignment to date was to sit in the flight deck of the now-retired British Airways Concorde, a privilege no amount of money could buy. Since I was up-front with the pilot in this supersonic passenger plane as we zoomed out of NYC to land in London’s Heathrow Airport, I had the best seat on the aircraft for viewing the curvature of the Earth, a happening that was, quite literally, out of this world.
Aboard the Concorde, as we swiftly traversed the Atlantic, I remember feeling heat coming off of a window that rattled a bit. I thought to myself, “So this is what it’s like to travel faster than the speed of sound.”
In general, my credo as a travel writer is to have my bag packed at all times and to make sure to experience a destination in a way that goes far beyond general tourist areas. I always travel with my pillow, and I tend to talk to everyone because I have never met a stranger and because I always have questions. The latter is true whether on assignment or simply on a more personal quest to get to truly know a place I’m visiting during any given trip.
