Carolyn’s Wild Blue Yonder: Lonely Planet author and travel essayist Carolyn McCarthy has finished her short, beautifully written series on hiking through Patagonia. Guided by a local, she and a friend see some of the mountains’ emptiest, most secret land, and meet a grandmother enchanted with visitors, whose stories spill out of her delight.

McCarthy is one of my favorite not-yet-known travel writers, drawing her territory with places made intense through her tight, condensed language. An excerpt from this series: “We traverse a cirque counter-clockwise to the glacier, picking through the boulders. Clouds slip around us, giving flirty glimpses of high snowfields, a silver lagoon and the ribbon of a river below us. The valley (not to be named here) of dense forest bears not one human mark, no trail or clearing. It is as virgin as when it was born (though you could argue that, while glaciers recede, the world continues to be born).”

Last night I was picking up, slightly earlier than usual, at Newark Airport. My cargo’s normal arrival time is around midnight, but last night I actually got to float down the Garden State Parkway with weekend traffic returning to New York City.

At midnight on a Sunday, only British Airways and Virgin arrive, packed with silent business travelers. It’s just me and the limo drivers, sleepy and accustomed to the scene. But last night, while I was waiting for the much earlier BA flight, I watched the crowd spill from the LOT Polish arrival, enjoying the evidence that McWorld hasn’t yet conquered us. There is still something to distinguish every culture.

The arrivals area was another world, full of chatter and smiles, the grandmothers exiting with open, eager faces, the families greeting with flowers and kisses, caring nothing for the “Do Not Pass” barrier. It took me back to my first trips to Russia, when passing through the arrivals doors was like crashing a party where all were loved and you knew nobody.

And then they all left, and it was me and the limo drivers again. A long young man straggled out. Suit, tie, small black case — the first of the BA business crowd? Nope. Look at the shoes. Shiny tasselled loafers with a suit. Sure enough, he was speaking Russian on the phone. We all have our quirks, our dead giveaways of dress and manner. The American backpackers with inevitable khakis and shoes like SUVs. The British businessman with that open pink shirt and slumped navy jacket that an American always just fails to imitate. The perfect Church’s shoes. The Russian youth in track suits or just-too-short skirts and stilettos. And the Dutch so damn tall.

Secretly, I still love going to the airport (except the appalling Delta and American Airlines terminals at JFK — unspeakable), even with the horrid drawbacks of air travel these days. I’m easily pleased, and the Newark Airport dreary arrivals hall reminds me of a world to be seen and discovered.

San Francisco Chronicle: Christine Schoefer has written a fanciful and entertaining essay about the habit of packing for a trip as if you’re somehow going to become a different person — that is, better dressed and well-coiffed, and, of course, richer — abroad. While my initial reaction is a bit of frequent-traveler snobbery, I have to admit I’ve been guilty of a similar attitude. Not that I ever pack stiletto-heeled sandals, which I can’t walk two steps in, but there is a tendency to envision dressing better than my usual sloppy self. It starts with a desire not to look American (you know, the trainers and white socks), but starts mushrooming into a desire to fit in, to look like a local. To wear actual “outfits.” Luckily, I know by now which pair of shoes are practical for the day-long tramping I inevitably engage in, but that doesn’t stop me from pretending I always wear a classy scarf and never spend half a weekday in my pajamas.

I have just got back from Bangkok, where for the first time I passed through the new Suvarnabhumi Airport. This was kind of sad for me. I loved the old Don Muang airport. Nor because it was particularly a good airport, but because it became so familiar to me over the years that I loosely based myself in BKK whilst exploring and photographing Asia. One of the things I really liked about Don Muang was that there was a golf course incorporated into the airside. Not because I play golf, but I liked the logic of combing the two great wastes of space in the modern world – golf courses and airports. I got a buzz out of coming into land and watching people teeing off. I also liked the long hamster-tunnel between the domestic and international terminals and the crappy range of shops and fast food joints.

The new airport is a masterpiece of the airport designers art. Everything seems to be thought of, except of course atmosphere. It is also packed with that bane of modern existence – ugly, explicit signage. It got me thinking about just how much signage there is in the world. In the UK where I live, it seems that everything has to have a sign, and the more simple that people try to make signs, the more stupid they are. In Euro-land, the universal sign for a zoo is a silhouette of an elephant. But this must be used for every vaguely wildlife-based attraction. Heading for the butterfly farm? Then you must follow the elephant signs. In the egalitarian world that is Euro-land, all has to be equal. Now everyone from all over Europe can be just as confused and disappointed by the lack of elephants at the butterfly park, no matter what language they speak.

Signage is looked at as a benign helpful thing, yet in reality it is all about control. Telling me to walk this way is an implied way of telling me not to walk that way. That sign that is supposed to be on my side, is actually telling me to tow the line, to follow the crowd, to behave myself.

There is a hardcore of people who don’t tow the line. They try to go to places where they are not supposed to go, not to cause damage or to steal anything, but for the most noble of reasons – because it is there. This is the spirit that lead mankind to climb Everest or trek to the North and South poles. This is the spirit that lead to the discovery of Victoria Falls, the rediscovery of Angkor Wat and the exploration of space.

This is urban discovery, and it has its own website and magazine. inflitration.org is a sprawling website of modern day urban exploration. Broken down into categories, it gives information on how to mooch around abandoned sites, boats, churches, drains & catacombs, hotels & hospitals and various tunnels.

There is a great section on how to get into hotel pools without being a guest. The website is run by Canadians and focuses on Toronto, but the tips will hold true in hotels around the world.

If you ever find yourself in Paris, probably the best feature on the site is about Paris Catacombs, by Murray Battle. These were dug in the Roman times, used for storing bones when the cemeteries were full, and as a base for the Maquis – the French Resistance during the German occupation, that seemingly every able-bodied French person belonged to once the war had finished. Parts of the catacombs are open for tours, but predictably this tour goes seriously off-piste, exploring parts of the Catacombs that are ostensibly closed. It is a tremendous yarn and shows that you don’t have to head to far flung, remote destinations to find a little adventure.

Words & image of Paris Catacombs ©stevedavey.com 2007

Tom Swick’s column this week is a laugh-out-loud-inducing description of what paradise would be like if we could travel there. I’m not sure if it’s so funny because of the tone, the content, or both. Among the highlights: in restaurants, fish was always caught that morning and the word “sinful” never appears on the menu. All hotel rooms have views and Carl Kasell does the wake-up calls (for non-US residents or non-NPR listeners, well, you’ll just have to trust on this one — there’s actually a radio contest where the winner gets Carl’s voice for their home answering machine message). “Karaoke is against the law” and “taxi drivers speak whatever language you do.” My favorite? “The immigration process concludes with the passing out of chocolate truffles.”