Lonely Planet are in the business of travel, so it’s not surprising that they know all the best travel tips. What is surprising is that it’s taken them this long to put them all together in a book.

But now they have with a useful little book called The Lonely Planet’s Best Ever Travel Tips. Edited by Tom Hall, it features a wide variety of tips and trade secrets from travel writers, industry experts, and Lonely Planet staff.

Whether you are looking for packing tips (and who isn’t these days with baggage fees) to travelling as eco-friendly as possible, this book covers it all.

Given that I consider myself pretty travel savvy,  I wondered how much more I could actually learn from Best Ever Travel Tips.

Turns out quite a lot, especially about packing.

I’ve always been someone who just, at the last minute, throws open the wardrobes and tosses a variety of clothes into the suitcase or backpack. But that’s probably not the smartest nor cheapest packing strategy.

Reading packing expert Doug Dyment’s tip about ’bundle wrapping’ of clothes has me looking at packing in a whole new way.

I also discovered new ways to save money. For example, eating and drinking standing up in many European cafes and bars will cost you less money as will booking your airport parking in advance.

For the size of it, you wouldn’t think that there would be much information inside. But the nine chapters covering packing, money, health, safety and security, air transport, ground transport, hotels, technology, trip enjoyment, and eco-travel offer a real treasure trove of informative and helpful tips that both new and seasoned travellers can put to good use.

It is, in fact, a perfect Christmas stocking stuffer for the traveler or future traveler in  your life.

(Disclaimer: Lonely Planet provided a complimentary copy of Lonely Planet’s Best Ever Travel Tips for review)

From the beautifully restored Heritance Tea Factory, located deep in the heart of verdant Sri Lankan tea country and about 15km outside of Nuwara Eliya, a few thoughts from my first few days in the country:

+ When scaling the towering Sigiriya rock in central Sri Lanka in the midday heat, with the unforgiving sun beating down and making every laborious step feel like an unwanted chore, make sure you’re wearing a hat. And that you’re covered in sunscreen. And don’t forget to carry a few tall bottles of water.

Rest in the sporadic, shaded hideaways along the staircases that wind their way up the side of the mountain. Take your time. Don’t look down once you’ve passed the giant lion’s paws, carved into the rock, that mark the entrance to the summit.

Then, finally, you’ll make it to the top of the massive rock, sweat dripping from every pore in your body. You’ll stand in the same spot where, according to some theories, King Kasspa once lived in a luxurious palace around AD 480, or according to others was instead a place of worship for Buddhist monks as early as 3rd Century BC.

Stop, take a deep breath, feel the momentary relief of the (hot) midday breeze, and douse yourself in the few drops of water still left in your bottle. Make your way over to one of the shady trees located off to the side of the rock, take a seat, reap the rewards of your laborious climb: undulating 360-degree panoramic views of the lush Sri Lankan countryside that stretches as far as the eye can see.

And as you congratulate yourself for making it this far, make a mental note, too, to never attempt this climb during a tropical midday heat wave ever, ever again.

+ In most parts of the world, the head nod is a commonly used and understood conversational gesture. One nods up and down in agreement and side to side in disagreement, and the speed by which one nods in either direction often dictates how emphatically one agrees or disagrees with the topic of conversation.

In Sri Lanka (and I believe in India as well, though I don’t speak from firsthand experience), the head nod is replaced by the head wobble. Imagine flicking a bobblehead doll from the side, and you’ll get a pretty accurate picture of what the Sri Lankan head wobble looks like.

At first, it’s mystifying, but as I talk with more and more Sri Lankans, and as I see more and more subtleties of the head wobble based on the situation, the less foreign it becomes. I’m catching myself almost doing it too. Almost.

Playing Chicken, and Not a Drop to Drink

+ Sri Lankan motorists are an impatient bunch—they do not tolerate driving behind slower vehicles—and the car/bus/van/tuk-tuk/motorbike horn is an essential part of the country’s driving experience. Insistently and relentlessly passing plodding vehicles is the norm, even on the two-lane, one-way roads that stretch across the hill country; oncoming traffic is but a nuisance to be narrowly avoided. It’s like one never-ending game of chicken.

If there’s the slimmest of slim opportunities to pass, say, a tuk-tuk before the speeding bus coming head on causes a spectacular collision, the driver will likely take it—a beep of the horn essentially tells the passee “I’m passing you because I’m going a bit faster than you, but this bus is rearing down on me at a faster rate than expected, so you better slow down so I can get over, unless you want to be involved in a spectacular accident too.”

Repeated horn beeps rattled off as fast as the driver can honk means “I miscalculated how fast that bus is coming at me, but I’m still going to try and pass you anyway, so you better slow down right NOW.” Car horns also tell lazy dogs lying in the middle of busy streets, licking themselves and oblivious to the perilous location in which they sit, that they might want to take cover. They always do, but not until the last possible second. Horns tell pedestrians walking on the side of the road that they might want to take another step or two to the side; again, they invariably do but not until absolutely necessary. It’s all a bit… insane.

That said, after watching our van driver calmly, coolly, narrowly steer us through at least four or five especially nail-biting passes around blind turns that revealed oncoming cars around the bend, I’m convinced that maybe, just maybe, the car horn system actually does work here, and does bring some order to the chaos on these busy Sri Lankan streets.

+ Kandy is not a drinking city; bar-hopping is not a popular nighttime activity. If you’re looking to bring a few beers back to your hotel or guesthouse, doublecheck to make sure you have a mini-fridge because it’s damn near impossible to find a cold beer outside of the few bars and restaurants in the city central that sell them.

Though I’m sure a liquor store or two exists that we didn’t find, the only place we know of that sells alcohol is Cargill’s Food City, Kandy’s somewhat bizarro main grocery store. And it’s not even sold inside the store: we had to walk down the carpark alley next door, go around to the back of the store, and queue up with the other “salubrious” drinkers in town for the privilege of buying hot bottles of liquor, beer, and wine at a wildly marked-up price. (We ultimately passed.)

It looks and feels illegitimate, hush-hush, like somebody’s unloading the contents of a semi-truck heist as fast as possible before the cops find out. There are no laws against drinking in Kandy—in this religious city, it’s just not prevalent.

Sigiriya Photo Copyright Brian Spencer

That’s it.

When I fly, the What-If Corkscrew has got to come out of my toiletries kit.

It’s a cool little shiny chromed gadget that I bought in a decorative arts museum gift shop in Trondheim, Norway….because, you know, “what if” I was ever traveling and bought a wonderful bottle of local wine and wanted to be able to open and drink it on a picnic?

The corkscrew was my metal passport to a travel dream, but I guess I’ll have to do without, go screw-top or drink a beer instead.

It’s a cleverly constructed device – you unscrew the metal tube covering the corkscrew part and insert the tube bit into the hole in the curved bottle opener part, and voilà; a little corkscrew with handle, all ready for Forsyth Park in Savannah, Georgia or a green spot in Christchurch, New Zealand or a celebration tucked behind a corner in Venice.

The same innocent bit of swirly, curvy, just-in-case-I-get-a-bottle-of-wine metal is causing way too many hand-searches of my luggage at TSA security checkpoints. I can always tell when they’ve gotten to my stuff; the X-ray observer stops the conveyor belt and peers for an extended time at my carry-on suitcase (you know I will not check luggage these days.)  Staff can usually figure out on the display screen that it’s a small corkscrew, but often a lot of Latex’d hands end up poking about in my toiletries kit.

Yesterday at Dulles International Airport was the last straw; a full unpacking of my suitcase while they tried to find the cause of the X-ray screener’s consternation. It’s been awhile since the corkscrew caused any problems, so I’d forgotten about having it in my bag. On their Sharp Objects List, the TSA does allow scissors with blades less than four inches (my corkscrew is 3.75 inches long, total) so I feel that my gadget is within parameters, and I’m fine with appropriate security measures.

Fortunately I’m a pretty tidy packer and don’t have any embarrassing items in my suitcase, so I don’t really mind having everything spread all over (plus it gave me time to put my shoes back on) but what if I’d been in a huge hurry to catch a flight?  Shouldn’t I also relieve the TSA of the need to worry over my wine bottle opener so they can spend time look for more threatening bad guys? It is time to stop taking it when I fly.

But, “what if?”

That wine….that dream of a sybaritic picnic-y moment in some park somewhere….of being able to say, “Oh, don’t worry, I have a corkscrew right here!”

I need to pack that dream away, just like I’ve packed away ideas like checking luggage, having actual meals on the plane, bringing a bottle of water to the airport, wearing whatever shoes or belts I want, packing any normal-sized bottle of liquid in a carry-on, etc.

True confessions – in the nine years I’ve owned it, I’ve never actually bought a bottle of wine and needed that corkscrew.  The dream is, unfortunately, more hassle than it is worth in today’s air travel environment.

If you see me picnicking in your local park someday, bring over your corkscrew and a bottle of wine to revive my dream, will you?

Last year, the inaugural Travel Bloggers Conference was really just a tag on to the annual BlogHer Conference.

But this year it’s all on its own and is shaping up to be one heck of a conference, with speakers and panelists creating a real ‘who’s who’ of travel writers and travel bloggers, including two of my co-bloggers here at the Perceptive Travel Blog.

Allison Stein Wellner will be joining Donald George (legendary travel writer),  David Farley (An Irreverent Curiosity), and Jim Benning (WorldHum) on the Saturday morning for the Travel Writing: Upping Your Game panel moderated by World Hum’s Michael Yessis.

And on Sunday,  Sheila Scarborough joins John E. DiScala (Johnny Jet), Pete Meyers, (EuroCheapo), Jen Miner (The Vacation Gals), Matt Kepnes (Nomadic Matt), and Andy Hayes (Sharing Travel Experiences) on the SEO for Travel Blogging & Monetizing Strategies panel moderated by Sean Keener from BootsnAll Travel Network.

These two panels are really just the tip of the iceberg. In all, there will be six panels over the weekend, covering topics ranging from ethics to branding and working with PR.  Check out the TBEX’10 Events Schedule for the full line up.

It’s not all business of course. There’s a Speakers Dinner on Friday night, followed by a Cocktails Around the World event and then later the TBEX’10 Kickoff Party.

And those arriving Thursday or Friday can get a NYC City Pass and take part in the complimentary walking tours of New York City being offered by Context Travel.

TBEX’10 sure sounds like it will be a great success, with plenty of knowledge sharing and partying networking.

So who’s going to be there?

Sadly not me.

I’m holding out for TBEX’11.

Lionel Richie wasn’t who I expected to encounter on a gray morning in Venice.

I was having breakfast in the Hotel Londra Palace, and while I ate my rolls studded with pumpkin seeds spread with burrata cheese, I watched as the rain started pouring down over a bronze equestrian statue (Vittorio Emanuale, the first king of Italy), and the choppy gray green lagoon.

Music was on my mind, since I knew that Tchaikovsky stayed in this very hotel, and composed part of his fourth symphony in room 106.
But I never once heard any Tchaikovsky or classical music of any sort on the sound system of this exceedingly elegant hotel. No, what was constantly playing, both in the hotel and in shops and restaurants I popped into throughout Venice was a steady diet of US pop, circa 1980s, with occasional breaks for Lady Gaga.  That morning over breakfast, what I heard was good ol’ Lionel crooning  “ I wonder where you are…and I wonder what you do…are you somewhere feeling lonely, or is someone loving you?” and the rest of his 1984 chart-topper, “Hello”.

I felt the wobble of dissonance.

Now, I’m actually not someone who’s seriously into music – whether I’m traveling or at home, I tend to only listen to my iPod when I’m running or at the gym. But I do notice when the soundtrack seems entirely at odds with my surroundings,  and it happens frequently when I travel. Like, there was that time last year when I was dining at an excellent Thai restaurant in Mexico City –  and suddenly realized that I was listening to “We’re the Chipmunks” – Alvin, Simon, Theodore.

It’s not like I actively wanted to hear, say, accordion music in Venice, or a mariachi band in Mexico.  But obviously some part of my brain carried that expectation, because the contrast between sound and setting was startling.

In both cases, I giggled — comedy lives in the gap between expectation and reality, after all. And so does music, as Daniel J. Levitin points out in his fascinating book This is Your Brain on Music: The Science of a Human Obsession, we’re all born with a set of cultural expectations about music. At the most basic level, even the least musical person you know can predict the sounds of a scale: do-re-me-fa-sol-la-ti-do. We expect one sound to follow another, and when it doesn’t, our ears prick up – we get interested.  For instance, imagine mi-mi-fa-sol-sol-fa-me-re-do-do-re-mi-mi-re. This is actually the main theme from the last movement of Beethoven’s Ninth. (“Come and sing a song of joy for peace a glory, gloria”). “The main melodic theme is simply the notes of the scale…but Beethoven makes it interesting by violating our expectations,” writes Levitin. He starts on a strange note and he ends on a strange note” – on mi and re rather than do.

That’s just one tool in the musician’s kit – our expectation about genre, rhythm, tempo and so on, are all ripe to be overturned in the hands of a skillful musician. “Music communicates to us emotionally through systematic violations of expectations,” Levitin writes. The brain is actually trying to predict what the next sound will be on the basis of past experience — and is thrilled when that expectation is interestingly violated.

This is also why it’s hard to listen to a genre of music that we’re entirely unfamiliar with, at first. We don’t know the “rules” of the music, so we don’t get it when they’re being violated. Although there’s more to it than just this, one way to appreciate new music is simply to listen to unfamiliar music more often. (And you don’t have to listen analytically – you can absorb the information you need simply with passive listening.)

It strikes me that travel works in the same way as music. Levitin points out that people have different tolerances for musical violations of expectations  “Each of us has our own “adventuresomeness” quotient about how far out of our musical safety zone we are willing to go at any time,” he writes. And we each have a similar tolerance for how much we can stand the unpredictable in our travels – whether we pre-plan our trips to the smallest detail and get irritated when things don’t go accordingly, or, whether we can stand back and find something to appreciate in the gap between expectation and reality.

Certainly, the happiest travelers I know are the ones who don’t get exercised when things don’t go as planned.  The comparison to music suggests that a tolerance for violated expectations is a muscle, one that we can build simply through experience.  And since comedy also lives in the gap between expectation and reality,  I’d argue that the reward for building this muscle is, when finding your inevitable travel mishaps more funny than annoying.