I really shouldn’t be allowed to cross the Rockies.

This is what I think whenever I read travel lit about the Western United States, which is something I’ve been doing lately.

As I’ve previously confessed, I’m not really the outdoorsy type—recall that I once managed to have a quasi-panic attack during a very easy walk in a botanical garden in Santa Barbara.

So when I was reading Pam Houston’s A Little More About Me, a collection of essays which mainly focus on adventuring out West, I began to feel a creeping sense of traveler’s disappointment, in the same category of the type of disappointment I feel when I realize that realistically speaking, I’m probably never going to visit the moon.

Like, for example, in her piece about winter camping in the Utah desert, where the nighttime temperature is 28 degrees below zero, and where frost forms on her sleeping boyfriend’s eyelashes, and where she remembers that that wasn’t even the worst night she’d ever had, the worst night was sixty degrees below zero, and “what you do on a night like is burrow into your sleeping bag, head and all like a groundhog, and lie awake observing how it feels as the numbness moves from your extremities inward. You pray for daylight. You don’t ever go out to pee.”

As I read that, I thought, I will never know that West.

A prospect, which, on its face doesn’t seem like it should be logically disappointing to me. But at the same time, I do regret the glancingly small chance of me ever seeing the frozen landscape from the vantage point Houston lovingly describes, “..the water is frozen in pockets around the cattails and bunch grass, and sheets of ice cascade down the rimrock waterfalls every several hundred yards…” I realize that it’s unlikely that I’ll ever really know a true sense of faith in my own strength and know-how.

Because, if someone told me I was going to have to do something where my eyelashes might freeze, I’d immediately look around for  a taxi.  I didn’t even really like it this winter when the temperature in the house dipped below 70 degrees. Above zero.

Of course “The West” I’m talking about is more of a concept than a place. I’ve been out west before, even to some of the places that Houston writes about—and I will be going again, in a couple of weeks. What’s more, I know I could easily freeze my eyelashes off east of the Rockies, in season, if I really wanted to.

But the point is that I don’t want to, really. Which makes the landscape of that particular desire foreign territory—and a place that I’m not sure I’ll ever explore.

Christchurch, New Zealand’s third largest city and my hometown may have been rocked by a massive earthquake causing loss of life and turning much of the central city and some outlying suburbs to rubble, but the rest of New Zealand remains in one piece and is still one of the most fun and beautiful places in the world to visit.

In other words, New Zealand is open and welcomes travelers to its shores, as these two articles, one from The Independent and the other from Planet D clearly indicate.

But not all travelers realize this. So a few NZ travel bloggers and industry insiders have set up Blog4NZ, a grassroots blogging and social media event, to spread the word that New Zealand not only wants, but needs to have travelers come visit.

During this three day event, planned for March 21-23, 2011, it is hoped that travel bloggers around the world will post articles on New Zealand travel.

According to Craig Martin, one of the Blog4NZ event organizers,

“We want a total black-out of travel content across the world, we want Twitter dominated by Tweets about travelling to New Zealand, we hope that all travel bloggers rally behind this cause and publish as many articles as possible throughout this period about traveling to New Zealand”

Sounds like they are hoping for a New Zealand travel blitzkrieg of the online world.

Want to join in?

Then head over to Blog4NZ to find out how.

County Donegal is up in the far northwest of Ireland. Water is a force in the lives of the people here. There are rocky cliffs to the west, and summer filled beaches drawing surfers and families on holiday up north to the Inishowen peninsula, and deep lakes hidden among the mountains. Those mountains have their hold on the imagination, as well, creating landscapes of mind and language which make their way into the music of the people here. It is a music as fiery as it is gentle, influenced by the far northwestern winds, the close connections to Scotland, and love of home and love independence which are hallmarks of life in the far northwest.

There is a song at the end of of Altan’s 25th Anniversary Collection which is called Dun do Shuil, which means close your eyes in Irish. It’s a quiet, gentle piece, as befits a lullaby, and as befits the close of an album which finds the five member band traversing new recordings of tunes and songs from their two and half decades of work in joyous, lively, and thoughtful fashion. Mairéad Ní Mhaonaigh’s singing and fiddle playing form a strong center for much of the work, as they have since that band had it start as a duo with Ní Mhaonaigh and her husband flute player Frankie Kennedy playing small pubs and back rooms across the northern part of Ireland. Fiddles. bouzouki, guitar, whistles, accordion, and voice form the heart of the band’s take on the music of Donegal, ranging from the high steeping song in Irish Donal agus Morag to the quiet fiddle of A Tune for Frankie, a tune to honor Frankie Kennedy who passed on several years ago, to the classy interplay of fiddle and flute and accordion and guitar on The Sunset. In honor of their twenty fifth anniversary, Altan decided to invite along a not of an unsual backing band, too: they are accompanied her by the RTE Concert Orchestra conducted by David Brophy. It really works, with the orchestra adding notes of color and depth that enhance the traditional music rather than bending it to another direction.

Kathleen Boyle is based in Glasgow these days, and travels the world with the bands Dochas and Cherish the Ladies. Her parents are from Donegal, though, and it is that which forms the basis of her album Back Home to Donegal, which she recorded in collaboration with her father Hughie Boyle, who sings as well as playing accordion and piano. It is a melodic and relaxed trip, with the Boyles clearly in sync and enjoying good musical company. The song When It’s Moonlight in Mayo finds Hughie in a mellow mood singing a tale of a man thinking of his girl, while the Scots Reel set finds the two in lively collaboration. Guests including Theresa Kavanagh on fiddle, Joanie Madden on flutes and whistles, and Charlie Boyle on drums and backing vocals sit in now and again, but it is the father and daughter connection of two fine musicians and the connections of melody which anchor the album on an engaging musical journey.

It was a musical an personal journey for Mairéad Ní Mhaonaigh, Tríona Ní Dhomhnaill, Maighread Ní Dhomhnaill, and Moya Brennan to make the album T With the Maggies, as well. Each of the women spent time growing up in the same northwestern corner of Donegal, and knew each other in those days. They’ve each gone on their separate ways to top level careers as solo artists and to work with bands including Clannad, Altan, and Nightnoise. As they crossed paths over the years they’d think of doing a recording together, and they have. This music, both original and drawn from the traditions of Donegal, is done as well as you’d think. Among the songs and tunes are A stor a stor a ghra, Wedding Dress, and Mother Song. What’s especially nice about this project is that while each of these women has filled concert halls around the world, this music, and the music on the other albums here, as well, comes across as old friends sharing favorite songs — which is, in a way, exactly what it is. Really talented friends, really good songs.

The belly of Bangkok’s blackening sky rumbled louder and louder as we picked through a small market just off the Thammasat University campus. Vendors scrambled to fold up and pack up their t-shirts, skirts, dresses, handbags, and shoes before the storm blew through; we debated our next move and the likelihood of making it to our target destination on foot, without getting drenched.

Taking a taxi would be cheap and easy, but before the weather had become a factor we’d planned on a long, leisurely stroll down Thanon Maharat, which winds alongside the Chao Phraya River, and weren’t thrilled about possibly abandoning those plans and missing out on those magical early-evening hours in Bangkok when the hot afternoon temperatures have yielded, and the day turns to night in hazy sunsets that color the sky in spectacular shades of orange, pink, and blue.

We decided to hoof it, and made it down Amulet Alley, past the Royal Grand Palace, and finally to the intersection behind Wat Pho before the rain began pouring down in thunderous sheets. We found shelter underneath the awning of a small shopfront with burlap bags of dried mushrooms and chili peppers out front. Harmless touts were lingering here, too. One of them approached and asked where we were going, a common conversation starter for taxi drivers hoping to skip the meter and charge a “special” flat fee for farang. I smiled and said “Mai chai tourist kup kun krup” (“I’m not a tourist, thank you.”), so he moved on to a young couple from Eastern Europe studying a fold-out map with confused looks on their faces.

I’m sure they got a bargain fare.

We cut up Thai Wang when the rain begain to subside, but it quickly picked back up and forced us under a terraced side entrance to Wat Pho, which was closed to tourists for the day. The sympathetic security guards ushered us in and pointed to one of the nearby temples. We sat there on a wooden bench in silence, listening to the rain, letting the time, place, and moment soak in. Two weeks ago we were packing up our apartment in Brooklyn and getting set for our move back to Bangkok, and now here we were at one of the city’s most-visited temples, in a thunderstorm, alone until two monks wearing faded-orange robes and carrying umbrellas shuffled over and stood at the steps of the temple, engaged in quiet conversation.

After about 25 minutes the rain let up once more, so we struck back out on Thai Wang. It was now pitch black, and we were now starving, anxious to find our way to our favorite pad thai spot for the first time since we’d returned. Normally, navigating over there wouldn’t be a problem–we’re familiar with this part of the city–so we didn’t think to bring any maps with us, which tonight was a mistake.

We somehow got turned around: instead of going straight another few blocks on Wang and taking a left on Mahachai, we took a left on Thanon Atsadang and endured a long march up to Thanon Ratchadamnoen, stopping one time at 7-11 for confirmation that we were indeed at least heading towards Ratchadamnoen (they giggled, and said we were), and a second time to use the restroom at the thoroughly depressing Royal Hotel.

Tip: if you’re planning a trip to Bangkok, don’t stay at the Royal Hotel.

We knew where to go once we got back to Ratchadamnoen, and made it all the way down to Democracy Monument before, inevitably, the rain came tumbling down again even harder than before. We waited it out as long as we could, but finally said fuck it, waited for somewhat of a lull, and beelined it for Mahachai as fast as possible, which isn’t that fast when you’re wearing flip-flops and sliding all over the place on the city’s notoriously slippery sidewalks.

Finally, there it was: Thip Samai, a modest joint that doesn’t look like much from the outside, but easily has some of the best pad thai in all of Bangkok (and plates cost under 50 baht, too). We were a little soaked, but as we ripped into our gooey noodles like we hadn’t eaten in days, the rain was the last thing on our minds. I thought about the khlong boat ride to Phan Fha, the markets we’d walked through near Thammasat, the food vendors lining Amulet Alley, and the quiet calm we enjoyed at Wat Pho. I thought about all the time in front of us, and all the time in Bangkok behind us.

I also thought about whether or not I should order another plate.

Thip Samai is located at 313 Thanon Mahachai, near the Golden Mount and a short walk from Phan Fah pier on Khlong Saen Saep. It’s open daily from 5pm – 3am.

Photos copyright Brian Spencer