This morning, I woke up at Celilo Inn, to this view:

It’s in a town called The Dalles, Oregon, and the hotel overlooks the Columbia River Gorge. This is compelling landscape in any weather; the approaching thunderstorm was a visual bonus. Additional  intrigue comes from what  lurks beneath that dam — the remains of a waterfall.

Celilo Falls was one of the most important fishing sites for Native Americans, until 1957 when the Army Corps of Engineers flooded it (and fishing platforms, and a village) to build The Dalles Dam, which you can see on the right side of the photo.

Apparently, there’d been rumors that the Corps had blasted the rock formations which created the horseshoe-shaped falls, but a 2007 sonar scan revealed that it’s all still there, waiting quietly beneath the water.

If I had been anywhere else in the world, coming across a fridge full of books sitting in a vacant lot on a street corner would seem a little strange.

But in Christchurch, where, thanks to a series of destructive earthquakes, the concept of normal has been turned upside down and inside out over the past year, it doesn’t seem to be in the least bit strange.

In fact, it feels kind of reassuring to know that no matter what happens around Christchurch, the enthusiasm and creativeness of it’s residents remains.

Crammed full of pre-loved books, this glass-fronted fridge might just be the world’s smallest book exchange.

This ‘Think Differently Book Exchange‘, located  on the former Herbal Dispensary site on the corner of Kilmore and Barbadoes streets, is just one of a number of innovative temporary installations that have sprung up on vacant lots around the city, thanks to the work of the Gap Filler Arts Initiative.

It will stay there for the next three months, providing residents and visitors with the opportunity to browse, borrow, and exchange books .

(Photo credit:  Gap Filler)

By Tim Leffel

Exploring abandoned structures built by men with big dreams—and the money to fulfill them—is a common pursuit in Mexico. Some of those dreams, however, blur the line between the real and the surreal.

As soon as I step out of the car and look up, it’s as if I’ve gone through the rabbit hole and ended up in Wonderland, only this bizarre place was created not on paper, but for real in the jungle. By one man and 40 laborers, over the course of 25 years. Concrete structures rise several stories, circled by stairs that suddenly stop. Huge support columns rise from the ground and tower above the trees, but don’t support a roof above—and never have. Around every bend is another surprise that makes no sense, simply a man’s dream images brought to life.

It hasn’t happened often, but occasionally I’ll see photos of a place and think, “Holy crap, I’ve got to go there.” Once that switch is flipped, it’s just a matter of when. It’s usually the bizarre, off-kilter places that look like they’ve come from another planet, or another dimension: Cappadocia, Jaisalmer, Tikal, Kasha-Katuwe, Petra, Howard Finster’s house. When I first saw photos in a magazine spread of surreal Las Pozas, in a remote area of Mexico near a town called Xilitla, the vow was made. Then I read about the place in Tony Cohan’s book Mexican Days. After I moved to Guanajuato for a year, I attended a party where the host had framed photos of several Las Pozas structures in his library. If signs come in threes, my time had come.

From Mind’s Eye to Marvel

Before that grand journey though, there are other opportunities to ponder what happens when big dreams meet with ample funds. Mexico is full of fantastic structures that required an army of workers toiling for years, then were left abandoned. Some, like Teotihuacán and Chichen Iztá, are restored to part of their former glory and are big tourism draws. Others have become mere mounds of rock covered by centuries of dirt, still hidden away in the overgrowth. Man can build great things, but the plants often take it all back when we leave.

Just before I visit the coastal vacation town of Zihuatanejo, a brief mention in my guidebook catches my eye. Sitting on a hillside there is another brash structure built by someone with big dreams and nobody to strike them down. “The Parthenon” stands abandoned on a hillside, on a prime piece of real estate with a panoramic view of the bay. Nothing was done halfway in this nouveau-riche homage to ancient Greece. There is a grand swimming pool and an outdoor disco, both surrounded by replica statues. Inside are stately marble columns, marble floors, and custom murals. The grand entrance gate is a replica of the one at Chapultapec Castle in Mexico City.

Arturo Durazo Moreno, the dreamer behind The Parthenon in Zihuatanejo, got his wealth up in a hurry through a manner powerful people usually get it in a hurry: through corruption. Much of the wealth came from the pockets of his direct reports in the Mexico City Police Department when he was their police chief from 1976 to 1982. His men in turn got it from their direct reports, on down the line to the hapless souls paying bribes and on-the-spot traffic tickets. He also got kickbacks from the very drug traffickers and crime syndicates his department was supposed to be arresting.

He spent lavishly on his friends though, flying them here and to his other mansions in police helicopters and throwing parties for hundreds. When he was arrested in 1984, his wealth was conservatively estimated at $12.5 million, even though his official salary was around $1,000 a month.

The pleasure palace is now surrounded by weeds, empty of furniture and the former gold fixtures in the bathrooms. Although the paintings are faded and the gilded mirrors cracked, it’s still easy to picture the mansion as it was before the chief met his fate and went to jail. As I walk the grounds alone, lizards the only signs of life, I imagine a Mexicanized night of Grecian debauchery, the pool filled with bathing beauties, both champagne and tequila flowing, and the disco lighting up the hillside until dawn. Power brokers, all in on the game, enjoying the fruits of their corruption in a luxurious bedroom on the second floor.

Surreal Dreams, Manifested

Finally though, a few months later, I am zig-zagging my way through the Sierra Gorda mountains in the Queretaro state, skirting steep ravines with an uncomfortably high number of roadside graves for lost loved ones. My wife and daughter have come along for the adventure and the little one is not helping. “Daddy, if you make one mistake on this road, we’re all dead! Just look over there; you would go straight down!”

Besides the inconsistent appearance of guardrails, there’s the inherent problem that it’s hard to constantly keep your eyes on the road when there is such stunning scenery in every direction. For the most part this biosphere is amply protected, with few signs of deforestation. The climate changes dramatically along the way, starting out with an assortment of cacti on brown hills, then rocky cliffs and pine trees. By the time we reach Xilitla, after a reported 1,000+ curves, it’s a full-blown tropical jungle, the humidity hanging on our bodies like a warm wet blanket.

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Alaska. Vast, remote, land of bustling cities which still are not quite like anything you find in the lower 48 and back country and bush which are definitely not like back country you find elsewhere. In the south there are rain forests, and in the north, the Arctic. Wildlife from moose to polar bear to rabbit to deer, and sea life from crabs to whales to salmon — and that’s not even getting to the people, who have a varied mix of background from Native to newcomer. Then there’s Denali, and the glaciers, and the midnight sun.

That just begins to show the range of what is there to know and explore. Exploring Alaska has often been a tough subject for guidebooks, too, as the necessarily condensed and selective nature of that sort of writing comes hard up against dichotomies and vastness of modern day Alaska. Frommer’s Alaska Day by Day has a good approach, though, and more importantly, they’ve chosen a good writer to follow through on a structure that invites you to tailor your own trip to the north, rather than setting you out on a well beaten path.

Have no worries, though, those well beaten paths are covered, too. Author Charles Wohlforth is a long time Alaska resident whose writing on the impact of climate change in the state has won awards. He’s also worked on other Frommer’s guides, so he knows how to research and write about both the details of lodging and dining and the history and landscape that bring you there to enjoy those things.

The book is structured first by region and then by a range of itineraries, such as, for example, three day trips, seven day trips, traveling with kids, Wohlforth’s favorite experiences in a region, and the like. He tells you when he likes something, certainly, but he also speaks up when he thinks something doesn’t live up to its billing (and tells you why he thinks that). Frommer’s are not budget guidebooks, but for many areas there are good ranges of accommodations by price (hostels are included in some areas) and food options from pizza places to high end establishments. There’s good information with costs and practicalities on getting around by ferry and by air, as well as by road and rail, and suggestions on when and where you might want to do each. The basics of exploring the Denali region, how to see glaciers and wildlife, how to see the northern lights, what you might want to do and see in Fairbanks, Juneau, and Anchorage, and other highlights that define an Alaskan journey for many are covered too. Wohlforth comes across as a man with a deep background in his home state, and one who is able to follow the structure of a guidebook plan while writing well about a place he loves.

There are loads of photographs, and maps as well, to go along with the text. Informational photos, so to speak, give you an occasional flavor of a restaurant or the feeling of a lodging, maps help you find and keep your bearings as you think about traveling across the state, and shots of landscapes and the sea, glaciers and mountains and forests, may have you dreaming of an Alaska trip even if you weren’t thinking of doing so. There’s a lot to take in within Frommer’s Alaska Day by Day, but it should prove a useful guide and a good companion along the way in Alaska, or in your armchair.

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Construction on Patuxai Arch, Vientiane’s take on Paris’ Arc de Triomphe, began in 1957 and was built with concrete the US had originally earmarked for an air strip during the war with Vietnam (and by extension with Laos). To this day it remains unfinished, however, its ornate Buddhist carvings in stone above the four arched entrances surrounded by blank slates of weathered cement. Stairways that lead to the monument’s peak, where this photo was taken, are similarly forgotten, the hallways a bleak canvas of grey cement painted with random brushstrokes of white paint and plaster here and there.

Something about Patuxai fascinates me. In a somewhat sleepy town that’s on more and more travelers’ itineraries durings trips around Southeast Asia–I wasn’t expecting quite so many twentysomething backpackers, and certainly not so many European families–Patuxai is one of very few non-temple tourist attractions and, thus, one most visitors head to. It’s a popular meeting place for locals, too. In other words, it’s attracting a lot of eyeballs, but still sits in its incomplete state.

Maybe it’s a lack of finances, or maybe… maybe it’s something else. Here’s an excerpt from an official plaque hung inside the East-West gateway that describes the monument’s history: “From a closer distance, it appears even less impressive, like a monster of concrete.” Sounds like a monument greatly cherished by the Laotian government, eh?

I headed to Pha That Luang one morning with almost begrudging resignation, like it was one of those things that you sort of have to do, but aren’t necessarily that thrilled about. That sounds a little awful considering its history reportedly dates all the way back to the 3rd century (though it’s been destroyed and rebuilt a number of times), and that today it’s considered a symbol of Laotian national pride. Well, I’d spent the previous day motoring around to a number of smaller temples, and woke up that day with a significant case of Temple Fatigue, an affliction which generally can only be cured with at least 24 hours of not stepping within 500 feet of a Buddhist temple.

It turned out to be rather pleasant, however. I expected buses filled with mobs of tourists and a quick in-and-out visit, but instead lingered for 45 minutes or so in one of the shady passageways that surrounds the golden stupa, alone save for a small family gathered near one of the back entrances. The temple is closed from noon until 1pm, so most tours will either be out by 11am or arriving after 1: try to time your visit between 11am and 12pm and you might find as much peaceful solitude as I did.

Unofficially second to Pha Tuat Luang in terms of national symbolism might be the Beerlao label. Beerlao is everywhere: it’s like Budweiser in the United States times ten. Yellow-and-green signs for restaurants and bars, which are surely paid for by Beerlao, are omnipresent and there as much to advertise each establishment’s name as they are to advertise the fact that yes, don’t worry, Beerlao is indeed served there.

Unfortunately it seems the brewery, located outside of town near the Thai-Laos Friendship Bridge, is no longer giving free tours, so I settled for some self-guided reintroduction to the beer I hadn’t tried in years. My first night in Vientiane was spent on the outdoor deck of SamYekPakPaSack Kemkong Restaurant, overlooking the still Mekong River. Here I conducted an unofficial and highly scientific taste test of Beerlao Original, Gold, and Dark. The winner for Best Taste? Beerlao Dark. And for Overall Drinkability? Beerlao Gold. Oh, don’t feel bad Beerlao Original: you’re refreshing too.

Well off the tourist grid on the outskirts of town, the Laos-ICC Center features covered pop-up parking lot restaurants and a driving range outside, and inside a maze of stalls on the main exhibition floor mostly stocked with clothing and household goods.

More interesting: a Tang Frères Lao Supermarket, one of the few “proper” grocery stores I stumbled on. Better: vintage 80s-era Litecc Cinemax, complete with a gold “Merry Christmas” banner hung over the entrance to Theatre 1. Best: Litecc Bowl, again straight out of the 80s and a too-perfect setting for a future film scene.

“The Xiengkuane Buddha Park has developed in to a major tourism site”, according to a sign near this totally surreal park’s entrance. Located out in the middle of nowhere on the bank of the Mekong, over 25km outside of Vientiane (it felt further on motorbike), past rural villages and down a road that can only optimistically be called dirt–it’s more like a bed of rocks with dirt loosely packed around them–Buddha Park is one of the most random and amazing spectacles I’ve ever seen and was well worth the long trek.

I can’t imagine many other places like this exist in terms of the almost haphazard mishmash of sculptures from Buddhist and Hindu mythology in one place. It’s like a god’s child opened his box of toy religious icons, stood them all up to play with, then left them there after losing interest. I had the park to myself for nearly an hour before a handful of other tourists arrived, with nothing but the sound of birds chirping, leaves rustling in the faint late-morning breeze, and the sound of my feet squishing in the muddy grass still drying from the previous night’s storm. These are the types of moments on the road you never forget.

_{All photos copyright Brian Spencer}