Tag: Travel

Every journey begins with the first step.

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So my friends, how did I get to writing about travel, memories, and my experiences around the world? The answer is in the famous quote from St Augustine: “The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.”

I’ve always felt that life becomes even more beautiful when it’s driven by curiosity, creativity, and a touch of wonder. Whether I’m jotting down ideas in a notebook or simply watching the clouds drifting by, I truly enjoy dreaming about what’s possible and finding magic in everyday moments. Travel means the world to me—I love discovering new places, meeting interesting people, and gaining thoughts on how different cultures celebrate life in their own special ways.

I’ve been amazed, delighted, and yes, on occasion, frightened at what I’ve found. Yet I continue to peek around corners and into things that seem interesting to me anywhere and everywhere. Every single experience has been memorable. I’ve met people from every walk of life, tasted food that I loved and hated, traveled luxuriously on Concorde, Cunard, and my all-time favorite, Pan Am’s 747 services. 

While I love to roam, my heart always circles back to what matters most: the people I care about. I cherish meaningful conversations, shared laughter, and quiet moments with those I love. Life is an open book—and I’m grateful for every chapter written with good company. Truth be told, I know I never want to reach the end of the line.

Jackie Kennedy Onassis and I flew to Paris together.

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One of my most cherished flight experiences was flying on Concorde. Everything about the aircraft—the elegant in-flight service, the exclusive pre-boarding process, and the breathtaking view through the tiny windows—was truly fantastic. Of course, Air France had its own special lounge and check-in for Concorde travelers. As soon as you stepped into the lounge, you could feel that something extraordinary was about to happen. Someone greeted you right away with a glass of Champagne. Never mind it was 8AM.—anytime is perfect for enjoying a glass of Dom Perignon.

About 20 minutes before boarding, everyone was talking, laughing and generally thrilled to be in that select group of travelers. Suddenly the door opened, and within seconds all of the chatter stopped. It was instantly quiet. I’d never seen anything unfold quite like that. Jackie Kennedy Onassis and a traveling companion had just walked into the lounge; they were booked to travel on that very same Concorde to Paris. For a moment, everyone in the salon was stunned. Sure, celebrities and wanna’ be tycoons traveled on Concorde, but this was special. We were all 20′ away from the most recognizable woman on earth.

Unfortunately, there was no possible chance of Jackie sitting next to me during the 3 1/2 hour flight, so I occupied my time with Beluga Caviar, even more Champagne, lunch (at breakfast time) and Cognac. That is indeed the breakfast of champions. At one point during my meal, I looked out the window, and I could actually see the curve of the earth as we flew along at an altitude of 55,000 feet with a ground speed of 1,300 miles per hour. This was undoubtedly no regular flight; it was stratospheric. I still have the wonderful pen Air France gave us in their amenity kit. I wonder if Jackie ever used hers?

I went to school for 5 days to learn how to pump gas.

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As I was climbing the ladder of success in San Francisco, my dad helped me secure a job at Standard Stations (Standard Oil). The experience was unimaginable, especially in light of recent events. The company maintained a school for the new service station recruits, located right across the street from one of the leading vehicle entrances to Golden Gate Park. That guaranteed constant business.

It was a 5-day course over one week, with a structured curriculum that included courtesy, speed, a standard repertoire to people, how to check oil and tire pressure, and, yes, pump gas in an approved manner. It also required classroom time and graded results. Amazingly, it also included a company uniform precisely like the ones the team in the photo is wearing (including that snappy white hat). They issued two uniform sets, so we all looked perfect despite the inevitable oil spill.

I was about 17 years old during this brief but memorable experience. I went on to some even more incredible work experiences that, even now, I wonder how in the world I was hired.

Let’s take the 8AM train to Laos today?

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While awaiting our Thai permanent residence permits, we left Thailand every 90 days and returned as tourists, then waited another 90 days for a new visitor visa. Everyone knew this process well. The Thai railway was ideal, with a daily 0800 train from Bangkok to Nong Khai, arriving in the afternoon. The same train left Nong Khai hours later, allowing us to cross the Mekong River to Laos for passport stamping.

Once we got to the Laotian side, we climbed into one of several small taxis and sputtered off to Vientiane, where we arrived at the Lang Xang Hotel for lunch. Vientiane was once a French Colonial city, and even then, most people in the shops and the hotel spoke French. Everything about the restaurant, including the menus and food, was straight from a dusty Asian version of the Champs-Élysées in Paris. The food was always great, and we washed it all down with cans of Beaujolais. Who knew?

After lunch, we took a taxi to the river, crossed into Thailand, visited the ramshackle immigration booth, and received a new entry stamp to stay 90 more days. We then reboarded the train and returned to Bangkok after 12 hours. We repeated this process several times until we got our permanent visa. We also took the Thai railway from Bangkok to Butterworth, stopping at Batu Ferringhi and the Lone Pine Hotel, and visiting the E&O Hotel in Malaysia. These trips were among many fantastic experiences. We were very lucky.

Hey, do you want to see the Bridge on the River Kwai?

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River Kwai

Our family spent the first week in Bangkok, staying at the Siam Intercontinental Hotel until we found a home. One Saturday by the pool, I read in The Bangkok Post about places near Bangkok. I asked my wife if she wanted to see the bridge on the River Kwai. She mentioned she’d seen it in San Francisco in the movie, but I explained the real bridge was in Thailand near Kanchanaburi. She agreed, and we set off in our small car with a local driver.

After about 3 hours of our rocket ride, we arrived at the town near the River Kwai. We were thrilled to get out of the car, and when we looked around, we saw a small, very well-kept war Cemetery and parts of the original bridge built by the prisoners of war. We were the only people there, and we stood in the sunshine trying to visualize how that all came about and what happened to the men who built the bridge. We saw grave markers stretching into the distance and later learned more than 7,000 prisoners were buried there.

At that moment, we realized we were looking at something very, very powerful, and it was a long way away from the movie that played when we were at home. For the first time, we all understood we were living in Thailand, halfway around the world from San Francisco, and that we weren’t tourists in another country; we were in our new home, anxious, excited, and ready for the adventures ahead.

Today I was thinking of memories of 911.

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When the tragedy happened, people were stunned. For those who worked there or had friends, it was unimaginable. Although I didn’t live in New York at the time, for a moment, we were all New Yorkers. As the years passed and the museum and new development progressed, I often thought of visiting, but didn’t want to, perhaps because my memories of the buildings were too strong, making it hard to believe they no longer existed. 

For a couple of months, I worked temporarily in one of the towers. Coming and going was a mad rush of people going in and out. Our offices were on the 90-something floor. Going up was unusual; we could hear the whooshing of air as the elevator flew up to our floor.

After putting it off for years, on a visit to New York City around my birthday, I did head to the museum for a long-overdue tour. It was time. As I visited the museum, the buildings’ memories, the vibrancy of the activity in and around them, and the subsequent devastating loss of life were overwhelming. There are so many memories – and they all came flooding back the second I walked into the exhibits. The young and newly married husband of my daughter’s high school friend was memorialized there forever. She was 3 months pregnant with their daughter when he died, and while their lives have gone on without him, his name is carved in stone as a constant reminder of horrific and unnecessary loss.

There are artifacts, remembrances, photos, voices, clippings, steel pieces, and concrete at every turn in the museum. In the background, through the silence, everyone hears the song “Amazing Grace” played softly and so well by a bagpipe musician. It isn’t a museum of paintings and sculptures created hundreds of years ago — it’s a living, breathing, and powerful reminder of people, places, and an event that was (and is) unimaginable to everyone. Please don’t miss this experience. It will remain in your thoughts forever.

When the Berlin Wall came down, I was there with my hammer.

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I recently read an interesting article about the many lifestyle changes happening in Germany. Just like in other countries, including the USA, it seems that many people, especially new college graduates, are not focusing much on the events that shaped their country’s history. I’d like to share an event that occurred during a time of significant cosmic change.

For many years I’ve attended a travel conference in Berlin, and on one memorable occasion, it was held around the time the Berlin Wall was coming down. I knew I wanted to see the wall again, especially as it was actually being taken down, so when I planned my trip to Berlin, I included a small hammer and chisel in my bag.

Sure enough, one day, a friend and I went to the Wall to see what’s up. Everywhere we looked, people were trying to knock out a piece of the wall. People were renting ladders and hammers from forward-thinking entrepreneurs, but I was ahead of the game. I brought my stuff with me. I asked one of the people there if I could borrow his ladder for a short time. He agreed, and I began hammering into the wall and chiseling pieces off. Let me say right now that was one hard wall. It was solid concrete, reinforced to an extreme degree. This was Class A, East German concrete.

I was teetering on the ladder right above where my friend took this photo. I was pounding the wall, and small pieces began to fall off. I managed to hack off several pretty good-sized pieces with minimal damage to my knuckles. I brought the pieces (and my equipment) back to San Francisco. As luck would have it, one of my daughters was studying the fall of the Wall in school. I gave her a handful of brightly colored concrete to take to school for show-and-tell. To put it simply, she earned an “’A “on that project. I still have several pieces of the wall on my desk. I hope that this is the only Wall that restricted anyone’s movement anywhere in the world.

Adieu, mon ami Charles

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Some time ago, Charles Aznavour died peacefully at 94 at his country home near Paris. Learning of his passing brought back memories, and I quietly paid respects. During my first hotel posting in Hong Kong, I was briefly assigned to the Queen Elizabeth Hotel in Montreal for six weeks. Montreal feels like France, and everywhere you go, you find something reminds you of Paris. One evening, friends and I went to the Place des Arts in Montreal to see a concert by Charles Aznavour. I’d not heard of him, but when he sang (in French), it was terrific. He was a talented, engaging performer, especially when singing La Boheme, which has been a favorite of mine since then. He embodied the French spirit.

Again, fast forward to many months later when I was back in Hong Kong at the Hongkong Hilton, my first posting. One day I happened to see a notice that Charles would be coming to Hong Kong and get this, would be holding a concert at my very own hotel, the Hongkong Hilton. Of course, I had to attend and invited a couple we were friendly with to accompany us to the concert.

The concert was fantastic, and our group met Charles at a private reception. One friend said, “he’s Armenian, not French,” and my guest, who was Armenian, spoke to Charles in Armenian. He responded in kind, and the chat paused the surrounding conversation. Afterward, my friend said, “his name is Charles Aznavourian.” Each time I hear him sing La Boheme, I’m reminded of his journey from a modest Armenian entertainer to a global star. I was privileged to hear him in Montreal and meet him in Hong Kong. Life is filled with surprises.

In Spain, watch that taxi meter.

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The number one rule in travel is not to look like a tourist. Every self-assured traveler like myself wants to hit the ground in a new place looking like a lifelong resident of the very same city, and who is someone who is an expert in their local scene. This is an impressive goal but doesn’t always work out that way. Using taxis overseas is a lesson in small business management. Each person plays a different role; the driver, of course, and you as a passenger. They want to charge as much as is possible for the limited amount of time you’ll be in their cab and I want to appear to be nonchalant and informed about the ride and costs.

Some years ago, I went to the Costa del Sol in Spain.  The arrival airport was Malaga, Spain, and we were to make our own way to the conference. I was ok with that and headed to the taxi stand at the airport. I looked around and didn’t see anyone from our group, and I presumed they’d all taken taxis to the hotel in the Costa del Sol. I flagged down a cab and threw my stuff into the trunk..

In my most knowledgeable travel voice, I sat back and announced I wanted to go from Malaga to the Costa del Sol. The driver was suddenly beside himself. Without another word, he blasted out of the airport, and we began a really, really long ride to the hotel. Being the informed traveler that I am, I didn’t say anything. I was watching his taxi meter climb like a blood pressure test and wondering where in the heck I was?

Fast forward, literally.  After many, many miles, he pulled into the hotel. He was thrilled to present me with a taxi fare bill of some $100+- the cost of our journey. I was stupefied. However, I didn’t ask for the trip cost beforehand, nor did I inquire at the airport about alternative transfer services, which nearly all other delegates to the trip took advantage of. So, the moral of this story is don’t be a know-it-all. Especially when you don’t really know anything about the new country anyway.

My dad’s ’39 Chevvy sure made memories for me.

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My dad brought my mom and me home in style on the day I was born. My dad had a green 1939 Chevvy sedan (he bought it new) that looked like this image; we had this car until I was about eight years old, so I have a clear memory of the vehicle.

My dad called it the “Green Hornet,” which pretty well infringed on the comic book character for anyone growing up at the time. Here I am, decades later, and I’m still able to smell the inside of that car. I suppose this because my sister threw up in the back seat, and it never faded away; the seats were covered by a light tan, fuzzy carpet-like fabric. One puke and it was there forever.

Certain features of the car are so clear to me. The starter pedal was on the floor; once my dad turned the key, he had to mash this giant button to start the engine with his foot. At the same time, the gears were neutral. It ground away until the engine caught on; after a few more noises and gear shifting, we were off and rolling.

Each summer, we’d all pile into the car for our trek to Yosemite for a camping vacation. One memory stands out. My dad had a canvas water bag he filled for us to use on the trip. This bag had a rope handle and a sort-of clip-up opening for when you wanted a drink. The secret to keeping water cool was to hang the bag (by the rope) over one of the car’s front bumper guards so airflow would keep it cool. Or, so he claimed.

My mom hated every single second of these camping expeditions, especially when we’d pull over to let the car radiator cool off, and we’d try to take a drink of our not-so-cool water from the bag. I hear her voice asking why we didn’t stop at that Standard Oil station and not on the side of the hot roadway. I sure wish I had that stupid canvas bag today.