She greets me like an old time-honored friend—quietly waiting, ever sweet in her immutability. Victoria is quite possibly my favorite accessible luxury. She heals me of my quotidian woes with her quaint meandering streets, majestic architecture and serene harbour. I always sense that I’m in a brighter, squeakier and happier reality when I visit.
The journey began with my alarm bleating at 5:30 in the morning. This time I didn’t groan and flop over indignantly but rather popped up cheerfully and set about preparing for our much anticipated min-break. A taxi arrived as the sun began peering tentatively through the clouds and we were on our way toward Pier 69 amongst the sleepy Friday commuters.
Much to my chagrin a large group of bleary eyed high schoolers stood loitering out in front of the Clipper entrance huddled in groups of twos and threes in fleece blankies. Fortunately, it was far too early for them to be chatting so they proved to be relatively innocuous when it came to upsetting the peaceful hum of my holiday morn.
Everyone patiently filed aboard the Clipper. A high-speed catamaran, the Clipper is a passenger ferry that whisks you away to the outer reaches of the Pacific Northwest (specifically for me: Victoria, BC). Once on board, Brett and I always scramble to the upper deck to procure a section of middle seats, settle in and then promptly order two little lunch-box sized bottles of Freixenet. This go around, our in-flight attendant was so thrilled that I had given her my newest issue of “Us Weekly” she bestowed upon us an extra two bottles, on the house. As we cruised at a speed of 30 knots through the Strait of Juan de Fuca, I passed in and out of consciousness—painting my nails and reading my Nook during the conscious bits.
We arrived two and one half hours after our departure to a crisply cool, sun-soaked Canadian morning. Fortunately, we had no checked luggage so we were able to de-board immediately and breezed through customs. Ambling through those too familiar streets, winding kindly through the quaintness of Victoria, I felt home at last.
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
5.04.2010
4.26.2010
A Journey to The Silk Road
Located on Government Street a 20 minute walk from the inner harbour, there stands a store called “Silk Road” on the cusp of Victoria’s China Town. Upon entry through the front door, one is greeted by a friendly employee cheerfully offering a small cup of tea to enjoy as you browse. Of all the shops I frequent whilst visiting Victoria, B.C, Silk Road ranks among my favorite. Not only does it offer a potpourri of teas and accoutrements, but tucked beneath the street level is a cozy cloistered spa.
After making a few perfunctory laps around the store and tossing deliciously scented bath salts, a random smattering of melamine plates, ceramic mugs, and tea into my mini shopper, Brett and I plunked down to enjoy an afternoon cup of tea before I would be whisked away for my spa treatments. Floor to ceiling windows accommodated the gentle sunshine filtering subtly onto our faces and we quietly sipped our “Sea Mist” tea, referred to also as Mermaid’s Potion—a heady blend of lemongrass, mint and seaweed that is at once calming and invigorating. Lining the dilapidated brick walls are a number of crisp white wooden shelves with a myriad of tins featuring every possible tea one might imagine from the traditional English Breakfast or Jasmine to the less common choices such as Pu-erh and Yerba Maté. The wall behind the tea bar where we sat is host to traditional tea ceremony appurtenances which are so treasured that no photography is allowed.
While partaking of our tea, we made small talk with the gentleman behind the counter who looked like Alan Cumming’s doppelganger. He told us about a new chocolate endeavor in which Silk Road partnered with Roger’s Chocolates to create tea infused organic chocolate bars in Matcha, Earl Grey and Chai flavors. Before he could even finish his sentence, I darted off to grab a handful of these bars and added them to my loot.
Shortly thereafter, Brett made his way back to our hotel and I ensconced myself on an overstuffed velvet couch at the periphery of the store, pretending to be profoundly captivated by a book on Mosques. I wasn’t waiting too long (time becomes irrelevant on holiday anyway…) before a lovely young girl approached me. With genuine warmth she smiled and said that once we passed through the door we should whisper so as not to disturb anyone enjoying a treatment and to promote an environment of relaxation. Behind the small antique-looking door, a narrow stairwell descended toward the inner sanctum of private rooms. Classical music quietly issued forth from the walls as Lindsay ushered me into my suite. I was taken at once by how quaint, rustic and simple the room was. A definitively French feel to the barren brick-walled chamber gave off the perception that I was privy to a very secret club.
As I prepared myself for the luxuriating that was to ensue, I noticed a pleasant lack of torture tools usually prominent in a spa (harsh lighting to inspect pores, extraction devices, whirring towel heaters etc.) Instead, I was guided through what I might expect during my facial and body wrap before Lindsay left me to get ready amidst nothing but my bed, a mirror, and a tiny little side table on which to place my jewelry. I had nearly drifted from consciousness by the time she returned to the room so I barely noticed that she had brought in bins of everything with her (oils, salts, hot towels etc).
Perhaps one of my favorite things about the experience was that Lindsay didn’t feel the need to inundate me with questions and chat me up while she administered my “treatments”. Too often I go to a spa only to have my esthetician make small talk while I’m supposed to meditating so it meant a lot that I was simply allowed to rest. As my body was buffed and moisturized, my face detoxified, and my pressure points massaged; I slowly drifted into a delicate oblivion wherein I most definitely lost track of time. My pampering lasted two hours before Lindsay agilely and quietly left the room.
Afterward I slowly readied myself in a bliss-induced haze before I was quietly guided upstairs to enjoy another cup of tea and offer my feedback on the experience. I emerged from the spa glistening and glowing as though I had been dipped into a bath of honey. I felt absolutely replenished and didn’t even mind the sheets of rain smattering against the sidewalk as I wandered back to the hotel.
After making a few perfunctory laps around the store and tossing deliciously scented bath salts, a random smattering of melamine plates, ceramic mugs, and tea into my mini shopper, Brett and I plunked down to enjoy an afternoon cup of tea before I would be whisked away for my spa treatments. Floor to ceiling windows accommodated the gentle sunshine filtering subtly onto our faces and we quietly sipped our “Sea Mist” tea, referred to also as Mermaid’s Potion—a heady blend of lemongrass, mint and seaweed that is at once calming and invigorating. Lining the dilapidated brick walls are a number of crisp white wooden shelves with a myriad of tins featuring every possible tea one might imagine from the traditional English Breakfast or Jasmine to the less common choices such as Pu-erh and Yerba Maté. The wall behind the tea bar where we sat is host to traditional tea ceremony appurtenances which are so treasured that no photography is allowed.
While partaking of our tea, we made small talk with the gentleman behind the counter who looked like Alan Cumming’s doppelganger. He told us about a new chocolate endeavor in which Silk Road partnered with Roger’s Chocolates to create tea infused organic chocolate bars in Matcha, Earl Grey and Chai flavors. Before he could even finish his sentence, I darted off to grab a handful of these bars and added them to my loot.
Shortly thereafter, Brett made his way back to our hotel and I ensconced myself on an overstuffed velvet couch at the periphery of the store, pretending to be profoundly captivated by a book on Mosques. I wasn’t waiting too long (time becomes irrelevant on holiday anyway…) before a lovely young girl approached me. With genuine warmth she smiled and said that once we passed through the door we should whisper so as not to disturb anyone enjoying a treatment and to promote an environment of relaxation. Behind the small antique-looking door, a narrow stairwell descended toward the inner sanctum of private rooms. Classical music quietly issued forth from the walls as Lindsay ushered me into my suite. I was taken at once by how quaint, rustic and simple the room was. A definitively French feel to the barren brick-walled chamber gave off the perception that I was privy to a very secret club.
As I prepared myself for the luxuriating that was to ensue, I noticed a pleasant lack of torture tools usually prominent in a spa (harsh lighting to inspect pores, extraction devices, whirring towel heaters etc.) Instead, I was guided through what I might expect during my facial and body wrap before Lindsay left me to get ready amidst nothing but my bed, a mirror, and a tiny little side table on which to place my jewelry. I had nearly drifted from consciousness by the time she returned to the room so I barely noticed that she had brought in bins of everything with her (oils, salts, hot towels etc).
Perhaps one of my favorite things about the experience was that Lindsay didn’t feel the need to inundate me with questions and chat me up while she administered my “treatments”. Too often I go to a spa only to have my esthetician make small talk while I’m supposed to meditating so it meant a lot that I was simply allowed to rest. As my body was buffed and moisturized, my face detoxified, and my pressure points massaged; I slowly drifted into a delicate oblivion wherein I most definitely lost track of time. My pampering lasted two hours before Lindsay agilely and quietly left the room.
Afterward I slowly readied myself in a bliss-induced haze before I was quietly guided upstairs to enjoy another cup of tea and offer my feedback on the experience. I emerged from the spa glistening and glowing as though I had been dipped into a bath of honey. I felt absolutely replenished and didn’t even mind the sheets of rain smattering against the sidewalk as I wandered back to the hotel.
4.07.2010
Clicking my heels....
The enchanting barns and silos drift further and further away as I bid farewell to that all too familiar terrain of Wisconsin. The older I become, the more endeared I feel toward the state in which I grew up. For many years I forsook Appleton for what it was: a burgeoning Midwestern city that’s only mildly hokey but certainly not continental. I was extremely fortunate to have had the opportunity to travel copiously in my youth as there was a considerable amount of horizon broadening that occurred as a result. Unfortunately though, it made me long for something bigger—a city of the world. I guess it boils down to never really appreciating what we have when we have it. Now that I’m ever so slightly more mature I relish the cultural idiosyncrasies of my hometown and am grateful that it had a hand in developing me into the person I’ve become.
I love traveling and especially loved my journey home over Easter weekend. There’s something so magical about boarding a plane in the middle of the night and waking up in the morning in a different part of the country. Time becomes irrelevant. I rocked back and forth like a metronome in my middle seat for the duration of my flight from Seattle to Minneapolis. Since I was wedged into place like a sardine in a tin, sleep eluded me. My neck was cramped, my back sore, my knees continually knocking the seat in front of me. Bleary eyed and happy that the larger portion of the journey was done, I transversed the entire airport to reach the satellite gates and stopped at Caribou Coffee along the way. With my earl gray caramel soy latte in hand, I perched myself next to two couples speaking with their thickly affected Midwestern accent on subjects such as Shopko. It felt good to be home…
Upon arriving “back at the ranch” as my dado always says, I crashed for a bit before mom and I headed out for lunch followed by a trip to the mall (as is customary.) The rest of the weekend was extraordinarily relaxing and fun. A large portion of my time was spent simply visiting. Visiting with family…visiting with friends. It felt so incredibly good to be back in my old familiar territory surrounded by people who love and miss having me around—people who I miss with every ounce of my being. Having moved away, I suppose that means too that I’ve “grown up” and branched out on my own but I still struggle with that concept—it’s a process of evolution, expansion, uncertainty and learning. Even now at 29, I wonder if I have grown up. I miss my mom. I miss my home. I miss being taken care of. But I suppose that’s a part of growth and life as well. The older I become, the more I appreciate things that I never thought were a very big deal.
Don’t get me wrong- I love the hustle and bustle of my life in Seattle: filling my schedule with after work drink dates, Bikram yoga classes, dinner parties, Opera, concerts and wine tasting. But no matter how far away I am…or how old I become…there’s simply no place like home.
I love traveling and especially loved my journey home over Easter weekend. There’s something so magical about boarding a plane in the middle of the night and waking up in the morning in a different part of the country. Time becomes irrelevant. I rocked back and forth like a metronome in my middle seat for the duration of my flight from Seattle to Minneapolis. Since I was wedged into place like a sardine in a tin, sleep eluded me. My neck was cramped, my back sore, my knees continually knocking the seat in front of me. Bleary eyed and happy that the larger portion of the journey was done, I transversed the entire airport to reach the satellite gates and stopped at Caribou Coffee along the way. With my earl gray caramel soy latte in hand, I perched myself next to two couples speaking with their thickly affected Midwestern accent on subjects such as Shopko. It felt good to be home…
Upon arriving “back at the ranch” as my dado always says, I crashed for a bit before mom and I headed out for lunch followed by a trip to the mall (as is customary.) The rest of the weekend was extraordinarily relaxing and fun. A large portion of my time was spent simply visiting. Visiting with family…visiting with friends. It felt so incredibly good to be back in my old familiar territory surrounded by people who love and miss having me around—people who I miss with every ounce of my being. Having moved away, I suppose that means too that I’ve “grown up” and branched out on my own but I still struggle with that concept—it’s a process of evolution, expansion, uncertainty and learning. Even now at 29, I wonder if I have grown up. I miss my mom. I miss my home. I miss being taken care of. But I suppose that’s a part of growth and life as well. The older I become, the more I appreciate things that I never thought were a very big deal.
Don’t get me wrong- I love the hustle and bustle of my life in Seattle: filling my schedule with after work drink dates, Bikram yoga classes, dinner parties, Opera, concerts and wine tasting. But no matter how far away I am…or how old I become…there’s simply no place like home.
Please note the above image is not representative of Appleton, Wisconsin but is simply an artistic rendering of the pastoral Wisconsin countryside. Appleton is a thriving mini-metropolis replete with many cultural and fine dining opportunities.
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