Category: On Travel

On Travel/

Missoni Checks out of Edinburgh

Edinburgh is a cool city —pretty cobblestoned streets, majestic hills, sweeping valleys, and a smashing choice of fine restaurants.  We loved The Honours. Not much in choice for cafes and bistros, if you ask me, unless you like pizza, pizza and pizza.

I thought we were in Scotland. Still, I love going there, if for no other reason than to stay at the Hotel Missoni, described by the summery dressed Scottish woman, whom I sat next to on the plane, as very American.

Have I got  news for her?  It’s Italian, not to mention that the weather is not summer yet, not even spring.

Never mind. In any case, the Hotel Missoni is leaving Edinburgh, not the hotel per se, but the design house is taking its name off the five-star hotel sometime in June this year.

Previously, having bagged two great buys at a quietly closing Missoni store in Westfield Shopping Centre in West London, a month or so ago, I immediately jumped to the conclusion that Missoni must have been on the decline. My heart ached, as I have so enjoyed the brand over the years and feel as if I am just warming up. Not now, please!

On the contrary, the massage therapist, explained as she caressed the stress out of my back.

While the fate of the Missoni empire does seem a bit hush hush—closing shops and only trading in department stores, at least in London, and taking their name off of a remarkable hotel—it’s well known in the industry that co-founder, Rosita Missoni, is likely to retire in her early eighties.

Daughter Angela has been creative director for years now while her mother headed up a new home collection and opened a few luxury hotels, the flagship one in Edinburgh, a few years ago. Somewhere along the way, Rosita might just have loss her soul, understandingly, having lost her son and his wife prematurely in a plane crash in 2013 and then her beloved husband and longtime business partner a few months later.

Though the epitome of modern design in one of the world’s most traditional cities (aside from the onslaught of pizza places) Hotel Missoni will be missed, if only by me.

I’ll just have to find another hang out in Edinburgh. I do like the city.  While strolling around the Old Town you can easily slip back into time while climbing a mountain of stairs to Edinburgh Castle or making your way back to lower ground, where there are gorgeous cathedrals such as St Giles, the old government buildings, and several narrow historical buildings that have become museums of sorts or fine restaurants. And the entire time, your ears ring to the sound of bagpipes.

But if you’re not much into that sort of old thing and you prefer the new scene, Edinburgh has much to offer there, too, even if a festival isn’t going on.  Last time, we went to the new Scottish Parliament, and this time, visited the Museum of Scotland. Impressive!

And no trip to any city would be complete, not for me, without a bit of shopping, though I find the scene in E-burgh lacking. While Harvey Nichols doesn’t have a patch on their flagship store in London, I managed to find a really cool local designer and walked away with some gorgeous knitwear. Got some for my BFF, too!

Enchanting is the word that springs to mind. Speaking of spring, it was spring when we arrived–so there, the florally dressed Scottish woman on the plane actually had news for me—but sadly for her, it was winter when we left.

That’s old news, right. Still, we had a great time.

On Travel/

Bath offers the best of the British Countryside

This past weekend, Paul and I had a short beak in one of my favourite places in the UK outside of London—Bath.

A historic city, known to many for the Roman Baths and Pulteney Bridge, for example, Bath is a rather regal city that also happens to be very pretty, and when I think of the word pretty, I think engaging. From the Georgian buildings to the lovely cobblestone streets, it is a great place for simply being.

This visit, we happened upon a National Trust property called Prior Park, just outside of Bath, where we saw the city from a different viewpoint. Built by Ralph Allen in the 1700s to exhibit the beautiful honey-coloured stone that is seen around Bath today, Prior Park offers breath-taking views of Bath.

And if one so happens to tire of looking at the pretty city in the distance, the garden itself has plenty to offer, including the mansion, now a private school. As it was the best weather weekend of the year, a tease of what’s to come, we had about a one-hour jaunt discovering the landscape garden.

Finally, Bath tops my favourites in Britain because it is an easy day trip from London, but offers great overnight accommodation, too.  This time around, we  stayed at Bailbrook House Hotel, a great find, if I must say so myself, though I didn’t find it.

Never mind, a good time was had by all, in this favourite hotspot.

On Travel/

Seeking the Silence of Prague in London

In London, we are bombarded with sounds, as daily construction work progresses and life in general takes it course, horns honking, sirens screaming, people shouting and so on. Even when I am running, I hear the jingling of bicycle bells and the rustling noise the tires make on the boardwalk.

As I write this blog, the jack hammering fills my ears. I can’t escape it unless I leave my home. Where am I to go—to a coffee shop, for a walk along the Thames Path, to the library? Where can I get some respite from this noise?

Lucky for me, so I think, I know just the place. I head out the door and make my way to the boardwalk, which leads to Hotel Verta’s luxury spa and gym, where I will see my trainer for our weekly one-hour session.

But no sooner than I join the footpath, I see her heading my way. So much for a quiet walk but her company is welcome. A pleasant woman, she engages me in interesting chitchat along the way. Still, in the distance I hear the screaming of an ambulance, a police car, the buzzing of a helicopter, even if it is only in my head by association. Verta is where London’s heliport is located.

Never mind, I smile to myself knowing that in minutes I will be inside the sanctuary—peace and quiet at last, so I think. More on that later!

For now, speaking of silence, Prague, the capital of the Czech Republic, has a quiet quality about it that is unbeknownst to most cities. Last week in honour of Valentines Day, Paul whisked me away to this magically beautiful city, where we had only been once in 2001. Then neither of us noticed its stillness, perhaps so overwhelmed by the tragic hijackings of September that year.

Heaving with tourists, particularly in its hot spots such as the Charles Bridge and Prague Castle, we found it quite possible to slip into stillness, admiring the historic buildings and imaginative sculptures positioned around the city.

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Were it not for the worry of pickpockets, as we were constantly reminded, and the consequences of globalisation—McDonalds, Starbucks and the occasional contemporary eyesore such as the Intercontinental, built in the 70s—we could have easily envisaged the city as it was centuries ago.

Also, while standing on a lesser-known bridge and overlooking a neatly manicured park, it was easy to imagine Prague as the perfect place for a clandestine rendezvous. Shush, not that, but rather a place where allies might have exchanged intelligence during the Cold War.

And maybe it was. As it happens we met a Dutchman, who told us of being in Prague as a little boy when the city was on the brink of Russian invasion.  He remembered people ushering his family in the right direction, so to speak, until they were out of the city. They had no idea what they might have come up against, until they returned to Holland.

What a remarkable story, as is Prague’s. For instance, the capital managed to escape any real damage to speak of during World War II.

According to a tour guide, folklore tells it that Prague was Hitler’s dream city, where he planned to live after the war.Whether this is fact or fiction, it’s a great hypothesis.

The city’s beauty is alluring, from the Old Town Square to Petrin Hill. My favourite place is Paris Avenue, where the couture designers are located, and not just for the shops but also for the stunning architecture. The city also boasts a magnificent skyline, viewed from several spots such as Petrin Hill and the top floor of the iconic Dancing Building, where we dined at Celeste, one of the city’s top French restaurants.

Fine dining… ah ha. That could be why I found this morning’s training session hard going and rather noisy. Forget what I said about a pleasant woman? On the contrary.

In the meantime, I did find peace and quiet right at my desk, if only for a spell. The construction workers, however, were up to their ears in rain. It, of course, has a way of putting a damper on things. In this instance, wouldn’t mind hearing it again, and soon.

On London/

Getting there sanely during the Tube Strike

Millions of commuters are seeking different options today to get to work, as RMT and TSSA union members strike over proposed job cuts and ticket office closures. According to Transport for London, the strike reduces London’s underground service by 70 per cent

And though I’m working from my home office with no appointments that require a commute, I have been there and done that and know what it feels like to wait around for minutes that can sometimes lead to laborious hours. It’s horrible, particularly when it’s raining, but that’s another story—the weather that is.

In the meantime, rather thoughtfully, many media outlets are offering advice on how to survive the strike. One such piece in The Guardian online suggests walking as the number one option and taking the bus as number two.

Both are good ideas as far as I am concerned, but the second is perhaps a more viable option for those who live further afield.

According to TFL, London’s 7,500 red buses carry roughly 6 million passengers each day. Already pretty busy, wouldn’t you say, which might explain why they are putting on extra buses. Still, queues are intensifying at bus stops around the capital. To this end, it wouldn’t hurt to remember that buses have etiquette too. Honestly!

1) First and foremost, please honour the queuing system. Or it might not honour you.

2) Next, while you might not hear, please stand behind the yellow lines for your safety. Do stay out of the road. This is paramount to your safety!

3) Remember, let the passengers off the train first before boarding. Yep, please let the passengers off the bus, as and when possible. During overcrowding passengers tend to dismount from the front and back doors.

4) And do move inside of the bus, even if you don’t do so inside of the tube carriage. Bus passengers might not be as forgiving, since there might not be another following.

5) Finally, mind your manners on the bus, restricting mobile phone conversations and silencing your music. If you don’t you might run the risk of traumatising other passengers.

Case in point: Last week I joined a bus as a last minute option due to train delays, not to mention the inclement weather.  On my way to meet Paul for an evening out, I had called it too close apparently.

Anyhow, just outside of the station, I dashed through the pouring rain in time to board a bus, which went directly to my destination, Victoria Station. Pity it wasn’t a taxi but all the same I was whisked away from the chaos. After making my way to the top of the Double Decker and settling in, suddenly I noticed something was awkward.

For starters, the passengers all looked like hostages, except for one young man. He, my friends, sat on the front seat holding a sleek speaker up to his ear, as if his music wasn’t blaring throughout the bus. He bopped and sang, rather loudly, the entire 30 minute journey.

As you can see, I continue to experience deep trauma over this, which is why I warn against it on any day, certainly on days of overcrowding. The tortured passengers might not be the only ones to experience shock.

So much for that! Just remember, it’s all about getting there safely and sanely, even in the midst of chaos.

On London/

Pay by the Phone Parking, the Secret is Out

Driving in London can be rather hectic, owing to volume of traffic, road works, and various road users (cyclists, motorists, runners), which is why I drive as little as possible.

But since I moved slightly further afield, I find myself wheeling out the car at least once per week, sometimes twice. Who would have ever thought it? Small town girl confidently takes to London’s roads. Recently, two friends commended me on this very thing.

Enough bragging. There is a reason for my madness. The daughter of a retired defensive driving trainer, I happen to like driving and consider it a route to freedom, except when I can’t find a parking meter.

Thank goodness for the ‘pay by phone’ parking meters in Westminster, my main hang- out. Here is how it works:

Once parked, you read the number on the meter or sign, make a phone call and pay, having already registered with the service. For smart phone users (that’s me), it’s even easier. You download the QuickPark app on your phone, register with the service, and after parking simply enter the meter’s number into the app and follow prompts.

In both cases, you usually receive a confirmation text message from the City of Westminster within seconds, unless, of course, something’s gone wrong.

And as with Murphy’s Law, whatever can go wrong will, especially with the app. As with all apps, there are glitches to work out, updates, etc. Still, in the meantime, you can be on your merry way and sort out the immediate hiccup over the telephone.

Better yet, you needn’t rush back to the car to feed the meter with coins to extend your time. All you have to do is extend from the app, send a text or make a quick call. Hassle free, right. Well it used to be until someone tipped off everybody else.

Now I find myself circling around like a vulture, looking for one space, just one. When I can’t find one, I resort to parking in Chelsea, old school style—feeding the meter with coins. The problem here is not the coins. I always have coins when driving. It’s gauging the time. If it is too little, you have to rush back to the car to avoid a ticket, if it is too much, you’ve blown a wad of money.

A few years ago when Westminster introduced ‘pay by phone’ parking meters, I was naively outraged. What about visitors who don’t have a registered credit card, I asked? All I could think of were the times when Paul and I drove around in Edinburgh, Paris, any major city, looking for a parking space. Oh how we felt sweetly relieved when we found one, just one.

The thought of having to find yet another (like finding a needle in a haystack) due to not being registered made me speak up to anyone who would listen.

People will simply not come, I insisted.  This was also said about congestion charges, the £10 per day charge to drive in certain zones in Central London. Never mind!

Anyhow, I was assured that ‘pay by phone’ meters would revolutionise parking in Central London, cutting out the scramble for coins and the race back to meters to avoid parking fines, and so it has.

Pity, the word got out so soon. Anyhow, I know other boroughs offer the option; for instance, Lambeth. But I don’t drive there. Da! Now someone just needs to convince Kensington and Chelsea to get on board, but quietly, please!

On Travel/

Remembering the Sociability of Holiday

Having returned to London after a week in St. Lucia, I can’t help but notice the pull of gravity in the air, on the ground, all around me, whereas in St. Lucia, everyone and everything kind of floated through the days and nights.

At the risk of stereotyping the people of St. Lucia, I will say they have an easygoing air about them. From the children who rode beautiful horses wildly along the beach and often showed off their aquatic skills as well, to the older gentlemen with long white hair and sun baked skin who appeared to mentor the younger men, they were all rather refreshing.

Perhaps it’s something to do with the sea that casts a spell of fleeting sociability on the people, the birds, the insects, etc. One of the locals told me it had to do with living and making a living. But whatever it was, it rubbed off on the holidaymakers, who mingled not only with the locals but also with each other as if they had left their cool culture behind.

Now I don’t mean to suggest that Britons are anti-social at home – on the contrary, if mixed in a room together to do one thing or another. Even if begrudgingly so, they mingle. And plenty are willing to offer a helping hand on the streets if asked but few, if any, go out of their way to start a conversation with a complete stranger just because, unless they are on holiday.

As such, how refreshing it was to meet a man well into his fifties, who had learned to swim recently as part of the rigorous training he took on to sail across the Atlantic in his first boat expedition ever.  He made it and enjoyed it, too! There’s hope for this non-swimmer after all.

Then there was the mother of nine; yes you read correctly, nine, who still manages a successful business. Wow, is all I can say.  And how could I forget the no named, outgoing gentleman who entered the ladies dressing room in the hotel’s departure lounge to blow dry his wife’s hair. And he wasn’t a hairdresser either. Refreshing, right. On the contrary, but never mind. He was on holiday

Anyhow, that’s behaviour for the birds literally. The St. Lucia birds didn’t honour any etiquette to my mind, hanging out in the dinning room as and when they pleased and sneaking food off plates very eagerly. Also, they visited balconies and rooms if the opportunity presented itself.

On one of our outings we ran into an ornithologist of sorts who dispelled any concerns of a bird take over. He did, however, confirm that the birds, one called the bananaquit, had an affinity for sugar, a key ingredient in the local food and drink. Ah ha!

Perhaps that explains the mosquitoes too. I got more bites than I did when I was staying out in a remote village in the Philippines. Though I could have done without the insects in particular, they come with the lush vegetation of the island, gorgeous flora and fauna.  Nothing like seeing bird of paradise in its true habitat!

Still, I’ll take it anywhere I can get it and the sociability, too, of people that is. As for the overly zealous birds, which produced the sounds of wind chimes, quite often after the rain, and the illusive mosquitoes that struck in the night, I am happy to leave them on holiday, even if it does mean giving up the tropical climate.

Back to earth!

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On Travel/

Travelling in the Company of Locals

From singing solo in a church in Poland to eating live lobster in Japan, I’ve had some unforgettable experiences in the company of locals during my travels.

So what if I didn’t sing like Whitney Houston or believe the meal was really haute cuisine, I had an adventure in both instances that I wouldn’t have experienced were it not for my local hosts. I will never forget the horrified look on the faces of the audience when my croaky voice escaped my ever so pleasant face, and the joyous grin on my Japanese host’s face as I ate from the back of a lobster that was moving its tentacles.  It would have been rude to do otherwise.

Adventure and then some, right? In any case, they are both great stories.  I savour the memories of my travels with Habitat for Humanity International, not just for the work I was doing, but also for the local experiences. I always had a local host from the time I cleared immigrations to the time I returned to the airport. And what a difference it made to acclimatising and experiencing.

Without someone with inside information, I likely would have had a limited adventure, if only because I didn’t speak the language or understand the customs.

In at least one instance, which happened to be with the World Association of Girl Guides and Girl Scouts, having a local hostess was the difference in getting into the country and possibly being sent back to the UK or at least severely delayed.

I’ll never know. Anyhow, the point is that while exploring a foreign place on your own, which Paul and I often do, can be satisfactory; it can be extraordinary in the company of a local.

We’ve been to France more times than I can remember, a favourite place for a number of reasons—the food, the history, the nearness to England—and we always have a great time. This past weekend, however, we had an extraordinary time visiting Paul’s longest standing friend and his wife in Haute-Savoie, situated in the French Alps.

When he was eleven, Paul lived with Jean Pierre’s family as an exchange student. And Jean Pierre, of course, lived with Paul and his family reciprocally. The two men have kept in touch over the years, remarkable within itself.

But as Jean Pierre said, this holiday we ventured into deep France, parts of the country that tourists are unlikely to go, such as villages near a small town called Fessy, where his paternal grandparents lived, and the mountainous areas near Samoens ski resort, where his maternal grandparents lived. Both family homes are still in use.

Near Samoens, we sampled some delicious cider made by a quintessentially French cousin, took in some extraordinary views of the countryside, featuring traditional French homes, and ruins of alluring castles that are not on the tourist track.

Even when we visited Chamonix (where we’ve been at least once before), situated at the foot of Mont Blanc, we made new discoveries—a spot where the mountains, trees, and a small lake co-exist so harmoniously that it looks like a post card; a glacier that has metamorphosed over the years, shrinking in size, but is still breathtakingly beautiful.

The French appetite for life is magnanimous, not to mention their taste for food. Upon arrival, our hosts served up a traditional Swiss meal, Raclette, which is often served in Haute-Savoie, as well. Charcuterie, gherkins, perfectly boiled new potatoes, etc. are served with melted cheese, which happens before your eyes on a special hot plate.

Steeped in tradition, our hosts also dished up my favourite breakfast bread. Voila, croissants. Not to mention, the wine, but not for breakfast, and the much appreciated translations of the speciality dishes we sampled at local restaurants.

Admittedly, we had our first delightful meal before we reached our hosts, and though we found it adventurous to choose food without full knowledge of what we were getting (Paul’s French is limited, you know), we rather relaxed in the knowledge of our hosts and were, therefore, able to branch out, sampling fish that came from the local lake.

The lake. How could I forget Lac Leman, which is Switzerland’s largest land locked body of water but extends well into France? Well remembered it will be, along with our exploration of France in the company of locals.

All there’s left to do now is to brush up on my French. What French? Never mind. I’ll stick with the locals for a bit longer.

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On Travel/

England, full of tantalizing surprises

I hate to love surprises. You didn’t read wrong; it’s true.  Whenever someone has a surprise for me, particularly Paul, I do everything I can to spoil it. I snoop, I guess, I badger, but thankfully, he’s got my number and turns a blind eye to my childish behaviour most times.

Because when he unmasks the surprise, I love it.

This past birthday weekend he planned two grand surprises, as impressive as the time he got me all the way to the airport before revealing that he was taking me to Amsterdam for the weekend. Imagine! The first of the two weekend surprises, I had managed to finagle out of him, long before we set out, but the not the last one. I didn’t find out until we were yards away.

First things first,  a week away from surprise number one, I cajoled Paul until he gave in and arranged a guessing game. He would answer ten yes, no questions of my choice. 1) Are we staying in the United Kingdom? Yes! 2) Is it somewhere we have been before? Yes! 3) Is it Babington House? Yes!

Fireworks! I got packing and Paul got relaxing. He had planned the holiday well in advance to avoid disappointment. On the Friday before my birthday we drove to the English countryside in Somerset.

Long before we got there, I remembered that I hadn’t packed my toothpaste, my robe or a face cloth. I always take the latter because hotels in Europe don’t always have one. Well, well, well, I needn’t have worried. Luxury is the word at Babington House. Feasting my eyes upon the tree-lined driveway and then the grand house, I remembered.

Yes, they had all these amenities and more in our room. We didn’t have to ask for a thing, except a glass of champagne. Anyhow, the room was just as I remembered. Paul had arranged the same one. Spacious and attractive, it had a freestanding, elegant bathtub in the middle of the bathroom.

The main house had a few changes such a massive guestroom, off limits unless you were the guest, which used to be a huge relaxation room, where chairs hung from the ceiling literally. The location of the restaurant had changed, but the food, every meal, was fresh and delicious, although not a patch on surprise number two.

I am getting there. Bear with! From enchanting grounds with breath-taking views to a cosy library with the most exquisite and comfy chairs, Babington House is one of England’s best holiday spots.

Now, for the second surprise. The Monday after my birthday, Paul worked as usual, came home and suggested we go out for dinner around 8.30ish. And no matter how much I coaxed, he kept quiet until we arrived in Knightsbridge and even then I had to guess it—Dinner by Heston Blumenthal at the Mandarin Oriental.

OMG was all I could say. And after a wonderful dinner in the most delightful atmosphere, I can tell you that Heston deserves his most recent Michelin Star for this very restaurant. If you go there, get anything! It all looks wonderful and simply must be. But we had the prime rib for two, most uncharacteristic of us, and it was divine, as was the serving of brown bread ice cream. Heaven!

Shame that Heston didn’t actually turn up there, but he does cook, design each and every recipe and test, test, test like only he can, so I am told. What can I say, the man is busy. In his absence, I managed to stash a keepsake—the menu. Shush! Now, I have never been one to behave so ridiculously, but with two major surprises within days of each other, I was feeling elated.

Some might say it was the wine. Good point, but anyone who knows Paul knows that these two surprises, back to back, are to be cherished and remembered for a long time.

Just kidding. The man is full of surprises and so is his England. Oops! Mine, too.

On Lifestyle/

Cotswolds: An expats must-know in England

“…When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.” Samuel Johnson

Samuel Johnson’s rather dogmatic quote happens to be one of my favourite; even it does get up the nose of a few good folks. Like it or lump it, London is a first class city—playground for the imaginative. And I truly don’t tire of the place.

Still, I enjoy getting out of the capital from time to time and seeing what else England has to offer. Otherwise, there is a risk of becoming insular, as if there isn’t anything or any place else in the country.

On the contrary, England has much to offer as is evident in the prolific writing of its many literary greats, including the Brontes, who lived and wrote in Yorkshire; William Wordsworth, who lived in the Lake District; Jane Austen, who worked in Bath; Agatha Christie, who used the English Rivera as a backdrop for her detective stories; William Shakespeare, who is believed to have produced many of his works from his cottage in Stratford Upon Avon; Charles Dickens, who set stories in his birthplace,Portsmouth, and so on.

But even beyond places that have been made well known through literature, there are others as beautiful and as inspirational.

Most recently we took a short break to the Cotswolds, where nature simply is at its best. From rambling vales to rising hills, the area is a walker’s treat—saw a few runners too. Not to mention the water enthusiasts from jet skiers to swimmers, though I still can’t imagine why anyone would like to swim in the Thames.  It’s rather murky, if you ask me.

Admittedly, however, the water at the mouth of the river, flowing in a stony creek, is crystal clear and even as the river widens and deepens, you can still see through the water. Also, there are other rivers and lakes galore in the Cotswolds.

But having written about the Thames Path back in April, I was delighted to see the river’s beginning and noted that it would take about ten days to walk from its source to London. I decided to pass, as we needed to be back home much sooner.

Besides, we’d heard about the weather forecast—rainy, rainy, rainy!

In the meantime, we visited several pretty villages—Bourton on the Water, Burford, and Lechlade to name a few. Endowed with lovely trees and cobblestone streets, most of the villages have unique characteristics of some kind, whether it is a 15thcentury church or a lovely water source running through it.

In terms of commonality, however, the English villages all feature  very beautiful limestone, a local church, a village hall, and pubs and tearooms, some more charming than others. For example, I can highly recommend the Lamb Inn for its delicious food, great ambience and hospitable service.

Meanwhile, in addition to its lovely villages, rivers, lakes, valleys and woods, where some wildlife can be seen, the Cotswolds also has nature reserves and farm parks, gardens, museums and endless country lanes and roads with quaint names such as Down Ampney, Charlham Lane, Beech Lea and Meysey’s Close. Sounds like a television show, a short story, a movie, doesn’t it?

No wonder such towns are often used as a backdrop for storytelling. Anyhow, for shopping and the likes, the pretty town of Cirencester is nearby as are other mid-size cities.

For an opportunity to see traditional England at its most natural, the Cotswolds is an expat’s must know. Great stop for those on holiday who want to see England outside of the capital, too.

On Travel/

Greece: Heating Up or Cooling Down

Rhodes, Greece – What can I say about Greece? Ancient yet modern, idyllic yet flawed, and energetic yet sluggish. I can also say that it tells some of my favourite stories of all time–those of the Trojan War, Medea, Cupid, Zeus, Hera, Helios and so on.

It’s a wonder I didn’t make my way here until now.

Anyhow I’m here. Speaking of Helios, he’s breathing hot air on the island right about now–idyllic for some (e.g., Paul) and flawed for others (e.g. Sonja). Make no mistake about it, I like the sun. I grew up in Georgia USA and have spent plenty of time in Fla., the sunshine state.

But having lived in London for about 15 years, my skin and hair have both taken a mild disliking to intense heat. Hence, the armour of creams and sprays to battle it. Of course, there’s two sides to every story and the other side to warm is cool, easily found here too, if you like a dip in the pool or the ocean or only come out at night for strolls by the sea. The latter takes care of idyllic for me.

As for the modernity of the place, you’ll find fancy resort hotels that come for several dimes a dozen and plenty of decent shopping in Rhodes town. But if this is not what you came for, a trip to the city’s acropolis and/or a stroll around the old town will surely offer the traditional Greece.

Meanwhile, in spots at the resorts, in town, and transporting there and back, you get the feeling that Greece is on the upswing. And so it is,according to analysts. Most recently, the country’s ship tycoons have agreed to help with the debt. Still, the ailing economy, which faltered back in 2009, has a long way to go–empty restaurants, bars, etc…are more apparent than full ones. And this is the high season.

Heartbreaking for me and I’m just a tourist. I can only imagine what the proprietors feel like, trying to lure the few people milling around into their establishment.

During good times, this might have been a sport or a game for these big hearted people. During the down times, however, I get the impression that they don’t feel in charge of the game at all. Still, as a group they couldn’t be any more hospitable. Paul and I have been welcomed generously everywhere as have others I have noticed and made to feel right at home.

To this end, there’s no way to go but up. But before we are back in the air and on the way back to England, we will get out and see more of the upside of this idyllic island–Greek dancing tonight and a trip to Lindos to come and much more.

Meanwhile, time to cool down. A toe in the pool. Okay, a leg at least. How refreshing!