I’m overwhelmed by the loud, rhythmic sounds of people chanting and drumming. Hundreds of people swirl around in multi-colored batik sarongs and skirts. Bright sunshine... suffocating heat and humidity... a sweet perfumed smell of flowers and incense wafting across the potholed asphalt... all of this gives me sensory overload.

Standing on the brown dirt path at the roadside, I’m stunned and bewildered as I look out at this melee of activity. Feeling very self-conscious about intruding on such a personal scene, I look around to see only a handful of tourists hovering on the periphery.

A short old man, wizened by the sun, smiles and beckons me into a nearby open hut, where he places a folded brown cotton band around my head and a bright red and green batik sari around my waist. “Welcome to our cremation ceremony,” he says as he leads me back out into the sweaty throng of Balinese villagers who are preparing for the procession.

Located about six miles south of the intersection of Routes 951 and 41, a fishing village in southwest Florida transforms itself into a gathering spot every Sunday afternoon for an eclectic array of visitors.

On the road to Goodland early Sunday mornings, local fishing enthusiasts claim their favorite spots. Folding chairs, umbrellas and coolers are positioned along the road's edge. Road signs post a speed limit of 55 and wooden power lines, some still leaning as a result of Hurricane Wilma's visit, provide platforms for nesting osprey against a backdrop of azure skies. 

“Scenic 7,” the hushed pathway that twists and turns north and south through the Ouachita National Forest of the Ozark Mountains, is the breathtaking byway of central Arkansas.

A misty morning drive along the byway at daybreak, dipping through hollows and rising to ridges, culminates in a scenic view of the Ozark Canyon in its surreal stillness. Cotton candy clouds hang in the canyon and miniature Brown-Eyed Susans wave in the wild to escort the way. You’ll pass diamond fields of caverns, quarries, and crystal mines… camping, corn crops, and picnics… while little brown turtles in army-green helmets cross with care.

“DON’T MAKE EYE CONTACT!” my fishing buddy shouted from a distance upstream.  An important reminder as I stared into the eyes of the advancing 10-foot brown bear that had quietly floated downstream to just a few feet from the tip of my fly rod. 

As I quickly shuffled backwards in knee-deep water, I heard my friend’s second caution, “And don’t run!” Both are valuable tips from the park rangers at Katmai National Park.

Our guidebook forgot to mention that Shanghai is a madhouse. A warning for us rookie visitors would have been nice.

It was my first time to Shanghai (and, in fact, my first time to Asia) and my husband and I were completely shell-shocked.

Every major city flaunts a zoo and a plethora of museums and theaters. But how many boast a rookery of mating spoonbills ringed by a moat of patrolling alligators? Perched at the bottom of the continent on the edge of the Gulf of Mexico, here in the environs of Houston, you’ll find some of the best bird-watching anywhere in the world.

Edworthy Park, with its Douglas Fir Trail, is one of Calgary’s best kept secrets. It borders the west side of the inner city and comprises 70 acres of pristine, natural parkland. It’s a gem that you don’t want to miss.

It is very rare in this era of worldwide big-business tourism that you get to see what the world's famous tourist sites were like before the advent of airplanes, tour buses, parking lots, and gift shops. We can only imagine when the pyramids, the Acropolis, or the Great Wall of China were approached without first passing through a gauntlet of tourist stalls, bus-filled parking lots, and hordes of picture-snapping tourists.

That's why when I heard about a small Nubian-owned company that organizes sailboat trips down the Nile I knew this might be my chance to experience something that would take me back in time to an era of tourism that hasn't existed for many years.

Poised as it is on the Pacific rim of fire, California is a geothermal hotbed. Underground volcanic activity spurts up as mineral hot springs from hillsides up and down the length of the state. For eons, Native American families enjoyed soaking in the gurgling springs and pools. Later, 19th century travelers refreshed themselves after dusty, hot travels by stagecoach and horse.

Early one morning, in the middle of a snowstorm, I set out from my new home in Nazlini, Arizona to attend a Christmas party in Flagstaff. Being cut from the car and life-flighted to the Flagstaff Medical Center was not a part of the plan.

Fortunately, there were people who stopped to help me. Nevertheless, I realized that had my accident occurred at a time of day when the roads were less traveled, I may have lain there, undiscovered, for a long time.

Pink cherry blossom petals coat the surface of the Potomac and flower beds thick with tulips brighten the corners of the city. It’s springtime in Washington, D.C., and even if you never left the underground metro system, you’d know it. The trains that are usually filled with adults in business suits and military uniforms begin to burst with families and school groups, here to drink in the history of our nation.

The British Rail Museum (BRM) in York, England, sits behind the York Railway and Bus Station, just outside the medieval city walls. The wealth of its exhibits is staggering. Over 100 locomotives, including a 15 by 93 foot long Chinese locomotive and the bright blue Mallard (the world’s fastest steam engine, clocked at 126 mph!), are parked inside the Great Hall.

She won’t hurt you... she’s just very friendly, especially with children.