Hello, Hi, News, Buy Jewelry, Etc.

Hi! So, your guys in the sky in charge of this whole thing, and by guys, I mean guy and girl, me being the lady involved here, are effectively, more or less, settled into Austin, Texas now! And what a change from Brooklyn. We’re getting the office together and plan on building up The Anti Tourist team ATX style (interested in being an intern? email us at shout(at)theantitourist.com).

I also have been spending some rare free hours making jewelry. I’ve used a lot of materials from my travels across the globe, so if that interests you, if you like jewelry, if you want to think about the holiday gift-giving sooner than the day before this year, check out my store on Etsy here. You can browse the jewelry (most of which is under $20) and even order a customized apron/tote bag/pillow case set. Plenty of other goods will be in there soon.

Will of this rambling over and done with, we’ll have more posts to you soon. We aren’t done talking about some of our rad trips from summer 2010, so just hold those horses of yours. In the meantime, stay up with The Anti Tourist Facebook page for more regular updates/on the spot iPhone picture-sending, etc.

Love you all,
Elizabeth

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Enter The Anti Tourist Travel Photo Contest and Win The Care Package!

Interested in winning a big ol’ goodie bag from The Anti Tourist‘s most recent travels? Then enter the most recent travel photo contest on The Anti Tourist Facebook Page. All you have to do is post your favorite travel photos to the Facebook wall and then have your friends come LIKE your photos once they’re in the Contest Photo Album. The photo with the most LIKES by noon on Friday, October 8th will get shipped a box of special things from our recent travels.

Pictured above, the package includes:

Bay leaves from Grenada
Chunks of cinnamon from Grenada
Bath Salt from Grenada
Nutmeg from Grenada
Cloves from Grenada
Handmade soap from Grenada
Organic Cocoa Balls from Grenada
Pure Vanilla from Grenada
Caribbean Naturals Bug Spray from Grenada
Full nutmeg in pouch from Grenada

Ruby Port Red Wine Brownie by Mary Louise Butter from Austin, TX

“One Foot in the Gravy” cd by The Hillbilly Gypsies, from Morgantown, WV

Winona Lake, Warsaw, Indiana

Warsaw and neighboring community Winona Lake are only a couple hours from Chicago, which is a town we loved. It’s a little in the middle of nowhere, and known mainly for the research and development and manufacture of orthopedics—companies like DePuy, Zimmer, and Biomet are headquartered here. That said, there’s also a beautiful lake, a local-centric economy, farm stands and markets, and a great community feeling. There’s even a large Mexican population, which raises the palatability of the cuisine considerably.

Cerulean Restaurant is a sushi and tapas place on Winona Lake with a quickly rotating beer selection—according to our hosts, the 6 taps were completely different two weeks ago. My pear cider was crisp and lively, similar to some Rieslings I’ve had, and my companions assured me their beers were great too—not that I would know from personal experience, since beer is packed with all kinds of gluten and I am not supposed to have that, moan, whine, moan again. In any case I had some great homemade beef jerky there as well as some incredible tapas.

The Bak Efe (just say Bay Café), also right on the lake, has great coffee and cookies which tasted like hot fudge went outside and laid in the sun. Also: blueberry scones, almond cream cheese Danish, and the best pizza this side of the Mississippi. Ok, one of the best pizzas this side of the Mississippi.

Get your ice cream next door at Kelainey’s, a very cute “shoppe” and perfect for an ice cream fix.

Eagle Creek Farm’s market has local, raw milk, local cheese, meat, and produce, and a very sweet proprietress. Stop by for an authentic, undoctored taste of rural Indiana.

On the other side of town, you cannot miss Los Gordos. Of the dozens of Mexican places in town, this was my favorite, a delicate mixture of old diner, corner tex-mex place, lounge, bar, and family restaurant.

The food is great though, with all the Mexican staples—cheesy enchiladas, cheesy burritos, cheesy fajitas, nachos with cheese, agua de horchata (or hibiscus or tamarind), Negra Modelo, more rice and beans than anyone could ever eat, ever, etc. El Gordo himself runs the place, and he’s gentleman. To be honest I don’t know if the place is named after him but whatever. This is my favorite place in town.

By: Ben Britz

“I hung out with the Yellow Deli People”: One woman’s story

The July 18th 2010 TAT story from Ben and Elizabeth about the Yellow Deli People sounded eerily familiar. I knew the name of the group before it was ever mentioned in the article: The Twelve Tribes Commonwealth of Israel. Three summers ago, I stayed with the same group for a few days in Rutland, Vermont while in the process of completing a 5-month Appalachian Trail thru-hike.  They run an adorable hostel upstairs from their business, The Back Home Again Café and Juice Bar, and offer a “work for stay” option. This means that for perhaps 1-2 hours of work (washing dishes, sweeping, peeling potatoes, whatever), we are able to have a roof over our heads and eat well without paying a dime. These deals are highly attractive to the thru-hiking community, who would do just about anything for the promise of a hot meal, a shower, and a real mattress.

From http://www.backhomeagaincafe.com

The weather during the first half of Vermont had oscillated between cold drizzle and oppressive heat, and after one of our more interesting hitchhiking experiences, my hiking partner and I arrived at the café exhausted and hungry. Upon entering, we were struck by the atmosphere of the place: intricate, hand-carved wooden beams, exposed brick, cozy lighting and with hanging plants everywhere…definitely an other-worldly Middle Earth sort of vibe, with the elfin community members happily running around with serving trays. We were greeted with warm smiles, and promptly led toward the showers (stocked with intoxicating homemade lavender and tea tree soap). The men and women were conservatively dressed, and I immediately felt self-conscious in my clingy, sweaty tank top. I knew we must’ve reeked, and yet they invited us to join their family for dinner. They were amazingly nice people, but I’ll admit I was a little unnerved by their serenity. What is their deal?

From http://www.backhomeagaincafe.com

There was a variety of reading material in the bunkrooms for our perusal: things about the homemade soap, menu choices for the café below, and…what’s this?…pamphlets about following Yahshua with all of one’s being? Ah, the light bulb went off in my head. The Twelve Tribes Community, it seems, is a branch of fundamental Christianity trying to return to as close to a traditional Jewish lifestyle as possible. This includes, but is not limited to, communal living, strict gender roles, homeschooling and labor for the children, shared finances and possessions, Hebrew names given for all community members, and universal hairstyles and clothing. After a few hours of working side-by-side, we were on a first name basis with several of the community members and our interactions felt comfortable enough to ask them some questions about their path: why the traditional, regimented dress code? Why did you join the group and how does your family feel about this? They responded patiently and smiling sweetly. They seemed acutely aware of cult-like perceptions outsiders have of the group. Whatever their reasons, they seemed really happy. I know I couldn’t handle it, but to each their own, I guess.

From http://www.backhomeagaincafe.com

Travelers take note, the people here are interesting, welcoming, and open to questions, and the food is delicious and wholesome. We were told that we should look up other community locations if we were ever in need of a place to stay. Just be prepared to volunteer in the kitchen (or wherever they need help), in addition to experiencing the magnetic pull of that peace-and-love feeling…which may creep you out a bit upon escaping the place.

By: Maribeth Latvis

Leave The Beach and Hit The Strip: Drag Racing in Grenada

After a long day of tooling around the island of Grenada in a van, cutting corners too quickly and, as far as I was concerned, nearly nose-diving off of at least 20 different cliffs into the Caribbean Sea, we finally pulled over to a used-to-be airport. The dilapidated runway was beginning to overgrow in places and cows, fastened by rope to the terrain, chewed grass alongside the cement, looking at our stopped car with suspicion.

In any other place, this old airfield would slowly give in to the overtaking of nature and become the mix of pavement and plant so many other abandoned airports have become. But in Grenada, this runway is a place for routine drag racing. Community-approved and police-monitored, big boys (and one girl hailing from Trinidad, reportedly) shine up speedy cars and enroll in races that take place a handful of times a year. With a license to gun it all the way into the crashing sea at the end of the track, spectators are wowed by the thrills and flock to the races.

As bad luck would have it, a race date didn’t occur during our visit. Instead, I cautiously meandered through the cows’ field toward a long-gone airplane. Someone told me it was a gift from Cuba which leaves me asking some questions. Did Grenadians ever even use this plane from Cuba? Or was it immediately thrown out to rot? Did Cuba give Grenada a plane after it had crashed and dubbed it a gift? Maybe it was re-gifted from Russia?I don’t know. But I do know I’d grab some Caribs and fried breadfruit and climb up on that plane to catch the view were I in town during a race. Drinking, grilling, and watching engines explode: exactly what I hope to do the next time in Grenada.

By: Elizabeth Seward, Photos By: Ben Britz

Dirty, Dirty Ihla de Mare: Brazil

It’s gritty, it’s poor, and it’s not much of a tropical paradise, but all that’s part of the charm.

Northern Brazil’s region of Bahia is peppered with beaches of every variety: surfer, hippie, resort, etc. There are also the small, undeveloped, car-less fishing islands with very little infrastructure for tourism. Ihla de Mare, located off the coast on hour south of Salvador, is one such place.

We wouldn’t have considered or even known about it if a French student we met hadn’t invited us. It also helped that his Portuguese was better than ours (we sadly retained little beyond “cerveja”).

The Portuguese proved integral, because getting there wasn’t easy. From the touristy confines of Salvador’s Pelourinho area, my travel mate, myself, and our trusty French sidekick rode a city bus for one hour through Salvador’s loud, dusty shantytowns and favellas.

Everything was bustling and everyone was, for some reason, yelling. We eventually hopped off at a somewhat random stop, walked for another hour to find a beach, boarded a tiny, shitty little boat at the end of a pier, and proceeded to teeter across the choppy sea for what felt like 20 years. Every treacherous lurch and stomach-churning drop was met with wild screams (delight? terror? not sure) from the passengers, followed by a massive spray of salt water.

Of course I vomited on the ride. Choppy teetering isn’t ideal when you’ve eaten several fried shrimp sandwiches for breakfast.

When we arrived, the operation got even more budget. We were ushered into a wobbly rowboat, which taxied us for around 100 meters, where we were told to get out and wade to the shore in waist deep water. Glad I didn’t wear my designer swimsuit cover-up (that’s a joke).

I was doubly glad after I slipped on a rock and slid down a muddy hill. Anyway…

We explored rugged, rocky beaches, kicked a pelota with some friendly children, waded through packs of roosters, and downed a few very cold cervejas. It wasn’t beautiful or a slice of paradise, but it was definitely a slice of life. The island was the first place I’d found in Brazil where I could hear my own thoughts–a relief after three weeks in the bustling cities of Rio and Salvador, where all places, at all times, blare samba. Or the Black Eyed Peas. Ihla de Mare felt removed from reality by by 20 years; I imagine it will for 20 more.

By: Erin Griffith, Photos By: Travis Harwood

In which the varied topography of mountainous Switzerland aptly mirrors the oscillating emotional environment; and in which Paul is joined by a dear friend

Hello all,

I’m in Lucerne, and it is totally beautiful here. The streets are leafy and the buildings old and leaning. The lake is magnificent turquoise, and seems to capture sunlight then fragment it into a million hues of awesome. Only staying overnight, and loads to sort out, then a five day march to Konstanz and Germany! I realised that it is six weeks today that I set out. Wowzer. My mileage is now 744.72.

Ok, so before I bore you with events, there are two interesting bits of news to share. Firstly, I shall be joined in Konstanz by my friend, Chloe Loftus. She seemed keen on some adventuring, and after some discussion has decided to join me for an indeterminate period of time. I think it’s very brave to come and do this so off the cuff. Me, I took months of preparation and umming and arring before I finally got my bum off the island. So if you see her in the next couple of days, wish her luck! I’m not sure how it’s going to feel having company. I’ve got so used to being on my own, barely speaking for days, cooking for one etc. But then, I guess that will be an adventure in itself, a departure from what has become my norm and routine.

Secondly, a bit of slightly crap news. I may well not make it to Prague, and there is a very distinct possibility that I will bring the finish line forward to Munich. This is for a number of reasons. For a start, I have covered about 150 miles more than I expected to at this geographical point. My body is starting to really hurt. Just outside of Geneva, I tweaked my hamstring, and a double dose of Nurofen and a hefty splodge of Deep Heat is about all that makes it bearable at the moment. I am very worried it will tear or snap or whatever it is that hamstrings do when they go wrong. Added to that, my knees are pretty bad, and Switzerland has no flat bits, so they’re taking a pounding. And I have just shaken off a horrid cold, which I walked with for the best part of a week. Moan moan winge shut up Paul, you lucky bastard. Also, financial considerations (I can’t keep borrowing from mum and dad!), and I would like to be home in time for my mum’s birthday at the end of September. I’ve decided to make a final call on it in Konstanz. Basically, if I think I can make Prague in no more than three weeks from there, then I’ll go on. If not, as long as I will hit 1000 miles by the time I get there, twill be Munich. Believe me, this will be one of the hardest decisions I ever have to make. I’m so desperate to make it all the way, to complete what I set out to do. And I don’t want to let anyone down, and there is still so far to reach my charity target (HINT: http://www.charitygiving.co.uk/paulholder) (just to recap that’s http://www.charitygiving.co.uk/paulholder). Anyway, that’s how it is.

I didn’t really get a chance to describe the hike over the Jura Mountains on the French/Swiss border last time I sent a message, and there was one particular moment I quite wanted to share. The whole four days I was up there were amazing. Grueling, but amazing. The night before I hit the highest peak (Cret de la Neige -1720m) I stayed in a refuge hut with a group of guys and a little girl (don’t worry, they were related – I think). I made a big fire outside after we had eaten, and we sat round.

One by one, they went in and I was alone beside the fire for some time, just watching its motion and the embers flitting off into the mountain night. And as I stared into it, it became hard for me to find where I stopped and it started, if that makes any sense. I found that the way I was feeling was identical to the fire. I had a moment of absolutely, utterly, beyond any doubt or refutation, knowing that everything really is ok, and happening the right way and order. And I realised that, like the fire, parts of me have been burned off in this journey. I knew then that no matter what happens to me in life, there is a line that I shall never drop below again. There is no need for me ever to feel crap again, because there is a mountain hut in a beautiful place I can escape to whenever I want, for 5euros a night (honesty box job). Anyway, that was pretty much one of the best moments I can recall. And there were shooting stars that night.

So what can I say about Switzerland. Well for one, THERE ARE NO FLAT BITS IN SWITZERLAND!!! It is all up and down, threading through valleys. But it is a spectacular place to hike. Rarely out of sight of mountains, clear lakes, forests and always Buddha cows with their jingling bells.

I wasn’t so keen on Geneva. Was full of banks and commerce and other such silly unnecessary things, and stink of money. Was glad to leave and walking along Lake Leman (known as Geneva to you uneducated foreigners) for two days was one of the highlights of my whole trip. Cannot convey how vast it is. Was so wanting to go for a swim, but time and fear of leaving my kit kept me bone dry. One night, I slept about two metres from the water, and awoke to dancing light on crystal water. Happymaking.

The path I am on is so well signposted, which is a relief after the hassle of staying on track across France. Though there have been a couple of moments, especially in Lausanne, where it took me over three hours to find the route. Weather is temperamental. It can be over 30 degrees, clear skies, then ten minutes later, blazing thunderstorm with end-of-days style clouds. But so many picturesque villages to keep me happy. Willisau especially good (will post up pictures when I get time). Had to stop in Fribourg overnight, which I didn’t plan to do, because I was so ill I had stars dancing in my vision. Lowest point so far. Couple of days where my head went completely blank, and I walked in a kind of goofy euphoria, neither feeling pain, nor thinking thought. I became the no-minded nomad, which was nice. Just to be a creature engaged in the most basic of activities is very, very fulfilling. Henry David Thoreau wrote that the cost of anything is the amount of life that has to be exchanged for it. There are times when I would give my all just to stay this way all my days. People in Switzerland are super friendly. I have had people going into shops and coming out with water for me, an old man gave me the best chunk of Emmental cheese I have ever tasted, and even the farmers generally give me a wave. I am in the German speaking region of Switzerland now, so good practice for the road ahead!

I better go and get on with finding a cheap hotel for the night and washing my filthy rags and body. Just to leave on a positive note, here’s something that happened as I lay in my tent beside Lac Leman: I had just eaten my dinner, was lying in the tent listening to the lapping water and the cicadas, when a thought popped into my head: I have never felt more at home. I probed this – did I just mean in the tent, or there beside the lake? No. I realised that I was feeling for the first time that I am at home in the world, the whole thing. Only now that I have knocked down boundaries do I feel a sense of home. I, all of us in fact, was not made so robust and capable to box myself/ourselves in. And in one of those awesome moments of pure synchronicity (there are no coincidences), I opened Thoreau’s Walden (read it) at random and this was the first passage I came across, with which I shall say farewell for now (and please donate, those of you that haven’t, it will mean so so much to me) :

“The very simplicity and nakedness of man’s life in the primitive ages imply this advantage at least, that they left him still but a sojourner in nature. When he was refreshed with food and sleep he contemplated his journey again. He dwelt, as it were, in a tent in this world, and was either threading the valleys, or crossing the plains, or climbing the mountain tops. But lo! men have become the tools of their tools. The man who independently plucked the fruits when he was hungry is become a farmer; and he who stood under a tree for shelter, a housekeeper. We now no longer camp as for a night, but have settled down on earth and forgotten heaven.”

Paul x

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Main

<!–[if !mso]> <! st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } –>

Hello all,

I’m in Lucerne, and it is totally beautiful here. The streets are leafy and the buildings old and leaning. The lake is magnificent turquoise, and seems to capture sunlight then fragment it into a million hues of awesome. Only staying overnight, and loads to sort out, then a five day march to Konstanz and Germany! I realised that it is six weeks today that I set out. Wowzer. My mileage is now 744.72.

Ok, so before I bore you with events, there are two interesting bits of news to share. Firstly, I shall be joined in Konstanz by my friend, Chloe Loftus. She seemed keen on some adventuring, and after some discussion has decided to join me for an indeterminate period of time. I think it’s very brave to come and do this so off the cuff. Me, I took months of preparation and umming and arring before I finally got my bum off the island. So if you see her in the next couple of days, wish her luck! I’m not sure how it’s going to feel having company. I’ve got so used to being on my own, barely speaking for days, cooking for one etc. But then, I guess that will be an adventure in itself, a departure from what has become my norm and routine.

Secondly, a bit of slightly crap news. I may well not make it to Prague, and there is a very distinct possibility that I will bring the finish line forward to Munich. This is for a number of reasons. For a start, I have covered about 150 miles more than I expected to at this geographical point. My body is starting to really hurt. Just outside of Geneva, I tweaked my hamstring, and a double dose of Nurofen and a hefty splodge of Deep Heat is about all that makes it bearable at the moment. I am very worried it will tear or snap or whatever it is that hamstrings do when they go wrong. Added to that, my knees are pretty bad, and Switzerland has no flat bits, so they’re taking a pounding. And I have just shaken off a horrid cold, which I walked with for the best part of a week. Moan moan winge shut up Paul, you lucky bastard. Also, financial considerations (I can’t keep borrowing from mum and dad!), and I would like to be home in time for my mum’s birthday at the end of September. I’ve decided to make a final call on it in Konstanz. Basically, if I think I can make Prague in no more than three weeks from there, then I’ll go on. If not, as long as I will hit 1000 miles by the time I get there, twill be Munich. Believe me, this will be one of the hardest decisions I ever have to make. I’m so desperate to make it all the way, to complete what I set out to do. And I don’t want to let anyone down, and there is still so far to reach my charity target (HINT: http://www.charitygiving.co.uk/paulholder) (just to recap that’s http://www.charitygiving.co.uk/paulholder). Anyway, that’s how it is.

I didn’t really get a chance to describe the hike over the Jura Mountains on the French/Swiss border last time I sent a message, and there was one particular moment I quite wanted to share. The whole four days I was up there were amazing. Grueling, but amazing. The night before I hit the highest peak (Cret de la Neige -1720m) I stayed in a refuge hut with a group of guys and a little girl (don’t worry, they were related – I think). I made a big fire outside after we had eaten, and we sat round. One by one, they went in and I was alone beside the fire for some time, just watching its motion and the embers flitting off into the mountain night. And as I stared into it, it became hard for me to find where I stopped and it started, if that makes any sense. I found that the way I was feeling was identical to the fire. I had a moment of absolutely, utterly, beyond any doubt or refutation, knowing that everything really is ok, and happening the right way and order. And I realised that, like the fire, parts of me have been burned off in this journey. I knew then that no matter what happens to me in life, there is a line that I shall never drop below again. There is no need for me ever to feel crap again, because there is a mountain hut in a beautiful place I can escape to whenever I want, for 5euros a night (honesty box job). Anyway, that was pretty much one of the best moments I can recall. And there were shooting stars that night.

So what can I say about Switzerland. Well for one, THERE ARE NO FLAT BITS IN SWITZERLAND!!! It is all up and down, threading through valleys. But it is a spectacular place to hike. Rarely out of sight of mountains, clear lakes, forests and always Buddha cows with their jingling bells. I wasn’t so keen on Geneva. Was full of banks and commerce and other such silly unnecessary things, and stink of money. Was glad to leave and walking along Lake Leman (known as Geneva to you uneducated foreigners) for two days was one of the highlights of my whole trip. Cannot convey how vast it is. Was so wanting to go for a swim, but time and fear of leaving my kit kept me bone dry. One night, I slept about two metres from the water, and awoke to dancing light on crystal water. Happymaking.

The path I am on is so well signposted, which is a relief after the hassle of staying on track across France. Though there have been a couple of moments, especially in Lausanne, where it took me over three hours to find the route. Weather is temperamental. It can be over 30 degrees, clear skies, then ten minutes later, blazing thunderstorm with end-of-days style clouds. But so many picturesque villages to keep me happy. Willisau especially good (will post up pictures when I get time). Had to stop in Fribourg overnight, which I didn’t plan to do, because I was so ill I had stars dancing in my vision. Lowest point so far. Couple of days where my head went completely blank, and I walked in a kind of goofy euphoria, neither feeling pain, nor thinking thought. I became the no-minded nomad, which was nice. Just to be a creature engaged in the most basic of activities is very, very fulfilling. Henry David Thoreau wrote that the cost of anything is the amount of life that has to be exchanged for it. There are times when I would give my all just to stay this way all my days. People in Switzerland are super friendly. I have had people going into shops and coming out with water for me, an old man gave me the best chunk of Emmental cheese I have ever tasted, and even the farmers generally give me a wave. I am in the German speaking region of Switzerland now, so good practice for the road ahead!

I better go and get on with finding a cheap hotel for the night and washing my filthy rags and body. Just to leave on a positive note, here’s something that happened as I lay in my tent beside Lac Leman: I had just eaten my dinner, was lying in the tent listening to the lapping water and the cicadas, when a thought popped into my head: I have never felt more at home. I probed this – did I just mean in the tent, or there beside the lake? No. I realised that I was feeling for the first time that I am at home in the world, the whole thing. Only now that I have knocked down boundaries do I feel a sense of home. I, all of us in fact, was not made so robust and capable to box myself/ourselves in. And in one of those awesome moments of pure synchronicity (there are no coincidences), I opened Thoreau’s Walden (read it) at random and this was the first passage I came across, with which I shall say farewell for now (and please donate, those of you that haven’t, it will mean so so much to me) :

“The very simplicity and nakedness of man’s life in the primitive ages imply this advantage at least, that they left him still but a sojourner in nature. When he was refreshed with food and sleep he contemplated his journey again. He dwelt, as it were, in a tent in this world, and was either threading the valleys, or crossing the plains, or climbing the mountain tops. But lo! men have become the tools of their tools. The man who independently plucked the fruits when he was hungry is become a farmer; and he who stood under a tree for shelter, a housekeeper. We now no longer camp as for a night, but have settled down on earth and forgotten heaven.”

Paul x