New e-Marginalia Travel Stories
At last it's time for another Freestyle Open, the quarterly e-Marginalia travel story contest, and I'd like to introduce the nine finalists. Some enchanting travel writing and some stunning photographs are in store, so dive in and spread the word!
Ghosts of Gloucester, by John Regan
Come venture to Gloucester, Massachusetts, and you might witness ghosts of fishermen past, who have returned from their nautical graveyard for one last stroll down its seaworthy streets. For centuries, like thick chowder, the insular waters of the Atlantic were saturated with fish; hearsay dictated you could simply reach down and scoop them out with your hands. Though the fishing industry has waned over the years, it is still the heartbeat of Gloucester...
Planet Iceland, by Elle Kwan
Virgin Atlantic said they weren’t scheduling flights to the moon until 2007, but looking around I half believe this is an early secret space mission. Coal black fields of lava lie abandoned, stinking sulphur potholes gurgle, and a strange green hue haunts the midnight sky. But Virgin hasn’t made a mistake. This isn’t the moon, this is Iceland, and it has it all. Extreme, desolate, untouched, but blessedly free from Martian life. At just four hours away from London, it’s also just little bit closer....
Speeding Down the Mekong, by Cindy Nowicki
It seemed like the obvious choice: we could either take the "speedboat," which took six hours to get down the Mekong to our destination of Luang Prabang, or the “slowboat,†which meant two whole days on hard seats in an old wooden vessel packed to the gills with other travelers. The roads, we were told, were not an option. Kara and I had just arrived in the border town of Huay Xai, Laos, and had missed the last speedboat of the day...
Love the Mojave, by Katharine Jose
I turned the car off the Interstate in Eastern California with a line from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas running through my head: “We were twenty miles outside of Barstow when the acid began to take hold.†We were a bit more than twenty miles outside of Barstow, I gave up on acid a long time ago, and although my boyfriend kept saying the line over and over again, it turns out that’s not the real quote at all. Still, there’s something about wheeling through the desert somewhere between the sticky streets of Los Angeles and the vapid spread of Las Vegas...
Moroccan Insomnia, by Mark Blickley
I’m tired and I hate the daylight. This strange sun reflecting off the white djellabas irritates me. It lights up a city of men tugging at their genitals, smiling toothless smiles. It shows dogs and children, bones pressing against skin, begging for relief. The sun releases the warm smell of urine and I hate its familiarity. Sunshine gives clear, ugly faces to the staccato voices echoing through the narrow, filthy streets. It is impossible to hide anything under that sweet, burning Moroccan sun. I feel exposed...
The Road to Pakistan, by Vance Ikezoye
It is Tuesday morning, and I am alone with an empty bus. We both happen to be in Kashgar, an old Silk Road town in far western China. I had come thousands of miles to visit a market located here. Not just any market, mind you – as far as old markets go, the Kashgar Sunday Market is the Super Bowl. For over a thousand years, traders from the surrounding countries of Central Asia have assembled for a frantic day of buying and selling....
The Wurst Case Scenario in Rotterdam, by Lee Hammerschmidt
The sausage sat there, fat and quivering on my plate like a purple, jello-filled condom (Magnum size!). Its three identical siblings were striking the same pose on the plates of my traveling companions. The potatoes and red cabbage that had accompanied them from the kitchen had long disappeared. Nobody had worked up the nerve to cut into one of these pulsating, undulating, zeppelin-like entrees...
Taking the Plunge in Thailand, by Carson Christiano
It’s 7 AM on a Saturday, I’m busy treading water in a sea of pleasant dreams, and already I have three missed calls from the monks I met in Pai last weekend. Clearly strangers to the manners associated with this well-established communication technology, my new friends (Are monks allowed to befriend women, let alone call them on a cell phone?) seem to be breaking rules left and right...
Worshipping the Eye in Vietnam, by Megan Harrington
Our driver has stalled the van, jumping out to ask for help from a nearby gatekeeper. In ninety degree heat, my Vietnamese companions and I gaze through the windshield at a large yellow gate that stands between us and our destination. We are outside the main compound of Cao Dai, one of Vietnam's largest indigenous faiths, and we are stuck...
Ghosts of Gloucester, by John Regan
Come venture to Gloucester, Massachusetts, and you might witness ghosts of fishermen past, who have returned from their nautical graveyard for one last stroll down its seaworthy streets. For centuries, like thick chowder, the insular waters of the Atlantic were saturated with fish; hearsay dictated you could simply reach down and scoop them out with your hands. Though the fishing industry has waned over the years, it is still the heartbeat of Gloucester...
Planet Iceland, by Elle Kwan
Virgin Atlantic said they weren’t scheduling flights to the moon until 2007, but looking around I half believe this is an early secret space mission. Coal black fields of lava lie abandoned, stinking sulphur potholes gurgle, and a strange green hue haunts the midnight sky. But Virgin hasn’t made a mistake. This isn’t the moon, this is Iceland, and it has it all. Extreme, desolate, untouched, but blessedly free from Martian life. At just four hours away from London, it’s also just little bit closer....
Speeding Down the Mekong, by Cindy Nowicki
It seemed like the obvious choice: we could either take the "speedboat," which took six hours to get down the Mekong to our destination of Luang Prabang, or the “slowboat,†which meant two whole days on hard seats in an old wooden vessel packed to the gills with other travelers. The roads, we were told, were not an option. Kara and I had just arrived in the border town of Huay Xai, Laos, and had missed the last speedboat of the day...
Love the Mojave, by Katharine Jose
I turned the car off the Interstate in Eastern California with a line from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas running through my head: “We were twenty miles outside of Barstow when the acid began to take hold.†We were a bit more than twenty miles outside of Barstow, I gave up on acid a long time ago, and although my boyfriend kept saying the line over and over again, it turns out that’s not the real quote at all. Still, there’s something about wheeling through the desert somewhere between the sticky streets of Los Angeles and the vapid spread of Las Vegas...
Moroccan Insomnia, by Mark Blickley
I’m tired and I hate the daylight. This strange sun reflecting off the white djellabas irritates me. It lights up a city of men tugging at their genitals, smiling toothless smiles. It shows dogs and children, bones pressing against skin, begging for relief. The sun releases the warm smell of urine and I hate its familiarity. Sunshine gives clear, ugly faces to the staccato voices echoing through the narrow, filthy streets. It is impossible to hide anything under that sweet, burning Moroccan sun. I feel exposed...
The Road to Pakistan, by Vance Ikezoye
It is Tuesday morning, and I am alone with an empty bus. We both happen to be in Kashgar, an old Silk Road town in far western China. I had come thousands of miles to visit a market located here. Not just any market, mind you – as far as old markets go, the Kashgar Sunday Market is the Super Bowl. For over a thousand years, traders from the surrounding countries of Central Asia have assembled for a frantic day of buying and selling....
The Wurst Case Scenario in Rotterdam, by Lee Hammerschmidt
The sausage sat there, fat and quivering on my plate like a purple, jello-filled condom (Magnum size!). Its three identical siblings were striking the same pose on the plates of my traveling companions. The potatoes and red cabbage that had accompanied them from the kitchen had long disappeared. Nobody had worked up the nerve to cut into one of these pulsating, undulating, zeppelin-like entrees...
Taking the Plunge in Thailand, by Carson Christiano
It’s 7 AM on a Saturday, I’m busy treading water in a sea of pleasant dreams, and already I have three missed calls from the monks I met in Pai last weekend. Clearly strangers to the manners associated with this well-established communication technology, my new friends (Are monks allowed to befriend women, let alone call them on a cell phone?) seem to be breaking rules left and right...
Worshipping the Eye in Vietnam, by Megan Harrington
Our driver has stalled the van, jumping out to ask for help from a nearby gatekeeper. In ninety degree heat, my Vietnamese companions and I gaze through the windshield at a large yellow gate that stands between us and our destination. We are outside the main compound of Cao Dai, one of Vietnam's largest indigenous faiths, and we are stuck...