#travel memoirs

[nealrover]

A NEW French Journey by Photography - Take a tour - BOOK OFFER ON AMAZON

THIS WEEKEND 99p/99¢ French Travel Books on Kindle – To celebrate my NEW BOOK – TRACKS OF OUR YEARS –Download now to discover the France & Paris experience #france #paris #memoirs #books #welovememoirs #booklovers #foodandwine #travel #writerslift #kindle

[rajatchakraborty]

How I Evolved From Being A Trawell Blogger To A Trawell Author

As I finished writing the final pages of my first ebook – The Uttarakhand Diaries – Unspoken Tales From The Mountains, I looked out of the window of my study wondering if what I was doing was the right thing? I mean, who reads travel books as much, when there are more important things to read? Travel is not only among the last set of words in the dictionary but also among the last set of…

[billbenningtonauthor]

Bill Bennington Author

Website: https://www.benningtonauthor.com

Bill Bennington, author of "Blind Date," presents a compelling memoir that chronicles a life journey beginning in Denver and culminating in a teaching career at a Montana Tribal College. His book, enriched with personal and family events, educational endeavors, and cultural insights, offers a deep dive into the experiences of living and working on two Indian Reservations. Alongside his wife Joyce, Bill's story is one of love, adventure, and dedication to teaching and social justice, particularly in Indian country. Their journey, marked by personal growth, professional achievements, and a passion for photography, resonates with a wide range of readers, including educators, adventurers, and those interested in Native American history and culture.

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[a-typical]

At almost any location in any major city on Earth, you are likely standing on thousands of bodies. These bodies represent a history that exists, often unknown, beneath our feet. While a new Crossrail station was being dug in London in 2015, 3,500 bodies were excavated from a sixteenth- and seventeenth-century cemetery under Liverpool Street, including a burial pit from the Great Plague of 1665. To cremate bodies we burn fossil fuel, thus named because it is made of decomposed dead organisms. Plants grow from the decayed matter of former plants. The pages of this book are made from the pulp of raw wood from a tree felled in its prime. All that surrounds us comes from death, every part of every city, and every part of every person.

Death avoidance is not an individual failing; it’s a cultural one. Facing death is not for the faint-hearted. It is far too challenging to expect that each citizen will do so on his or her own. Death acceptance is the responsibility of all death professionals—funeral directors, cemetery managers, hospital workers. It is the responsibility of those who have been tasked with creating physical and emotional environments where safe, open interaction with death and dead bodies is possible.

— From Here to Eternity: Traveling the World to Find the Good Death, Caitlin Doughty

[amalythea]

「 stars 」

⤷ info: kazuha, traveler, venti x gn!reader (separate) || angst-ish || wc: 1180

⤷ warnings: mentions of death (not reader), v sad thoughts, i tried to keep traveler themselves as gn as possible too but please do tell me if i missed something, writing for traveler actually killed my braincells

⤷ extra: i used the prompt xiv. “she’s talking to angels, counting the stars.” from @thexianzhoujade 's personal memoires (of the dearly beloved) event!!

kazuha.

In the tranquil solitude of the night, beneath the vast expanse of stars, you sat on the ground, your silhouette outlined by the gentle glow of moonlight as you gazed up at the stars above. Your heart ached with the weight of loss, your thoughts consumed by memories of your one love Kazuha.

Once, he had been the light of your life, his laughter like music to your ears, his gentle touch a source of comfort in times of need. But now, he was gone, taken from you by a cruel twist of fate, leaving behind only the echo of his presence and a void that seemed impossible to fill.

Every night, you would come to this secluded spot, the one you used to visit together, where the stars seemed to shine just a little brighter. It was here that you had shared your dreams, your hopes, and your love. And it was here that you felt closest to him, as if his spirit lingered among the celestial canvas above.

With a heavy heart, you whispered Kazuha's name into the stillness of the night, your voice barely louder than a breath. "Kazuha," you murmured, your eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Do you see the stars, my love? Are you watching over me from beyond the veil of the heavens?"

You closed your eyes, letting the memories wash over you like a gentle tide. You remembered the way Kazuha would hold your hand as you sat together beneath the night sky, his words a soothing balm to your troubled soul. And you remembered the promise you had made, to always be together, even when the world conspired to tear you apart.

But now, that promise lay shattered, scattered by the winds of fate. Kazuha was gone, his laughter silenced, his touch but a distant memory. And yet, you could not bring yourself to believe that he was truly lost forever.

For in the depths of your grief, there was a glimmer of hope, a belief that somehow, someway, Kazuha had found peace in the afterlife. You imagined him reunited with his dear friend, the two of them laughing and reminiscing beneath the eternal light of the stars.

And so, each night, you would come to this sacred place, your heart heavy with sorrow yet warm with the belief that Kazuha was watching over you, his love a guiding beacon in the darkness. And as you gazed up at the heavens above, you felt a sense of peace wash over you, knowing that wherever Kazuha was, he was not truly gone.

For as long as the stars continued to shine, so too would the memory of your love burn bright, illuminating the darkest corners of your soul and reminding you that even in death, your bond would never be broken.

traveler.

In Teyvat, where the winds whisper secrets and the stars tell tales of heroes, there once was a traveler from a distant world. This traveler had been searching for their sibling, and in the midst of their search had found someone else they cared for: you.

Your love knew no boundaries, spanning across the nations and beyond the reach of time itself. But fate, like a capricious deity, had other plans. Your lover, in their quest to protect the fragile balance of Teyvat, met their end in a valiant battle against a formidable foe. And as their spirit ascended, leaving behind a world engulfed in sorrow, you were left to wander Teyvat alone.

Every night, as the sky painted itself with the luminescence of countless stars, you would go up to the highest peak you could find. There, beneath the blanket of twinkling lights, you would sit, your heart heavy with longing, your eyes searching the heavens for a glimpse of your lover.

"They're among them," you would whisper to the ethereal void, your voice carrying both sorrow and hope. "My love, shining bright among the stars."

In those moments, you would feel a familiar warmth wrap around you, a fleeting sensation that whispered of your lover's enduring presence. You imagined them traversing the celestial expanse, a celestial wanderer among the constellations, watching over you with tender affection.

As time unfurled its tapestry, you found solace in your nightly ritual. The stars became your confidants, the silent witnesses to your whispered prayers and tearful confessions. And though your lover's physical form had departed, their essence lingered in the gentle caress of the night breeze and the shimmering radiance of the cosmos.

And as you gazed upon the heavens each night, your faith unshaken, you found solace in the belief that your lover had returned to their celestial home among the stars, finishing their search at last.

venti.

In Mondstadt, where the winds sing their eternal melodies and the stars dance in the night sky,

Venti, the mischievous bard of Mondstadt, was known for his jovial spirit and melodious songs that enchanted the hearts of all who listened. But amidst his carefree nature, there was one whose heart he held dearer than any other – his lover, a gentle soul whose love for Venti burned like the brightest star in the night sky.

Your love was as boundless as the vast expanse of the heavens, and together, you would spend countless nights beneath the vast expanse of the sky, nestled in each other's arms as you gazed up at the twinkling stars. Venti would weave tales of ancient myths and celestial wonders, his voice carrying across the night like a gentle breeze.

But fate, like the ever-changing winds, can be unpredictable.

One fateful day, Venti's song was silenced, his laughter stilled. News of his passing spread like wildfire, leaving behind a trail of sorrow that even the wind could not carry away. Your heart shattered into a million pieces, each shard a painful reminder of the void left by your beloved bard.

In the wake of Venti's passing, you found solace in the memories you had shared under the starlit sky. You would sit by the edge of the cliff overlooking Mondstadt, watching as the stars sparkled like fragments of Venti's soul scattered across the heavens.

In the quiet solitude of those nights, you would recall his words, spoken with a whimsical smile and a twinkle in his eyes. "If ever I should depart from this world," he had said, "fear not, for I shall join the stars themselves, and from there, I shall watch over you always."

And so, as you gazed up at the luminous tapestry above, you couldn't help but smile through your tears, for you believed with all your heart that Venti was among those celestial beings, guiding you with his eternal light.

Though the ache of loss never truly faded, you found comfort in the belief that Venti's spirit lived on in the stars, a constant reminder that your love was as infinite as the universe itself. And so, you continued to watch the stars every night, knowing that somewhere up there, Venti was watching over you, his laughter echoing in the celestial chorus that danced across the night sky.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

@amalythea 2024. | do not re-upload, copy, translate, etc. my works on any form of media.

[ruminiscence]

Paris: A Year Abroad in a short film

Audio: "Burnt Norton" by Lana Del Rey, a rendition of the original poem "Burnt Norton" by T.S. Eliot.

Where do I even start? Paris has wholly shaped me in ways I never imagined. We refer to Paris as the city of love, but I'm now more inclined to call it the city of art - which only leaves more room for love in your heart. There is so much to contemplate and appreciate in frequenting the vast array of art museums here - from the Louvre, Musée d’Orsay, Musée de l’Orangerie, the Centre Georges Pompidou, and many more. Not only has my perspective on art expanded, but so has my worldview. That’s because art is truly everywhere in this city; art can be found in the walkable streets amidst the rich architecture, the fashionable outfits seen in daily life, and even the exquisite decor in stores and when you cheekily peek into Parisian appartments!

There's always something new to discover in Paris, I'm almost saddened at the thought of the things I've yet to discover or missed. The treasures to unveil in Paris move far beyond the typical tourist hotspots we all know and love. I am obsessed with Parisian boutiques; they are chic and unique (that unintentionally rhymed) in the best way possible. One of my favourites is La Tonkinoise à Paris, located in the 11th arrondissement. This particular arrondissmenet is the best in Paris to be honest, it holds a special place in my heart as I had the wonderful opportunity of living there, so perhaps you can say that I am somewhat biased. Still, I can confidently say that this animated, hip and creative neighbourhood is one everyone should have the chance to explore.

La Tonkinoise à Paris, owned by the lovely Chantal, is my favourite hidden gem in Paris. I had the pleasure of befriending Chantal as I ended up frequenting her store one too many times; I've garnered quite a collection over time. This boutique offers a wide range of eccentric and sustainable jewellery, with her earring creations being the show stoppers, in my opinion. Her jewellery is composed of rings, pearls, brooches, charms, and watches, all unearthed in flea markets and recycled. I love that every piece of jewellery indeed is a unique piece. The decor changes based on the season and theme of her new collections, making it an ever-changing and exciting shopping experience. This is honestly the best jewellery store I have ever been to in my life! I wish the pictures I took could do the jewellery and the boutique's decor justice, but it simply won't, I'm afraid.

Now, onto food, I genuinely need to figure out where to start here. My favourite authentic French restaurant would have to be 'Le Potager du Père Thierry', located in Montmartre. Although it's incredibly small, I love the cosy vibe; I feel like I can enjoy delicious food with friends without feeling surrounded by strangers. Surprisingly, it's also very quiet (yet packed) - I guess the food is just too distracting.

As of late, my favourite non-french restaurant has to be 'Big Black Cook' (let's ignore how inappropriate that pun is, though funny). It's located in the 2nd arrondissement and serves Caribbean food, my friend claims that it was the best meat she's had!

For brunch, I recommend Café Méricourt in the 11th arrondissement. Their green Eggs & Feta are absolutely incredible and quite innovative as far as brunch places go.

As for a boulangerie - seriously, anywhere, literally anywhere in Paris, go to your nearest bakery; there need not be a big fuss - you're in for a scrumptious baked treat regardless!

I'm ever so grateful for the chance to have lived in Paris for an extended period; you cannot appreciate Paris in its entire splendour from a mere short-term visit. The city is an actual work of art; art is everywhere in the city, from the street performers and musicians, the light filters through the trees, the city's many architecturally rich bridges, the picturesque cafés and boulangeries, the beautifully presented food, the way that the city's many different neighbourhoods each have their own distinct character and vibe. In Paris, art is everywhere.

[bookdragonquotes]

[aylen-san]

Memories of tropical days

The tropics are another world, full of life, color and sounds that fill the heart with joy. When I first came to these places, I was struck by how the air here was heavy with moisture, as if every breath filled my chest with sweet nectar that gave me strength. The forests, tangled with vines and strange tendrils, seemed like living creatures shrouded in a mist of green and color. Huge trees spread their branches, creating a vault of leaves overhead, through which the sun's rays broke, turning into golden streaks like rays of hope in the thickest forest. On the branches of these trees lived monkeys, jumping deftly from one branch to another, their cries and laughter filling the forest with life and movement.

The birds here sang in ways I had never heard before. Their tinkling trills, melodious and varied, seemed to blend into a symphony that filled the air. I could spend hours listening to them sing, their bright feathers flashing in flashes of color through the dense green, like gems hidden in the shadows of the forest. Even the insects that fluttered and buzzed among the flowers seemed to be part of this living orchestra, each sound like a note in a melody created by nature itself. Huge butterflies, painted in unimaginable patterns, flew from flower to flower, making it seem as if nature itself was painting colors on the canvas of the air.

And the smells... The tropics are filled with scents that are impossible to forget. The sweet scent of ripe fruit, the spicy notes of flowers growing in the shade of trees, and the moist, rich aroma of the earth after rain all combine to create a dizzying cocktail. Mango, papaya, guava - their juicy fruits, so warm from the sun, seemed to contain the very essence of the tropics. I tasted each of them, and each time the taste was like a new melody, giving joy and sweetness of life.

The water in the tropics is also special. The streams that flowed through the forests sparkled in the sunlight like liquid crystal, and the seas that lapped the shores shimmered in every shade of blue and green. The waves were warm and gentle, as if the waters themselves were filled with life and light. I often stopped at the shore to listen to the waves gently touching the sand, humming an ancient song about the infinity of time and the power of nature. The coastline, lined with fine white sand, stretched into the distance, and the palm trees, their crowns leaning toward the water, provided shade to hide from the midday heat.

But perhaps the most impressive sight was the tropical night sky. As the sun set and day turned to night, the stars lit up the dark velvet of the sky with unimaginable brightness. They seemed so close you could reach out and touch them. The moon illuminated the earth with a soft light, and the jungle was filled with the sounds of nocturnal creatures - their rustling and cries creating an atmosphere of mystery, as if the forest were whispering its ancient secrets. Giant fireflies lit up the night trails like floating stars, and the deep, bassy voices of toads were like ancient incantations lurking in the shadows of centuries-old trees.

The tropics reminded me that while nature can be harsh and cruel, it can also be incredibly generous and joyful. These places were full of life, joy, and boundless energy, and even in their heat and humidity I found peace and inspiration. In every leaf, every flower and every sound, I saw and felt the greatness of Arda, its unquenchable longing for life and light. Every morning, when the first rays of sunlight gilded the treetops, I greeted the new day with gratitude, feeling that the tropics had not only given me shelter, but a new music, a melody full of joy, life and love for this wonderful world.

[cogentranting]

Sometimes I'll see someone that says they like to read and then they talk about the types of stuff they read it and its all like self-helpy how to be successful and business type stuff. Their favorite book is like "The Seven Habits of Highly Successful People" or that type of thing.

And it's like. Oh. Not to say that doesn't 'count' as reading but. we're. we're not on the same page here. This is not compatible.

[tricornonthecob]

One of these traumatic primary accounts is not like the other.

Nicholas Cresswell, just some guy who got convinced by a business major to do real estate investment in North America, almost dies multiple times, loses everything, through a series of adventures is still unable to make up the cost, is traumatized and appalled by the abject horrors of Slavery and racism in the colonies, and hounded by fears of being beaten by patriots. Dad Issues.

John Robert Shaw, self-professed and many-times concussed dumbass who somehow keeps blundering into a fuckton of money and then blowing it on partying within a month. Why does this man have a wife. Is she ok.

Bonus:

Joseph Plumb-Martin, local New Englander with pathological dedication to the bit (re-enlisting) despite seeing his friends blown apart and being starved half to death for like, six years straight.

[nealrover]

Flavigny-sur-Ozerain and the filming of the movie Chocolat in Burgundy

Flavigny-sur-Ozerain Burgundy and the movie Chocolat #france #chocolat #burgundy #movielocations #free #johnnydepp #juliettebinoche #books #kindleunlimited

Please Enjoy my Travel Books on Amazon – FREE on Kindle Unlimited https://bit.ly/bookneal Taken from my French Travel book – OFF the AUTOROUTE OUT NOW on Amazon for Kindle, Kindle Unlimited, paperback & hardback Flavigny-sur-Ozerain – L’Ange Souriant Chambres D’Hotes Chocolat This destination is one of our favourites – Northern Burgundy. It is a much neglected part of France from a tourist…

[rizadyke]

Books need to be broken in the same as a pair of doc martens

[a-typical]

In Toraja, during the period of time between death and the funeral, the body is kept in the home. That might not sound particularly shocking, until I tell you that period can last from several months to several years. During that time, the family cares for and mummifies the body, bringing the corpse food, changing its clothes, and speaking to the body.

The first time Paul ever visited Toraja, he asked Agus if it was unusual for a family to keep a dead relative in the home. Agus laughed at the question. “When I was a child, we had my grandfather in the home for seven years. My brother and I, we slept with him in the same bed. In the morning we put his clothes on and stood him against the wall. At night he came back to bed.”

Paul describes death in Toraja, as he’s witnessed it, not as a “hard border,” an impenetrable wall between the living and the dead, but a border that can be transgressed. According to their animistic belief system, there is also no barrier between the human and nonhuman aspects of the natural world: animals, mountains, and even the dead. Speaking to your grandfather’s corpse is a way to build a connection to the person’s spirit.

— From Here to Eternity: Traveling the World to Find the Good Death, Caitlin Doughty

[koggthryn]

vi. willow street

in the rose creek house, where you learn for the first time that, for some, the world has neat edges. and in the cab of dad's truck, road maps are spilling out from under the seats, are plastering the dashboard, are fading and softening in the heat. you, crouched on the curb, watching and watching and waiting. there is a light at the end of the street, beside the willow, and it is flickering. the willow is shuddering. neighborhood children, knuckles like switchblades and smiles all wrong, all cruel, stop there, look down at the asphalt below. as though the end of their selves lives there. look around, a little confused. seem to have forgotten how they came to be here.

vii. disappointed father

smoke and cold sweats in the truck's cab. a cigarette ember filters back in, lands in our little sister's lap. we watch it burn a hole through her. and he is growling, still. is growing over with that rage he's infected with. WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU? what have you been told? HOW MANY TIMES? will you keep forgetting this? LOOK AT ME. LOOK ME IN THE EYES. but he is grotesque in the rearview mirror, burnt neck and grizzled cheek. mold in his eyes, soot and carcinogens on his lips. and we will dream this every night: the constellations drifting apart, becoming unmoored. his mind and his fist further from each other than ever before. we will dream of taking him apart, limb from limb, orion and his belt coming undone, the sick pop of a ligament in his ankle, the grinding of his joints and heel-toe march. we will pull his eyes from his skull, hold them out from us. we will refuse to be the first to look down.

viii. seaward

we have been here before, another dead end, another sea and sky. chillier, blacker. further from god than before, we have seen the end again and again. we have always turned back, we have always sought more.

ix. relapse

she wakes to tv static and her mother, calling her to dinner. she is walking down the hallway, and the static is still a dull roar in her head. and she wakes again. and she wakes again. and her mother's still calling, she's moaning for her, COME, DAUGHTER, COME, to find her way home, to pray over dinner, to WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE

x. ruination

IT IS THE END, IT IS THE END. the harvest is past, and we are still not saved.

xi. trilogy

god the father, the son, and the holy spirit. an old man foaming at the mouth, belt and broken bottle in hand. that lost boy on his dirt bike, dark eyes shadowed in shame, a blooming at his lip and brow. a crow carrying some rosary, and the beads slide off, roll to a stop beneath the holly bushes, where we buried baby birds and the last of our polly pockets.

'23 september prompts days 6-11 | @nosebleedclub

[notesfromachair]

Raining on Your Parade

Sorry to announce, it’s another week off for the Chair. The Chair may never be able to watch SNL again… ok he will but he will feel bitter about it for a little while (and why not?). His expansive work on all things SNL has him benched again this week (sports metaphors? what’s happening to this blog??!). You know it’s dire because he hasn’t even watched Showtime’s Fellow Travelers. Matt and…

[therestistravel]

Write ... The Rest Is Travel