The Lost Girls

Lost Girls of the Week: Molly Fergus and Selena Armendarez

2008-08-26T15:59:00.004-04:00

TLGs: How could we NOT make the gals who drive the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile our Lost Girls of the Week?? Since we're rooted in NYC writing the book, we can't get out and actually travel as much as we used to. So, we're living vicariously through these girls, and have asked them to submit posts from the road as they hit up towns across the US. Here's hoping they accept our challenge and share their hot doggin' antics online!

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When I graduated from the University of Missouri in December, I knew I needed to skip the traditional diploma-to-fluorescent-lit-office track. As a journalism major, I had things to see, people to meet and places to go. Settling down just wasn't in my cards.

So in June I hit the road with my coworker Selena Armendarez...in the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile.

As Hotdoggers – a catchy title that means we drive one of the world's seven Wienermobiles – Selena and I are lost girls in every way. We haul our lives around in suitcases. We repeat outfits way too often. We deal with culture shock (yes, in America!). And most importantly, we gleefully said hasta luego to the 9-to-5 routine.

Each year, Oscar Mayer selects 14 college grads from more than 1,200 applicants to man its iconic vehicles. Hotdoggers travel the U.S. in teams of two; we live out of suitcases, hop from state-to-state, and work as spokespersons for Oscar Mayer. Selena and I began our adventure June 15 in McAllen, TX (a city near the border of Mexico). We'll travel below the Mason-Dixon line until January, when we'll switch partners and trek around another region of America.

Although most Lost Girls choose the ex-pat route to fulfill (or feed!) wanderlust, Selena and I have found that vagabonding across the U.S. is just as satisfying. Eight weeks on the road, and we've already weathered a hurricane on the Gulf of Mexico, parked the Wienermobile in front of the Alamo, and driven to an archeological dig overlooking the Rio Grande.

The sights in the U.S. might not be as old as Rome's Colosseum or as exotic as Peru's Lake Titicaca, but our job is still an adventure. Like lost girls worldwide, we wake up each morning and thank the travel saints that we get to spend our days outside, meet new people and explore the world. Now that's something to relish! —Molly Fergus

Random Reader Question: The Best Travel Bras

2008-08-26T15:07:00.003-04:00

Q. I came across your blog a few months ago as my husband and I were in the midst of planning our around the world travel (www.chrisandjodi.net ). We've pieced together most of our itinerary and what we're taking, but I'm still lost as to the best bras to bring. Just wondering if you guys had any opinions? Cheers—Jodi

A. Do you mean regular bras, or sports bras? We'd actually highly recommend the Victoria's Secret IPEX bra for regular everyday wear, as its smooth under t-shirts and comes in pretty colors for when those straps inevitably show under tanks. It's also perfect for gals who are a bit more "ample" on top, because it keeps everything in place, and minimizes. It can also stand up to several washings without losing its shape, so I'd take one black and one color.

You'll also need one convertible bra, something you can wear strapless or under halters and such. Again, I'd recommend VS: go with their Very Sexy 100 ways bra...which, as the name implies, has several hooks that allow you to wear it under several different tops and dresses.

Finally, you'll need at least two sports bras for hiking and days when you're sitting on buses going over some very bumpy roads (Costa Rica, Kenya, etc). Try the Champion Friction Free seamless sports bras...they're lightweight, don't bind against your ribcage and won't cause chafing.

Of course, you can always do as we did in a pinch, and use a bikini top! On that note, invest in at least a dozen pairs of quick dry microfiber undies. Not sure if the husband will love 'em, but they'll keep you very comfortable all trip long!

California Dreaming

2008-08-12T14:28:00.015-04:00

HCC: I am in love. You know the feeling, that I’m-so-excited-to-be-alive/ butterflies-in-my-stomach/ nothing-can-get-me-down sensation. However, this high is not for a person, but a place. California’s Central Coast is better than being a single woman landing in Rome if you enjoy breath-taking scenery; outdoors activities such as surfing, biking, and hiking; and laid-back vibes. I came here to cure a case of writer’s block and to visit my sister, who is a nurse in the college town known as San Luis Obispo and who lives in nearby Shell Beach. SLO, as it’s called both for the obvious moniker and for the in-no-hurry mentality of the locals, is about halfway between Los Angeles and San Francisco. There’s so much stuff to do here that I was able to sample only a few of the highlights. Here's a virtual tour of a few of my favorite things:

Beach bars. Mr. Rick’s bar in Avila Beach has ocean views, pool tables, and karaoke. They even have a movie screen so you can watch music videos as you dance—or mimic them. Can you guess what my sister and our new friends are reenacting here? Michael Jackson’s “Thriller,” of course!

Organic eats. The biggest social event around is the Farmer’s Market that happens everything Thursday on Higuera Street in downtown SLO. The entire street closes to traffic for a block party filled with fresh produce, barbecue, and live music.

Exploring coastal towns. Once an old whaling station, Cambria is a picturesque little city about an hour north of SLO and is an inspiring place to chill out and write—or shop. It’s filled with sidewalk cafes, art galleries, antiques, and historic buildings such as the Piedras Blancas Lighthouse.

Getting there on two wheels. My new way to get around town is on a bike. Luckily, Kate had an extra set of wheels for me, so we pedaled the 50-mile round-trip route to the fishing town known as Morro Bay. You can rent kayaks and dive here, but we only had enough energy to refuel with halibut fish tacos and a glass of chardonnay at Giovanni’s Fish Market and Galley.

Roadtripping. When my sister had to fly back to New York for a wedding, I stayed behind in her apartment to write by myself and watch her dog, Lulu. With the famous natural wonder, Big Sur less than a three-hour drive, I decided that Lulu and I could use a change of scenery. I had a hike planned for us on Ewoldsen Trail but the area was shut down due to the forest fires. Still, every (hairpin) curve along the way on Highway 101 revealed awe-inspiring views.

Wining and Dining. If you make it to the Central Coast, you have to eat at the Olde Port Inn. Seriously, I insist. Located at the end of the pier at Port San Luis, it was started by a fisherman who felt happiest sitting in that spot over the ocean and wanted other people to be able to experience it, too. When my sister and I arrived, we heard a sound strangely similar to barking dogs (about as harmonious as me attempting karaoke. Ha!). We quickly ran to the edge to discover these elephant seals who made their home on the wooden slabs. After that detour, we were seated inside the cozy eatery to watch the sunset over the harbor. Fresh seafood dishes such as classic clam chowder, crab quesadillas, and the Fisherman’s Plate (a combo of grilled fish, shrimp, scallops, and calamari) make it worth the trip—with or without the added bonus of seal sightings.

Random Reader Question: Language Barriers Abroad

2008-07-29T23:53:00.002-04:00

Q. I'm considering taking a RTW trip next year, but worried about the language barrier in the countries I want to visit. How did you handle this when you were abroad? Did it cause difficulties for you? —Jessica

A. Shockingly, in nearly every country around the world, we found that it was fairly easy to just use English...it's truly become the international language. Don't let a fear of not being able to communicate stop you from traveling. In the highly touristed areas, locals can almost speak English better than we can :-)

That said, its always helpful—and much appreciated gesture—to buy a guidebook and learn a few phrases in the local language. we kid you not when we say that the three of us practiced saying "no butter, no oil, please" in Thai, Vietnamese, Spanish and Portuguese. This handy command helped us break the ice in many a restaurant—but never actually worked out as intended. Maybe something was lost in translation?
—The Lost Girls

Lost Girl of the Week: Melissa Braverman

2008-07-28T18:34:00.007-04:00

ADP: A few years ago, in the scary in-between time of leaving my position at an assistant editor at a women’s magazine and actually getting my toe in the door of the freelance writing world, I received an email from a travel publicist Melissa Braverman. It seemed that the Hilton Barbados was hosting a press trip for a few select journalists, and she wanted to know if I’d like to join them for the grand reopening of the hotel.

Saying yes would require me to fly down the Caribbean, stay in my own corner suite in the new Hilton, feast on traditional Bajan cuisine, and fill my time with various activities like scuba diving, watching local dance performances and sipping cocktails by the pool. Of course, it was a difficult decision, but after consulting the vast wasteland that was my work schedule at the time, I wrote Melissa back to give her the appropriate (but very professional) “hell’s yeah!” response.

Upon arriving at JFK several weeks later, I managed to locate our little crew of press junketeers and fell into easy conversation with Melissa, who, within an hour takeoff, had revealed that her then-boyfriend had nasty little habit of putting his two dogs before her in the relationship. In fact, she’d practically gotten pushed to the floor on more than one occasion when the girl dog Jasmine had commandeered a place on her guy’s bed.

“I don’t know how much more of this I can handle,” she said, pouring her heart out to me over the shared packet of airline peanuts between us. “It’s like I’m in…a ménage a dog!”

Relationship puns? I liked this girl already.

We spent the rest of weekend in Barbados doing exactly the opposite of what I’d anticipated—rather than lounging poolside with pina coladas, our group rose with the sun to participate in property walk-throughs, press conferences, island tours, and something called “Crop Over,” a multiple day Soca dancing festival held in the national stadium. The latter probably would have been pretty cool, had the pouring rain not transformed the bald grass field in one gigantic mud-wrestling pit. Melissa and I buddied up to brave the elements, share an umbrella and go “local” by trying out the national dish, cou cou and fried flying fish sold by the local food vendor.

Despite our initial efforts to stay dry and avoid ruining our shoes, we eventually gave up and just slogged it out in the rain and mud with the rest of the revelers, trying (and failing) to keep up with all of the locals as they jammed out to the beat. I know I felt pretty ridiculous (that lightening fast “booty clap” perfected in hip hip videos surely originated in Barbados) but it was actually kinda fun to let loose in the pouring rain with a thousand strangers. A Carib-a-polooza, if you will.

Long after returning home and writing up a short piece on the island for Bride’s magazine (I did not advise newlyweds to make Crop Over a part of their romantic getaway) Melissa and I stayed friends. In fact, she was the lifesaver who took me in for a full month (for free!) when the girls and I returned from our year around the world. She’s one of my favorite people—not just a loyal friend, but a crack-you-up funny storyteller whose relationship dramas could rival any of the SATC girls.

And since we don’t have the musing of one Miss Carrie Bradshaw to keep us entertained any more (sniff!), Miss Braverman has volunteered to fill the void by launching her very own blog—Melissa, Single Gal in the City (www.melissa-singlegalinthecity.blogspot.com). I’m so psyched that she’s going to be sharing all of the relationship heartaches, successes, dramas and mayhem that have kept me so entertained (and feeling in good company!) these past few years. Click on over there and pay her a visit. And ask her to share the full ménage a dog tale—her ex in the city will make your own guy seem like a saint.

Strawberry Fields

2008-07-25T15:26:00.008-04:00

HCC: I’ve always wanted to be a California girl. So I decided to go there for a three-week visit to see my sister who has landed on the Central Coast as a traveling nurse. It wasn’t intended to be a vacation—I figured the sunny weather and ocean air would offer inspiration for writing the book. But, I soon discovered, it’s impossible to be all work and no play in the Golden State.

Case in point: Even a simple coastal drive can morph into a pleasure cruise. One of my college roomies, Melissa, picked me up from LAX for a road trip to a beach town called Carpentiria. The plan was to camp overnight with her and her boyfriend in his RV, and then hop on a train for my sister’s home in Pismo Beach (one of the most beautiful places ever, but more on that later). It was the day before the 4th of July, traffic was thick, and we just wanted to get there, already! We had fireworks to light, campfires to build, and s’mores to eat. (Tough itinerary, I know!)

Smoggy haze, honking horns, and bumper-to-bumper traffic soon gave way to open road, blue skies, and miles of strawberry fields. As we kept passing wooden fruit stands advertising “fresh-picked strawberries,” I convinced Melissa to make a pit stop. In addition to purchasing a pint of berries, we also stocked up on dried apricots, salted pistachios, juicy oranges, and organic honey. It was my idea of a shopper’s paradise.

Once we got back on the road, I gave Melissa the honors of having the first strawberry tasting. After taking a bite, her eyes grew wide. “These are the best strawberries in the world!” she proclaimed. I looked down at the bright red gems spilling out of the green container in my lap, and tried them for myself. If it’s possible to actually taste fresh sugar spun with pure sunlight, this was it. I had to concur that these were, in fact, the best strawberries in the world.

Either that sugar must have gone straight to our heads or those farmers were using some special herbal pesticide, because all of a sudden we could not stop laughing. Any word out of our mouths seemed hilarious—I’m sure the humor won’t translate so I’ll spare you the sidesplitting details. We laughed so hard we could not breathe. And then we got the munchies.

So we proceeded to stop at half a dozen or so more fruit stands along the way to confirm that we had, in fact, tasted the best strawberries in the world. We probably consumed our weight in berries. I must report that we erred in our initial assessment—each successive strawberry was even better than the last.

Melissa’s very patient boyfriend—who had driven his RV from LA to Carpinteria two days earlier to beat the crowds for a coveted ocean spot—was very good-natured when we arrived over an hour late (but with ample food supplies!). Melissa proceeded to open my eyes to yet another fun pastime—shooting bugs off of rocks with some kind of toy pop gun thingy (don’t worry—I didn’t kill anything. My hand-eye coordination is about as good as my sense of direction—definitely not spot on!) We erupted into another can’t-breath-stomach-hurting laugh attack, and he finally had to ask in bewilderment, “Seriously, what the hell did you girls get into on the ride up here?!” All we can say is this: It’s the strawberries, man.

How You Can Make a Difference

2008-07-17T01:32:00.004-04:00

HCC: Global warming. Genocide. Food crisis. It’s easy to feel powerless with all the big issues happening in the world. As an individual, I want to help, but am not sure how the heck I could ever make a real difference. Then a friend told me about this site, Avaaz.org.

Meaning “voice” in many languages, Avaaz uses the power of the internet to connect people across borders so they can take action on the major problems facing the world today. In a nutshell, when you sign up to get their email alerts about the latest global issues, they’ll give you ideas about what you can do to help—be it signing a petition to send to political leaders, holding rallies to draw awareness to genocide, or combining small amounts of cash that add up to huge donations when pooled with others. Here's a video the nonprofit put up on YouTube.

Dancing Around the World

2008-07-15T21:55:00.007-04:00

HCC: For all of you who haven’t yet seen this guy, Matt, dancing in different locations around the world, you can click here to see his videos. I’m posting it for a few reasons.

1. It always makes me smile, and hopefully it will do the same for you.

2. According to Matt’s site, he thinks Americans should travel abroad more. The Lost Girls share this opinion: The best way to learn about the world is to, well, get out there and see it.

3. One of the FAQs featured on his site is the same question my mom used to ask me whenever she saw pics of us during our own year abroad: “Why are you always wearing the same clothes?” Matt's response: “Ever traveled for an extended period of time?... I didn’t think so.” Ha!

South of the Border

2008-07-10T00:11:00.010-04:00

HCC: I’m used to hauling backpacks and shacking in hostels with my fellow Lost Girls, but my latest getaway was done family style: I met my mother and sister Kate for a resort vacation in Playa Del Carmen. Just 45 minutes south of Cancun on the Mayan Riviera, the beach town is filled with souvenir shops and restaurants cooking up all types of cuisine.

You won’t find the rampant wet t-shirt contests that come with being labeled a spring break destination like it’s northern sister (yes, my college roomies and I made this spring-break pilgrimage and no, I didn’t enter a wet t-shirt contest). Even so, a few super-chains, such as Wal-Mart, have found their way to playa, as the locals refer to it.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get to spend much of my five short days in town since my mother arranged for us to stay at my uncle’s timeshare. When I first arrived at the mega-resort that boasted seven pools, six restaurants, and a shuttle bus to transport guests around the enormous property, I felt completely removed from the Mexico I longed to explore. It seemed the closest I was going to get to “authentic” culture on my family vacation was sipping the $6.50 Coronas at the pool bar.

Traveling with other people calls for lots of compromise (not everyone has the same vacation priorities), but my main M.O. for the trip was to spend time with my family. Though our ideas of adventure are all very different, my mom, sister and I agreed upon excursions that we could all enjoy. Here’s a quick recap of some of the things we saw and did in this part of the Yucatan Peninsula:

Shop on 5th Avenue: No, it’s not the glitzy, designer-filled commercial road that’s found in the Big Apple, but a traffic-free cobblestone street lined with tequila and cigar vendors, kitschy art shops, and “natural” massage parlors. My favorite was Venta Pachamama, where I bought a wooden cross that’s adorned with metallic saints and a Virgin of Guadalupe magnet etched with hot-pink paint.

Jet Setting: We took a water taxi from Playa del Carmen to Cozumel, Mexico’s biggest island and a popular cruise stop. Once we arrived, we signed up for a $30 snorkeling trip. The boat didn’t bring us far enough off shore to really see the Great Maya Reef, which was badly damaged by hurricanes a few years back. In fact, we could have taken a taxi to a beach further away from the ferry landing and rented snorkeling equipment for the same experience. Oh well—travel is all about living and learning.

Once we dried off, we wandered into the town square and sat at one of the outdoor restaurants, where we washed down grilled, garlic-topped grouper with margaritas. Eating fresh seafood and watching the sunset was the highlight of our day.

Back to Nature: Xel-Ha is an ecological theme park located about an hour and a half south of Playa del Carmen near Tulum. Touted as a “natural aquarium,” it’s a protected cove where guests can snorkel, swim with dolphins, and explore submerged caves. For $75, you get access to snorkeling gear, bikes, and all-you-can eat and drink buffets. I snorkeled in a protected cove for hours, mesmerized by rainbow-colored fish that swam right up to my mask. And, after a tough day of having fun in the intense Mexican sun, I opted for a cold-stone massage at the outdoor spa. My only wish was that I’d exerted more self-control at the buffet and not eaten those three ice-cream cones right before—Mayan massage involves lots of stomach rubbing.

Lost Girl of the Week: Ida Becker

2008-07-08T01:02:00.003-04:00

HCC: It’s often people, more so than a pretty landscape, that makes a place really memorable. Rubbing elbows with the locals can open your eyes to a whole new way of seeing the world, as I learned from sitting on the beach in Bahia after a Brazilian woman invited me into her circle of friends. I curled my toes in the sand and clapped along with them as the sun sank lazily into the sea, 100 percent content in that moment. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d noticed a sunset in New York City, let alone took the time out to celebrate one!

So in the spirit of making connections and gaining insight, we’ve made South Carolina native Ida Becker this week’s Lost Girl. Currently on her way to Syria, she’s traveling around the globe for a year to do a web-based photo documentary she’s dubbed "The U Truth Project." She’ll be stopping along the way to photograph people she meets and ask them to share something they believe to be true. Ida’s fearlessly going where no woman has gone before, offering us philosophy in sound bytes and daily doses of wisdom. Here’s what prompted to embark upon her journey in the first place:

“Two years ago, I traveled to Nepal on a whim and happened to be there during the countrywide uprising against the king. For the last week of my trip, I was under house arrest alongside the Nepali people. Martial law gave me the opportunity to have indepth conversations with people at a defining moment in their country's history, and I was struck by the common hopes and dreams that I—a white girl from Charleston, S.C.–shared with a community of people whose existence initially seemed very foreign.

During that trip, I learned that a simple human connection can be one of the richest aspects of travel, and I vowed to always engage indigenous people in a meaningful manner during future trips. That simple resolution evolved into the decision to take a one-year trip around the world with the specific intention of connecting with and learning from the people I encounter. I believe that the more you learn about the world, the more you understand your place in it.

On March 11, I departed for Africa and began the U Truth Project. In an age when neighbors are disconnected and societies are fractured due to religion, creed, politics, race, geography, socio-economics, and countless other markers, the U Truth Project, seeks to discover commonalities within the human drama that supersede surface differences.

Armed with little more than a camera, a laptop, a copious supply of anti-malaria pills, and a tentative route, I am circumnavigating the globe and asking the people I meet to share one statement of truth."

The Rent has been paid

2008-07-01T13:28:00.009-04:00

ADP: I have a (sort-off) embarrassing little secret. I didn't move to New York City for some career opportunity, to pursue a creative ambition or find the love of my life. Eight years ago, I moved to Manhattan--the Lower East Side, specifically—for a Broadway musical.

I'd seen the original Broadway cast of Rent during my first trip to NYC from Florida in 1998. I was a 19 year old sophomore on Spring Break, and from the moment the cast came out on stage and tore into the opening number, I was completely sucked in. This was New York depicted as I'd never seen it--punked out bohemian club kids squatting in some apartment, living, singing, pursuing art and experiencing life. Real life. An ironic first impression, especially considering that I was watching a musical, but I so desperately wanted to graduate into a world where creativity is divine, diversity rules and your friends become the family you chose.

Two years later, after traveling through Europe with Jen (we both jammed out to the Rent soundtrack on my CD walkman) I followed through on a promise I'd made myself and moved to NYC. While I didn't end up becoming a performance artist in Alphabet City a la Maureen or a filmmaker like Mark, I did end up growing into myself here. I transitioned from a suited-up sales assistant to a dressed down magazine writer, moved back down to the depths of the Lower East Side after the Upper West felt too scrubbed down and sanitized for my protection. And, of course, I did find those amazing friends who knit together to make the tightest, most loving sort of family.

The reason this is all top of mind? Last night, Jen and I not only attended a private cabaret performance featuring Adam Pascal, the original Roger in Rent, we got to slip back to the green room at Feinstein's and meet the man himself. I have to say, I have never been particularly star struck—Brat Pitt once sat at the table next to mine, chain smoking with Sean Penn, and I managed to avoid doing anything egregiously fan-stalkerish—but I had trouble acting chill around Adam. I'm pretty sure the entire time I was talking to him, I was acting like Rainman, slobbering all over myself and grinning like a fool.

Yes—he's got one of the sexiest rocker voices in the business, a gorgeous face and an almost indecorous way with a guitar—but for some reason, meeting the guy just made me crazy nostalgic. Ooo--Roger from Rent shook my hand! Roger from Rent is talking to me! Roger from Rent is posing with me for a picture! My co-worker Karen grabbed the poor guy and forced him to listen to Lost Girls travel tales (um, yes, seriously!) but he graciously took everything in stride. Guess we weren't quite as bad as the heckler who almost had to be booted from the show for bad behavior.

Jen and I left the performance at Feinstein's and sang our lungs out in the streets for a full 15 blocks. People walking past barely gave us a second glance. Giddy and delirious (and yes, perhaps a bit toasty on a bottle of wine), we both got the strange sensation that the clock had turned backwards and we were 23 years old again--brand new in New York City with nothing but the fullest expectations for our New York futures. The high lasted until I finally collapsed into bed last night, and the wine giddiness has long since worn off. But even today, I'm still feeling little buzzed...

Where the @&*%$ are The Lost Girls??

2008-06-27T14:08:00.008-04:00

Okay, we'll admit it. We've been very, very lackadaisical about posting lately. I'm mean, three weeks since we last put something up? Ridiculous! But, of course, it's not because we're slackers (Oh no—perish the thought!) In the past several months, Jen, Holly and I have indeed been working hard on another LG project, something that we're finally ready (and very excited) to share officially...

In fall 2009, The Lost Girls will become a book! Fo shizzle!

Not long after we returned home from our year abroad (when we were still totally broke and had yet to find paying jobs), the three of us went up to Holly's mom's house in Syracuse, NY to spend a couple weeks in our pajamas, hunkered over our respective laptops, in an attempt to put together a book proposal. Not that any of us actually knew what we were doing. We simply bought some how-to guides with names like Book Proposals for Dummies, and The Complete Moron's Guide to Selling a Book, stocked up on piles of fatty/salty/sugary snacks from Wegman's grocery store (plus a huge tin of Holly's mom's cookies) and installed ourselves at the dining room table to get started.

Writing the proposal felt exactly like cramming for finals—an intense, pressure-cooker situation that combined lack of sleep, information overload, and way too many carbohydrates.

Our days went something like this: wake up, eat breakfast, write, eat a snack, write, write some more, take a break to walk around the neighborhood (or if you're Holly, sprint at a leisurely 9 mile an hour pace), shower, eat lunch, write, write, write, take a break to watch old episodes of Felicity on DVD, eat, write, eat, write, write, crash. Sleep. Repeat.

It took us a longer than we'd planned and we'd all gotten a bit puffier in the process, but we eventually flew back to NYC with a solid 50-page proposal in hand. Woo-hoo!

After securing superagent Ken Wright (a story best saved for another blog post!), tacking on a 30-page sample chapter (apparently, publishers want to see if you can actually write) and stressing as Ken shopped The Lost Girls around to NYC publishing houses, we finally got the news that blew our minds:

Harper Collins--The Harper Collins—wanted to buy our idea. We'd have a year to turn it into a 300-page manuscript. Now, where could they send the contract?

Holy crap!!

It took some doing (and a few cocktails at Tabla), but Superagent Ken assured us that yes, the sale was indeed for real. And now, the only thing that remains is for us to write the darn thing.

So, as we go through that process, we'll be sharing some of the highlights (and lowlights, of course) on the Lost Girls blog.

Here's a fun news item on The Lost Girls (the book, not the blog) in Variety:

Happy Feet?

2008-06-04T13:58:00.003-04:00

HCC: A trip to Antarctica is like the real-life version of Animal Planet: Where else in the world can you sail past seals sleeping on ice bergs or plop down on a snowy beach where curious penguins climb right onto your lap? Thus far all of our wildlife spottings have been the warm and cuddly kind—until our zodiacs landed on Cuverville Island.

The rocky island is home to a rookery of gentoo penguins, so we settled on a hill overlooking the ocean to watch nature’s show. Fluffy baby penguins frolicked in the icy waves and put on live performances akin to Happy Feet. The movie moment quickly ended when an enormous leopard seal tore into an unsuspecting gentoo—throwing it up in the air and catching it in its teeth. It was an instant reminder that, despite the Hollywood-worthy scenery, we’d definitely landed in one of the wildest places on earth.

Even so, The Ice does have a small human presence in the form of scientific research stations. Our ship stopped by one such Ukrainian base, known as Vernadsky, where the hole in the ozone was first discovered. Besides recording data on the South Pole’s animals, weather, and atmosphere, the multi-talented, all-male team concocts homemade vodka and sells it for $3 a shot at their onsite “Bar at the Bottom of the World.” This is also the place where visitors can pick up souvenirs such as penguin embroidery (!) and get an official Antarctica stamp in their passport.

I waited in line with my fellow Students on Ice Ambassadors for the coveted South Pole stamp to prove that we'd made it past 66 degrees South, silently thanking the gods for allowing me to somehow set foot in this natural playground. Though it felt like I'd stepped on another planet by traveling here, this pristine wonderland is just as much part of planet Earth as the fast-paced concrete jungle of New York City. And it's all of our duty to protect this place that we call home.

So I checked out Climate Care to calculate the carbon emission caused by my trip to The Ice. C02 emissions add to climate change, so I tried to offset the damage by donating money to their sustainable energy programs after using the calculator to figure out how much CO2 my roundtrip flight (including layovers) produced. (About 3.24 tonnes of CO2 according to the calculator tool). It's not ideal, but it's better than going on the trip and then not doing anything all to offset my carbon footprint. I try to remember that even small moves can add up to a big impact if everyone lends a hand.

Lost Girl of the Week: Jessica Glemnitz

2008-05-30T21:45:00.006-04:00

ADP: Most would-be travelers need some sort of catalyst to uproot them from a comfy spot on the couch (or an exceedingly uncomfortable office chair) and propell them towards the open road.

For many, its a window of unscheduled time--the period between college and grad school, a sabatical from work, an extended honeymoon, a company layoff (paired with an excellent severance package, of course). Others take off to pursue new experiences and skills through a study aboard program or language schools. Still other nomads leave to live out a fantasy—like climbing Mt Killimanjaro, hugging penguins in Antarctica or diving the Great Barrier Reef.

But for a certain group of travelers, like Lost Girl of the Week Jessica Glemnitz—the reasons for leaving aren't so clearly defined. Jessica intuitively understood the transforming effect of travel, so when the going got tough in her own life, this tough girl wasn't afraid to get going!

While its true that you can't run away from your problems, sometimes changing your geography can give you the perspective to learn and grow from them. Here's Jessica's story--and what she figured out along the way.

*******
From Jessica:

Up until the summer of 2007, my life seemed relatively on track. I had a great job in publishing as a graphic designer. My Toronto apartment was larger than most people I knew. I had a tight knit group of friends, and a loving boyfriend. I had also turned 30 that year—and was actually taking it well.

Now, I had always loved to travel. My dad had first sparked that interest by first taking me to Germany as kid. Years later, I even took a year off to see most of Europe and South East Asia. But now, after getting a real job with benefits, I had really settled in. I had grown accustomed to daily routine, and three week vacations.

Then, quickly, a series of events happened, which changed things drastically. First, there was new management at work. This then led to my editor quitting. At the same time work was extremely stressful with these changes, my dad suffered a stroke.

The summer of 2007 was spent flying home to see my dad on weekends, and trying to maintain sanity in my now tense work environment. It was at that point I made the decision. If I could get through this summer, and things were OK, then I would do something for myself. I would have another summer.

So I started saving, preparing and planning. I dug up a journal from 2000, where I had jotted down some long term goals. Visit galleries in Europe. Travel to Australia. Go to graduate school. Now, it seemed evident what my new summer would hold.

In February 2008, with my dad’s health in good condition, my best friend (since grade 7) and I, eagerly packed our bags for Australia, New Zealand and Japan. While most people couldn’t wrap their heads around the idea of quitting a full time job with benefits to travel, it made perfect sense to me.

My instinct proved to be true. Somewhere along the trip, I felt a shift that happens when travelling. A change of perspective that really changes you, stimulates you, and makes you feel alive. It could of been the challenge of navigating the Tokyo subway system. Or my best friend inspiring me to to sky dive in New Zealand. Maybe it was all of the hospitable Australians and the genuinely interesting people we met along the way.

Now, as I sit in a new city, in graduate school, I can clearly think about the challenges I faced last summer. Even though the experience was difficult, in essence it was my catalyst for change. For this I am grateful. It made me realize that life is short, and it really is what you make it. And most importantly, It brought me back to my first love—travel.
-----

Taking the Polar Plunge

2008-05-15T13:12:00.008-04:00

HCC: Maybe we were on a natural high after surviving the Drake Passage, or maybe all that fresh Antarctic air went straight to our heads, but almost every passenger on our voyage took a (polar) plunge and joined the Antarctic Swim Team.

As our ship headed to Whaler’s Bay, Deception Island, in the South Shetlands, we scored our first big wildlife viewings as humpback whales flaunted their acrobatic skills by breaching over twenty times. Penguins also shot out of the water all around the ship like shiny black-and-white bullets.

We watched from the bridge as our captain skillfully navigated the narrow crossing into Neptune’s Bellows, which was formed when the walls of a volcano collapsed. As we boarded the zodiacs to go ashore, our expedition leader announced that the volcano was still active—but that he didn’t think it would erupt today. We weren’t exactly convinced: Mother Nature and Antarctica were proving to be anything but predictable.

Still, that didn’t stop expedition mates from exploring the broken-down wooden buildings left behind from an old whaling station; watching the fur seals that made a home in the remnants of an abandoned rendering tank; or climbing a steep slope up to the break in the caldera wall known as Neptune’s Window.

Sulfurous clouds lingered above the shoreline as evidence that hot lava flowed beneath our feet. And so the debauchery began: The expedition team dug a hot-water pool on the beach as voyagers peeled away seemingly endless layers of snow pants, fleece jackets, long johns, wool socks, and rubber boots.

Jumping into the frigid ocean was enough to make your heart stop—and going underwater was required in order for the Antarctic plunge to “count.” Sprinting into the hot-water pool afterwards surprisingly burnt our toes. While most took the plunge in bathing suits or underwear, two brave (a.k.a. insane) souls actually stripped down naked. Besides bragging rights, we’d scored a surefire conversation starter: Nothing beats a story about a brisk Antarctic skinny dip at a dinner party.

Buenos Aires: How The Lost Girls Began...

2008-05-07T01:29:00.004-04:00

ADP: Yesterday night, after making a vain attempt to clean up some random files on my trusty iBook, I came across this destination article that I wrote for a now-defunct magazine called Travel Savvy. The piece never did see the light of day—the magazine folded in 2005, just days after I submitted it to my editor—and until now it's just been languishing in my computer's hard drive.

Sure, the piece is long past it's newsprint prime (the references and locations almost certainly outdated), but I still feel that it might be worth publishing here in the blogosphere. It recounts the unforgettable, life-changing adventure that brought Holly, Jen and me together as friends, and convinced us that quitting our lives to travel the world might be one of the best decisions we could ever make. We could hardly have imagined back in 2005 just how fully that promise would pan out.

****

Three to Tango
Shortly after sunrise, at an hour when Buenos Aires’ young clubbers are just drifting off to dreamland and local shopkeepers have yet to prop open their doors, the Armani and Gucci-clad crowd at the Alvear Palace is already awake and fully-caffeinated. The French style bosserie, or lobby bar, at the hotel’s heart crackles with kinetic energy as power players consummate business deals and lovers plan their next liaison over coffee.

I’m perched at the gleaming oak and marble bar, draining my second cappuccino and flirting with the handsome Argentinean who bought it for me. Christian, as he’s introduced himself, is in his late 20s with dark, soap opera star good looks and a grasp of English so limited, I feel remiss for not reviewing my Spanish on the plane ride down.

Still, eye contact and body language go a long way towards mutual understanding, and after chatting in Spanish for a few moments, Christian catches me off guard with a simple question, “Por qué tu has venido a mi paîs?”

Why have you come to my country?

I struggle to respond, but my hesitancy has nothing to do with verb conjugation. Christian, like many people I’d come to meet during my trip, genuinely wants to understand why I’d grabbed my two best friends and hopped an overnight flight to his city, the political capital and emotional epicenter of Argentina.

One pragmatic answer (and the most unromantic) was that Buenos Aires had never been more affordable. Argentina’s currency underwent a financial correction in 2002, effectively slashing the cost of goods by two-thirds and turning Buenos Aires into a modern day El Dorado. But instead of streets paved in gold, luxury-seeking Americans could find sumptuous steak dinners, handmade cashmere sweaters and finely crafted leather shoes for a tiny fraction of what if would cost them back in the states. Rumors of this “mythical” city—all the romance of Paris and chic style of Italy at rock bottom prices—had blown like seeds to the north, pollinating the minds of those unwilling to pit their anemic greenback against the all-powerful Euro.

But while my friends and I had each packed near-empty suitcases in anticipation of unrestricted shopping sprees, we hadn’t made a sub-equatorial journey in search of a budget European substitute. Only two percent of American women have ever traveled to South America, and we thrilled at the prospect of having a cosmopolitan city all to ourselves. Without hordes of other American tourists spoiling the fun, the odds that we might saturate ourselves in local culture seemed to be in our favor.

Now, as I sip the last of my cappuccino and gazed back at my handsome breakfast companion, I realize that I was right to trust my instincts.

*****

Three days earlier, after a surprisingly painless, jet lag-free flight, Holly, Jen and I had touched down to balmy mid-summer weather in Buenos Aires, turning New York’s latest blizzard into little more than a chilly memory. To completely evict thoughts of wool gloves and frostbitten toes, we checked into our room the Sheraton Park Tower, located in the central neighborhood of Retiro, and made an immediate break for the rooftop swimming pool. There, under the much-missed midday sun and over sherbet colored cocktails, we discussed strategy for the days ahead.

None of us particularly cared go landmark hopping, and we were certainly in the right city for avoiding that. While Buenos Aires is near limitless in its offerings, a well-established circuit of monuments, statues and historic buildings isn’t among of them. The above-ground crypts at Recoleta Cemetery, housing the final resting place of Eva “Evita” Peron, the beautiful Belle Epoch opera house of Teatro Colon and the President’s “Pink House” (the country’s answer to our own White House) are all noteworthy attractions, but can be checked off a sightseer’s list in a single afternoon.

Instead, the girls and I wanted to stroll, sip and shop our way through the city’s best attractions, the distinctive and colorful mélange of neighborhoods that compose it.

While the city center where our hotel is located is primarily dominated by office buildings and banks, the outdoor shopping promenade at calle Florida gave us good reason to stick around the neighborhood. Even on a weekday in mid-summer, the mile-long pedestrian mall was teaming with life. We the soon discovered that the El Dorado version of Buenos Aires was more than just a myth—stacks of100 percent Patagonian cashmere sweaters were $30 each, buttery leather trench coats, $100 apiece. If you could abide the over attentiveness and soft sell of the shopkeepers, you could round out your winter wardrobe for a song.

Like most Americans, Porteños (as the residents of Buenos Aires are called) have a boundless passion for shopping malls. Just off of calle Florida’s main drag, we discovered one of the city’s most popular. The multi-tiered, glass and frescoed palace of Galerias Pacifico housed studio-sized versions of the major label shops Lacoste, Nike, Polo and Yves Saint Laurent, plus at least 100 smaller boutiques. In addition to cut rate prices on most goods, tourists who present their receipts and passports to customer service offices could get lunch, coffee and their purchases delivered to their hotel—all free of charge.

The girls and I soon realized that clothes this cheap came still came a price—last-season’s styles and inferior fabrics. Deciding we could fare better across town, we jumped into a Radio Taxi (the city’s most reliable cab company) and made a beeline for the shopping district of Palermo.

As we drove, skyscrapers and multilane highways soon gave way to the green spaces, cobbled streets and bougainvillea-draped balconies in this bohemian-chic neighborhood, one of the few spots in Buenos Aires to thrive in defiance of the economic downturn.

Palermo itself is actually composed of seven distinctive districts, but the two that intrigued us most were Palermo Soho and Palermo Hollywood. The former offered a funky collection of outdoor cafes, progressive art galleries and trendy shops, while the later played host to a cluster of TV studios, restaurants, bar and the beautiful people who frequent them.

Jen, Holly and I couldn’t believe it when our cab ride clocked in at just under $3, and for the first time that we could remember, we fell over ourselves trying to pick up the tab. Why not be generous when the cross-town fare cost less than a Starbucks latte?

Immediately, it became clear that we’d come to the right part of town. The fashions were urban and edgy, the designs unique and stylish, and prices, while a bit higher than those along calle Florida, still far less expensive than those in boutiques back home. At spots such as Corazon Contento and Sora, the designers themselves were the ones behind the counter, happy to answer engage in conversation about their work.

We return back to hotel loaded down with packages, and for the first time, felt what I now refer to as “shoppers high.” Just minutes after arriving in our room, I was already thinking about my next retail conquest.

*****
Argentineans have a reputation for being insatiable carnivores, and on our second night in town, we were determined to discover what drove this bloodthirsty obsession. We ventured to San Telmo, an atmospheric neighborhood lined with colorful, crumbling old buildings reminiscent of the city in an earlier era. Along one of the quiet cobblestone streets, we found La Brigada, one of the local’s most beloved parillas, or steakhouses. A veritable shrine to both beef and soccer, the bi-level restaurant is filled with memorabilia of the real men of Argentina: gauchos (cowboys of the Pampas) and goalies.

Having delayed our meal until the time when Porteños eat—nearly 10:00—Holly, Jen and I were ravenous. We ordered huge meal consisting red wine, salads, empanadas and seafood appetizers, all culminating in a thick slice of lomo, or sirloin steak. One bite of the juicy, tender meat told me all that I needed to know about Argentina’s vampire-like lust for beef, but I forced myself to leave room for dessert. Holly’s sweet tooth guided us towards a paper-thin crepe stuffed with dulce de leche, a thick spread made of caramel and sweet cream. With a single bite, a sugary new obsession was born. Our bill for the five-course meal: just over $20.

We weaved through the streets of San Telmo until we approach Plaza Durreao, the neighborhood’s lively central square. On most days this plaza hosts one of Buenos Aires’ most popular outdoor milongas, or dance parties, where the passion of the tango sweeps like a fever through the crowd of tightly embraced couples. Overeager hotel activity directors often guide their guests towards expensive, melodramatic, Broadway-style tango shows, but the best way to experience a true tango is at a millonga like the one held here.

On Sundays, tango makes way for trinkets as the popular antiques market, Feria de San Telmo takes over the square, but tonight it’s thick with people watching some sort of loud, colorful dancing demonstration. One of the onlookers tells us that the holiday of Carnival is rapidly approaching and that each neighborhood in Buenos Aires holds it own parade to celebrate. Tonight show is merely practice for the main event.

*****

Back home, Sundays are made for brunching and we found that 5,000 miles to the south, things were no different. The Four Seasons Buenos Aires in the neighborhood of Recoleta promised the city’s very best champagne brunch so we dropped in to see for ourselves. We entered the turn-of-the century French-style mansion and ascended the dramatic marble staircase to an aqua washed room trimmed in gold leaf. It was like stepping into the scene from The Little Princess where Shirley Temple and her young friends awake to find a spread so sumptuous, so perfect, that they feel that have to have a taste of everything before it vanishes. The meal did disappear, thanks to our less-than demure appetites, and followed up the lavish meal by heading to the Four Seasons Spa for Porteño massages.

After being pampered so thoroughly, the girls and I decided to extend the princess fantasy by transferring to suite the Alvear Palace, a property so true its name, there was actually royalty in residence during our stay. We learned that we’d just missed Owen Wilson’s visit, and that Antonio Banderas, Salma Hayek, Sharon Stone and Matt Damon, had all recently stayed here. Despite missing a critical celeb sighting, we immediately brightened upon the discovery that our room came complete with Hermes bath products and a private butler to unpack and press our clothes.

It was early the following morning at the lobby bar that I met my cappuccino companion Christian, who after meeting my friends, decided to call two of his and arrange a whirlwind tour of the city. Thrilled at the prospect of getting an insider’s view at Buenos Aires, we accepted the invitation.

At around 10:00 that night we met Christian and his pals Ignaco and Alan at a café not far from our hotel. From there we headed to Prime bar, a sleek space bathed in ambient pink light and trimmed with cool metals like aluminum and chrome. Ignacio, who was the spitting image of Paul Bettany with the soul of Vince Vaughn, immediately presented himself and the charming instigator of the group. Alan, with his tousled hair and lean, muscular frame could have been an Abercrombie model, but sadly, he was a mere babe at only 23 years old. And Christian, for all his sophisticated confidence that morning, had transformed into “one of the boys” in the presence of his friends. I guess some things never change, no matter what hemisphere you’re standing in.

With a full bar, extensive wine list and delicious tapas menu, Prime proved to be an ideal spot to get acquainted, and by the second round of tragos, or cocktails, language barriers had already come crashing down. Between the three of us, Holly, Jen and I knew enough Spanish to translate what the boys were saying, and no matter how fast we talked, they understood exactly what we were saying about them. Fortunately, the reviews were positive on both sides.

We quickly learned that the guys were obsessed with Americans, especially women: they wanted to know about our culture, the way we did things, what we complained about, what we liked, and of course, our politics. They wanted to know why we’d elected George Bush into office (as if the girls and I were personally responsible for the vote, and the term “blue state” didn’t really translate). But the sincere the devotion to deciphering us was endearing, rather than off-putting, and we all decided to continue the night by barhopping in Puerto Madero.

Once a derelict warehouse district in the “bad” part of town, the old portt area had been completely revitalized to reveal a waterfront complex housing brand new lofts, hotels (including the 85-room Phillip Stark designed Faena Hotel & Universe), and dozens of trendy restaurants and shops.

The port stretches nearly a mile, far too long for our group to hit all four sections, but we make a valiant effort to raise a toast in as many spots as possible. When we finally emerge under a nearly full moon, I can make out the sylphlike white apparition of the Puente de la Mujer, or Bridge of the Woman, stretching over the water. Christian tells me that its dramatic form was designed evoke images of a couple dancing the tango, the man towering over the woman who leans back horizontally.

I’m suddenly compelled to check out the view from the middle, and Christian and I abandon our friends to make the trip. A little unsteady on the wooden walkway, I try not to loose a high heal in the groove between the planks. Fortunately, Christian seems on the ready to catch me if I fall.

As we approach center of the bridge, I’m vaguely aware that Christian is murmuring something romantic about the water and the stars, first in English, and then in Spanish. I start to tune in and realize that he’s taking his role as a Latin lover just a bit too seriously.

Suddenly the whole scenario—the bridge, the boy and the starlight sky—feels and little too surreal, as if somehow the whole thing had been scripted just for me.

Immersing myself in culture is one thing; getting entangled in it is another. I coax Christian back down the bridge (before he gets too carried away and proposes) and rejoin my friends at the bottom.

After saying our goodbyes and exchanging emails, the girls and I return to our hotel and order up vanilla ice cream topped with dulce de leche. As we sit with a big bowl between us, three silver spoons dipping into the rapidly melting concoction, we recount the events our night, and come to one firm conclusion.

Finding romance in a foreign land may sound sweet, but sharing the adventure and dessert with your best friends is even sweeter.

****

Antarctica’s Rite of Passage

2008-05-05T02:43:00.004-04:00

HCC: The continent’s remote location isn’t the only challenge to setting foot on Antarctica—it’s also protected by the 500-mile wide Drake Passage carrying the world’s most turbulent waters. But ignorance was definitely bliss for all Antarctica virgins on board as our group of about fifty passengers set sail from Ushuaia on the Akademik Shokalskiy.

It ain’t a Carnival Cruise: The research vessel’s ice-strengthened hull can navigate between floating bergs and fit into nooks and crannies that larger cruise ships can’t. The vessel is more cozy than luxurious, with a bar/lounge, small library, dining room, lecture hall, and enclosed bridge for viewing whales, albatross, and penguins.

Before the seas got too choppy, a mandatory lifeboat drill preceded a champagne toast with the ship’s captain that provided a little liquid courage for finding those sea legs. The expedition leader also announced a schedule for lectures covering everything from global warming research stations to whale strandings to the politics of Antarctica. With no access to television, Google, or phones, the only options for passing the time at sea were hitting up meals, lectures and the bar.

Mother Nature was pretty calm the first night, until we crossed into the Drake Passage the following morning. High wind and waves reaching over 30 feet tossed the ship around like a washing machine.

Simply making it to lectures became an exercise in balance and mealtime turned chaotic as diners practically fell out of their chairs and dishes slid back and forth along the tables as though on a conveyer belt. Hint: After a few shots of Russian vodka, it’s hard to tell if it’s seasickness or alcohol that’s making your head spin. Most passengers lost their appetites and the ship’s doctor dispensed seasickness pills like candy. But hey, the Drake is a rite of passage: If we weren't looking for a really big adventure, we could have just gone to Sea World.

Lost Girl of the Week: Julie Stone

2008-04-30T09:20:00.004-04:00

ADP: As much as Jen, Holly and I loved traveling together as a dynamic trio of girlfriends, we always wondered what it might be like to do a similar trip with a boyfriend. Happily, our questions were answered after stumbling upon Globestompers.com, created by fellow backpacker diva Julie Stone, and her fiance Jared—both fellow New Yorkers.

As we learned through their blog (and a lovely email exchange), Julie had been an official member of the NYC rat race for just over 7 years by the time she and Jared made the decision to travel the world for a year. They're camping their way through Ne Zealand right now in the world's coolest camper van

Since graduating from college, Julie has tried her hand at acting, waiting tables, representing actors, selling advertising, marketing and blogging, with varying degrees of success. Even though she loved living in the Big Apple, the rest of the world beckoned...

Julie: To be honest, I had to be convinced (by my fiance) to travel the world for a year. The thought of completely uprooting my life scared the wits out of me. What if I missed my bed? What if I wanted to go home? What if I couldn't find a job when I got back? Eventually I started to realize that it would be pretty difficult to see the entire world in one or two week chunks. If I ever wanted to run away for a year, now--while I had no mortgage, babies, or real career--was the perfect time to go. Jared and I wanted to take this time to ensure that we were right for each other, and we both hoped to figure out what we wanted to do with our lives.

Jared and I left the U.S. on October 11, 2007, on a flight from Miami to Quito. Since then, we have traveled through Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, Chile, Argentina, Uruguay, Brazil, Fiji, and New Zealand, plus a quick jaunt back to the States. We are planning our journey as we go, so if we hear about a cool place, we go there. (Fiji was not on our original route, but the cheapest flight to New Zealand included a layover there. Twist my arm, really.) Our next stop is Australia, where we will work for a few months and replenish our bank accounts before taking off to Southeast Asia. If we decide to travel for longer than a year, we hope to visit China, Japan, India, and Nepal.

For the first time in my twenty-nine years, I feel like I am living life to the fullest. I have seen places I only dreamed of: Iguazu Falls, beaches on tranquil islands in the South Pacific, Tierra del Fuego. I have slept in hostels, on buses and planes, in a tent, and now in a camper van. I have cheered during a championship soccer match in Rio de Janeiro, eaten lunch with the chief of a Fijian village, jumped out of a plane in New Zealand, and learned to speak Spanish with a distinctly Argentine accent. I have gazed up at the Southern constellations with wonder, and now I can find the Southern Cross in the night sky. Most importantly, I have learned that I am capable of stretching myself more than I ever thought possible.

So many people have said to us, "oh, I wish I could do what you are doing!" We always say the same thing back: "You can! You should! Come meet us in Australia!" All you need is time off, a passport, and less money than you think. (In South America, I traveled quite comfortably on $1000 per month. New Zealand, however, is a different story.) The hardest part is letting go of the familiar, but the rewards are endless.

A long way down

2008-04-20T14:38:00.011-04:00

HCC: Ushuaia is known as both del fin del mundo (translation: the end of the world) and the beginning of the journey to Antarctica from South America. Convicts helped construct its streets, bridges, and buildings after the Argentinean government built a jail here in the early 1900s. Officials figured wannabe-escape artists wouldn’t have a chance to make a getaway, thanks to the city’s location on the island of Tierra del Fuego and its border on the Beagle Channel.

Today, the population is ballooning to almost 65,000 residents during the tourist’s high season from November through March. Here’s a guide on what to do and see in the City at the End of the World:

Stock Up on Gear:
Vraie; 595 San Martin; TEL + 54-2901-422351
This is where I went to buy everything from ski pants to wind-proof hats to wool socks. Disclaimer: It ain’t cheap, so aim to get your gear in advance—unless lost luggage leaves you empty-handed.

Get a Chocolate Fix:
Chocolates Ushuaia: 783 San Martin
Whether you’re a dark-, white-, or milk-chocolate lover, simply setting foot in this cozy, wood-paneled shop will have you on a sugar high. You can’t go wrong with dulce de leche, a soft milk-caramel confection that’s more addicting than the Nutella I used to spread on croissants during my post-college, backpacking days through Europe.

Brush Up on History:
Museo Maritimo; 9419 Ushuaia
If you only go to one museum, this is it. It’s chock-full of info on everything from Shackleton’s first expeditions to the South Pole to photographs of prisoners forced to build the town to colorful oil-painting displays by national artists.

Refuel:
Gustino; 505 Av Maipu
Ushuaia is known for its fresh crab, tender Patagonian lamb and full-bodied red wine called Malbec. Sample all three at this trendy restaurant and wine bar—or warm up with mate in the sophisticated tea lounge.

Take a Hike:
Tierra del Fuego National Park; 1395, San Martín
Located just 12 kilometers from Ushuaia, the name translates to “Land of Fire” and the wilderness stretches for 60 kilometers from the Beagle Channel to the Chilean border. Adorned with waterfalls, forests, mountains and glaciers, there’s plenty of breathtaking treks to get your adrenaline pumping.

Score Classy Souvenirs:
Quelhue; 771 San Martin
Your co-worker really doesn’t need that penguin magnet, so bypass the hokey tourist stores and check out this wine & deli shop decorated with corks and stones that sells everything from hand-made soaps to fresh goat cheese to mate tea.

Find a Last-Minute Trip to The Ice:
Ushuaia Tourist Board; 674 San Martin
If you’re in Ushuaia and aren’t on a tight schedule, you could score a discounted, last-minute trip to Antarctica: You may have to wait a few days, but sometimes cruises have cancellations or don’t fill up. Ushuaia’s Tourist Information Board can give you a list of local tour operators who’ll have the inside scoop.

Gear Gone Missing

2008-04-17T17:57:00.008-04:00

HCC: One of my favorite things about blogging is the cool people you meet through the web. One such woman is Wendy Ferguson a fellow travel-lover and New Yorker who recently returned from Antarctica. When Wendy (pictured here) read that I was heading to the South Pole as well, she went beyond giving me travel advice—she offered to let me borrow the gear she’d used during her own trip!

I was more than game to hear her travel stories and save a couple hundred bucks, so we met for a drink at the W Hotel in Union Square. She shared her tips and passed me a big bag filled with cold-weather essentials.

Wendy had mentioned that making the trek to the bottom of the world meant mastering the f-word (that would be flexibility). And this definitely proved true on my trip to Ushuaia, the southernmost city on earth and the gateway to Antarctica.

To get there, I signed up with a non-profit organization called People To People. Kind of like study-abroad vacations for adults, the program lined up top experts to lecture onboard about everything from glaciology to marine mammals to the politics of the seventh continent.

People to People travelers flew in from across the country to meet in Miami, where we were flying Aerolineas Argentinas to Ushuaia with a brief layover in Buenos Aires. The three-hour layover extended into an overnight delay. Being stuck in the City of Tango might not sound like a horrible fate, but it required being at the airport at the ungodly hour of 3 a.m. to catch a 5 a.m. flight to Ushuaia. Though sticking to a schedule isn’t the airline’s strongpoint, at least they offered us hotel and dinner vouchers so we weren’t forced to curl up in a crowded airport lounge while waiting for our plane to touch down.

The good news: Our group landed safely in Ushuaia the following morning. The bad news: My bags didn’t. Missing luggage is more than a nuisance when traveling to The Ice: Temperatures that could drop as low as negative 59 degrees call for hi-tech essentials. As protection from the unpredictably harsh elements, a waterproof outer shell, wind-proof hat, and insulated inner layers such as fleece pants and silk undershirts are must-haves. But the worst part was that most of the gear wasn’t even mine, and I was sick to my stomach with the thought that I wouldn’t be able to return Wendy’s original stuff. At least I’d thought to stick her expensive binoculars and special UV-protection sunglasses in my carry-on (just in case!).

With the ship scheduled to set sail later that afternoon, I had no choice but to pull out the plastic for a last-minute shopping spree on San Martin, Ushuaia’s main shopping thoroughfare. Stay tuned for a tour of the town during my treasure hunt for new gear.