Puerto Rico Island Hopping

by Iva Skoch on

From the East Coast of the US, Puerto Rico is an easy, short and cheap flight away. If you want to see the real beauty of Puerto Rico, get away from the mainland. The two islands off the east coast of PR–Culebra and Vieques–are both well worth the trip. There are no big hotels and no cruise ships, just chickens on the street and men playing cards.

If you rent a car to get around, you don’t have to drop off your rental car at an office. Just leave it parked on the street somewhere and they’ll find it (no kidding). But best just to walk or bike the islands, though, to enjoy the pace of life. And don’t forget to go swimming at night under their pitch-black skies, to experience the bioluminescent plankton in the water.

Getting there is half the fun, especially if you decide to take the island hopper plane run by Air Flamenco. It only costs about $50 and takes about 30 minutes. Sure, it is a little bumpy and the fact that the pilots look about 18 does not make one feel particularly safe (and don’t mind the red, flashing “STALL” warning light on the dashboard as you’re coming in for a landing), but seeing all the miniature “Robinson Crusoe” islands in the blue Caribbean sea from a bird’s perspective is a much better (and faster) option that taking the ferry. Try it at least one way.

Fresh Fruits and the Nude Beach of Sauvie Island, Oregon

by Iva Skoch on

Portland, Oregon, is home to some wonderful sights and is a terrific, vibrant town nestled in some of the best scenery in the country. But, however picturesque the city is, you might still need to “get away from it all.” One of the best places to go is a small alluvial island near the convergence of the Columbia and Willamette (pronounced will-A-mit, sounds like “dammit”) rivers, called Sauvie Island.

It’s actually minutes from the center of town, but it’s worlds away. Here, the lovable hippie-grunginess of the Pacific Northwest meets the quaintness of Tuscany and the vistas of Switzerland. You can find ‘u-pick’ farms growing vegetables and flowers, along with dairy cows, horses, and a big wildlife preserve. There are camping locations, nature trails and beaches.

Right now is the time to head there to grab your late-summer-harvest fresh foods. Make sure to try the different berries indigenous to this region, such as the marionberry, which even grow wild on the roadsides. If you are not afraid of starches, test your orientation skills in the Corn Maize, an annual maze cut through a farmer’s field. A tip for runners or cyclists: the paved portion of the island is a scenic 12-mile loop of good, flat pavement.

The best time to go is early morning, when the quiet little rural island is still waking up. Clear days offer gorgeous views of both Mt. St. Helens and Mt. Hood and very little traffic. It’s common legend that it has Portland’s only nude beach; but this, I can neither confirm or deny. I can confirm, however, as a former resident, that the legendary Pacific Northwest “Pillsbury-doughboy tan” can be spotted here, in the wild.

Hidden Gems: Hell

by Willy Volk on

This week, humanity witnessed the (nearly) unprecedented: the dreaded 6/6/6 came and went fairly innocuously. Some people celebrated by desecrating churches. One woman celebrated by giving birth to a baby at 6 in the morning…that weighed 6.66 pounds. Some kids in Jersey celebrated by staying home from school.

I didn’t do any of that silly stuff. What did I do? My plan was devilishly simple: I went to Hell.

In case you had a Hell of a bad geography teacher, Hell is located at roughly 19.30 N, and 80.30 W — in the northwest corner of Grand Cayman. Seriously. If you look at a map of the island, you’ll see a place marked Hell. Considering its location, there’s very little chance that it’ll ever freeze over.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Although famous for its glisteningly-white Seven Mile Beach, Grand Cayman is not ringed entirely by soft, sandy, toe-loving beach. In fact, much of it is surrounded by ironshore, a rough, sharp, gray, limestone rock that would cut the toes of anyone who stepped on it.

 

 

 

 

 

Legend has it that in the 1930s, an Englishman visited the spot, shot at a bird, missed, and muttered, “Oh, Hell.” The name stuck. A wise, forward-thinking Cayman resident, Ivan Farrington, had an epiphany: Yes, he thought, I can’t do anything else with this useless Phytokarst formation — this place must be Hell. And like any good entrepreneur, he set forth to create his vision.

On the morning of 6/6/6, my father and I went to Hell. No, we didn’t go in a handbasket; we rented a car. After winding past massive hotels, and through a small neighborhood, I found an ominous-looking intersection. This must be the place.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I made a hard right, drove past Hell’s only gas station (an Esso), and pulled into the parking lot. However, I was careful not to park in the wrong spot.

 

 

 

 

 

What is this place, I thought? Could it really be Hell?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Or just a commercialized version of it?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

First, I wandered out back, where the ironshore pokes up ominously, and I realized how inhospitable the terrain is. Only a devil could love it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He loves it so much, in fact, that he guards it…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…personally.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fearfully, I left the ironshore and made my way to the inner circle of Hell.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I took a  deep breath, and I made a pact with the devil: let me escape this place alive, and I promise to tell the world about you and your establishment.

 

 

 

After shaking hands with the devil himself, I entered the store. I was surrounded by t-shirts, fridge magnets, bumper stickers, and every imaginable kind of hellish gee-gaw, all hocking Hell:

  • “My mom went to Hell, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.”
  • “If you can read this t-shirt, then she fell the Hell off the bike!”
  • “Get the Hell out of my way!”

For the literate, you could even purchase a postcard from Hell, affix a Hell postage stamp to it, and mail it from Hell’s own mailbox.

 

 

 

 

 

It turns out that although you can purchase cold drinks in Hell, there is no restaurant: no Hell’s Kitchen to serve up hot wings or fiery chili.

I chose a shotglass (“I made it to Hell and back”) and made my way to the front counter. Mr. Farrington was there, and he took my money. I asked if I could take his photo. He paused, looked at me, and asked, “Well…what the Hell are you waiting for?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I thanked him and turned to leave. But before I did, I leveled my gaze at him and snarled, “You, go to Hell!”

I rushed from the store, jumped in my car, gunned the engine and got the Hell out of there. Fortunately, despite being there on 6/6/6, I did not spontaneously combust.

I know this is one Hell of a story, but it’s completely true. If you don’t believe me, why don’t YOU go to Hell!