If you were to ask Mark Thompson about the grand opening of his store, the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory, he would have envisioned it completely different from what actually transpired.

He took a chance on where he opened the store, for starters. The former fireboat house building needed a fresh coat of paint, and complete renovations from tail to toe. "For years, this part of New York was considered the rock bottom," he told a group of bloggers who visited the store on a trip. "From Red Hook all the way to Greenpoint, this was not the place people wanted to visit."

The fact that Thompson took a chance on the old ferry terminal says a lot about his vision and chutzpah. As Brooklyn's DUMBO area transitioned over time, it became well known for its water purification system. In the 1960s, the Kennedy administration started the water purification laws in the country, and New York "was really the last port to develop its water," says Thompson.

But today, DUMBO is well known for the quality of its water. So well known, in fact, that it's what sets apart Thompson's ice cream from the pack (among technique, excellent freezers and impeccable maintenance). This space was landmarked in the late 1970s and when it became available they were starting to unite the waterfront property in New York City. It was originally a fireboat house station, and then a firehouse. Since the city was in dire financial straits in the 1970s, they chose to close the fire station and that particular building was scheduled to be knocked down. "It was the same people who sought to build in the middle of Brooklyn Heights that kept this open," says Townsend.

So he purchased the building but did not open it to customers until 2001 since it took him four years to go through the permitting process to get a landmark for the business. "There were a lot of people who were upset that someone was going to open a business and make money on –God forbid –a city property," he says.

Thompson's grand opening was supposed to be on Sept. 12, 2001. "I gave away ice cream that Labor Day, we put a card outside, I said just give me two or three days to call it a grand opening on Sept. 12th."

After the September 11 tragedy, Thompson's dream seemed to fizzle into thin air. That particular area had so many Red Cross workers and the office of Emergency Management –which was in the Trade Center–set up in a building there (this has now been knocked down). "It's hard to explain…business wise, I was a nervous wreck," says Thompson. "But when such a tragedy happens it puts everything into perspective. Here I am selling ice cream."

So he did the right thing to do. He started giving away ice cream to those who wanted it. "I saw the strangest thing that happened to my business," he says. After 9/11, no media outlet was writing anything good about the area. It was- -understandably–such drastic news. Because of his sweet spot story, Thompson had a slew of media attention, from The New York Times to Food & Wine Magazine who all wanted news stories.

The fact that Thompson had a sweet spot and a sweet story in the middle of all this mess helped him rather than hindered him. While he couldn't "officially" open in September, he kept thinking that he should still go ahead with the store opening in October. "From October 15, 2011 till today, it's been on an uphill swing ever since." It was a nice little "engine that could" story in a bad time and I'm so thrilled it all worked out for him.

It ended up working out for Thompson and today the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory is well known and well loved, serving eight varieties of Ice Cream that don't pretend to be anything fancy. So you won't see any Chunky Monkey or Rocky Road combinations but the friendly staff can create anything you want out of their staples of strawberry, vanilla, chocolate, butter pecan and other flavors.

Thompson's goal was never to do anything too fancy. He wanted to make "Classic American-style flavor" ice cream, and he chose the eight flavors and has not had to change them once since the opening. 60 percent of his sales come from vanilla, chocolate and strawberry (70 percent of ice cream sales in the U.S. are vanilla ice cream—-if it ain't broke, don't fix it). "If you can't make vanilla right, don't try to make 50 or 60 other flavors," he says. He's got a point. If the foundation is solid, people will come.

His vision was of creating a place that was classic and tried and true, using the best ingredients and techniques. I tried the Chocolate Ice Cream on a Waffle Cone and I was taken by the real, genuine creaminess and the lack of any preservative or artificial sugar taste at all. This was genuinely good stuff.

A true "phoenix rising from the ashes" story.

The Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory has two locations:

Brooklyn Heights    (718) 246-3963
Greenpoint   (718) 349-2506

The Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory was a former firehouse

The group of bloggers who went to the Ice Cream Factory

The very hip, very retro entrance

Mark Thompson, owner of the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory, originally scheduled the store to open on 9/12/2001

I so want this sign in my house!

"As Healthy as Chocolate Gets" sounds good to me

Who doesn't love hot chocolate and waffle cones?

Everything is better with chocolate ice cream!

Even Maria from The Culturist thinks so…

There are some places that I am hesitant to visit initially, but end up falling in love with. Travel is like a kaleidoscope in that aspect — you don't really know what you'll get until you get there.

Detroit is one visit I will always remember from 2011. There's so much to Motor City beyond the silver GM Building, the indefatigable assembly line pioneered by Ford, and the dreary thought of worker layoffs and stringent Unions. Detroit is for the foodie, the adventurer, the architect lover in all of us.

Beyond the Willy Wonka Car Production Factory: Detroit, a City for Serious Foodies

I visited Detroit in April, 2011 and drank in everything: from the developed, ethnic fabric in Dearborn, Michigan to the more run down outskirts like Corktown. Corktown is not pretty, by any stretch of the overactive imagination, but the area is a cultural melting pot and a fabric of Irish immigrant settlers and a now more hip, young urban crowd. Detroit is a place for foodies, and one iconic dining option –Slow's BBQ on Michigan Avenue — has reinvented the culinary vernacular.

As I discovered, Detroit has surprisingly polished and diverse food choices. It would take a very uncreative person to starve here. One of my favorite places to eat was Pizzeria Biga which boasts Neapalitano-style brick oven pizzas with chewy, flavorful crust. Getting a slice of pizza these days is akin to sipping a generously warm latte from Dunkin Donuts — genuine, quality, but expected. Pizzeria Biga ups the ante and really gives you a flavorful experience.

For restaurants that have that "fun factor" woven into their aura and decor, there is plenty of action in Greektown, considered the most famous neighborhood in Downtown Detroit. At Pegasus Taverna,with its unassuming exterior, there is much gaiety, action and familial laughter. Savvy servers bring flaming plates of Greek Kasseri cheese lit ablaze with brandy to your table (the dish is called Saganaki Opa and the servers really and do shout Opa –a word which is often used to describe a joyful occasion or emotion). The patrons clap, as though at a concert. The restaurant makes one relive scenes from My Big Fat Greek Wedding – minus the tacky.

A misty morning in Dearborn, Michigan

The Creme de la Creme of Museums

A visit to the Henry Ford Museum & Greenfield Village alone will inspire to you to appreciate the amount of American innovation that occurred at the turn of the century. Ford's vision and motto was that "ordinary Americans can do extraordinary things" and he was a vast collector of iconic inventions (from Edison's Menlo Park home reproduction to the actual bicycle where the Wright Brothers worked in Dayton, Ohio), you can truly see the innovations that shaped America.

At a popular places like Greenfield village, you can see school buses filled with children on field trips, tourists eager to inhale the spirit of turn of the century America, and museum curators eager to show off their vast knowledge. Detroit is full of passionate people, eager to recount legends, pass on their knowledge to those keen to soak it up, and features the creme de la cream of automobile and American innovation museums. 

The sacred, iconic Piquette Plant Assembly, where Henry Ford and his team assembled the first Model T and several other models, is a museum pilgrimage that no automobile connoisseur could afford to miss. Listed on the National Register of Historic Places in 2002, this unassuming mill-style building was home to the realization of Ford's singular, stubborn dream of providing every American with an affordable car.

Creaky stairs, original wooden floors, even Ford's old office corner — everything is preserved, loved, cherished. Each year, volunteers work on preserving the antique cars to make sure all parts are intact, polished, functional, and every second of their labor of love is a donation. What a testament to the vision of Ford, I thought, and what level of respect. Visitors can sit in a small room with benches and watch a documentary on Ford's vision and realization.

The Only Place in North America Where You Can Look South Toward Canada

In Detroit, I discovered what it felt like to be in the only place in North America where you can gaze South toward Canada (I remember being in the General Motors building, a tall, silvery cylindrical skyscraper that looked a futuristic lighthouse), towards Windsor.

A City of Architectural Masterpieces

From the unmistakeable Guardian Building that lights up the city skyline, to the distinctly Detroit Pewabic pottery (the eponymous school still operates today and was declared a National Historic Landmark in 1991), there is so much square footage of Detroit devoted to architecture and the arts. Pewabic pottery is known for its distinct, almost phantasmagoric quality of glazing with rich and deep colors.

A newly renovated bedroom at The Henry, an Autograph Collection Hotel in Dearborn, MI

The outskirts of Detroit, en route to Corktown

Corktown may not be a place to linger or sit in a cafe, but it has spots that are being renovated.

In Corktown, at the intersection of Wabash & Michigan Avenues. You're not in Kansas anymore.

An iconic restaurant in Corktown and Detroit itself, Slow's BBQ has brought tourists, celebrities, locals together in pursuit of a

new revitalized cuisine. Surprisingly, there are a lot of vegetarian and vegan options on the menu.

A Brush Motor Company car stands on the original wooden floor at the Piquette Assembly Plant in Detroit. Volunteers painstakingly restore each and every car to perfection on an annual basis

Inside the iconic Guardian Building, considered to be one of Detroit's architectural masterpieces

The rich glazed Pewabic Pottery Tiles that are distinctly Detroit

Stately servers put on a show of "Saganaki Opa" (flaming Greek Kasseri cheese and brandy) at Pegasus Restaurant in Greektown

A city that is never on autopilot: Detroit at night

Each New Year, I fully believe in having an experience. It's a plus if that experience is non local, since the travel bug always encourages me to seek some new tradition for celebration.

Last year, I celebrated New Year's Eve by doing a chilly but energizing 5K Midnight Run in Central Park. What better way to start off the New Year on a healthy foot? You get delicious mugs of hot chocolate at the end of the race, as well as sparkling cider at about the half mile mark, and fireworks as a background. Unusual? A bit. It certainly is different from watching the Times Square Ball drop or enjoying drinks at a bar, although there's nothing wrong with those options either.

This year, I was curious to see if Americans celebrate New Year's Eve in unusual ways; if you're looking for some inspiration, try these on for size:

MEDITATION OR YOGA CLASSES:

While most people wouldn't enjoy doing the "downward facing dog" at the stroke of midnight, there's something peaceful and powerful about meditating to usher in the New Year. Marisa Gross, a yoga junkie who has done a few of these to ring in the New Year says, "the benefits and economics of it all surely outweighs going out to dinners, bars and clubs."

Photo credit: Hazy Moon Center

Several cities offer New Year's Eve meditation options. Los Angeles has one at the Hazy Moon Zen Center where you'll get a lesson in the basic principles of Buddhism and also practice sutras leading up to midnight. In New York City, there are some options in Brooklyn to get your zen fix.

THROW A POTLUCK PARTY:

Let's face it, parties are fun, but doing all that work can be grueling! One idea, according to the site Money Crashers, is to make the party a BYOA Affair (Bring Your Own Appetizer). The truth is, people just want an excuse to party, so even if you serve one up with Peppermint Bark, Eggnog, Twizzlers and Champagne, it's likely to be a success. Encourage friends you know to bring their own bottle of wine, and if you get 10-20 friends to show up, the affair could be relatively painless and an ark-load of fun.

Of course if your own birthday happens to fall on December 31st, you have all the more reason to celebrate.  Joy Frank Collins whose son turns 8 this year says, "Ever since December 31, 2003, my family has celebrated New Year's Eve by having a birthday party for our son. He gets that there is another big event going on, but I still think deep down he thinks all the revelry is to celebrate him.

DO THE OLIVE DROP IN PALM SPRINGS, CA:

There's a new tradition in Palm Springs, CA and one inspired by the New York Times Square Ball Drop but paying respect to Palm Springs' tradition drink –the martini. But thankfully, this doesn't involve you standing in the freezing cold for eight hours or more, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lady Gaga. This is the first time the city of Palm Springs has planned an Olive Drop, and it has started a grassroots campaign for tourists and residents in bars and restaurants. The idea is simple: instead of raising a champagne glass at midnight, you drop an olive into your martini glass.

Restaurants and bars participating in the inaugural Palm Springs Olive Drop include: LULU California Bistro, LG's Prime Steakhouse, Johannes, Zin American Bistro, Zini Cafe Mediterrano, The Falls, Village Pub and Tropicale.

ENJOY A SCOTTISH BAGPIPE DINNER: 

New Year's Eve is a great time to be bold with your culinary adventures, so why not explore a cuisine you've been meaning to try? New York City is offering a three-course dinner at Mary, Queen of Scots and the bash will feature bagpipes, of course. $65 for the prixe fixe at 115 Allen Street. For reservations call 212 460 0915.

Photo credit: Mary, Queen of Scots

HIP HOP BOWLING:

If you want to get revved up for the New Year, go bowling! There are midnight bowling parties all over the country, from Bay City. Michigan to New York City's Bowlmor Lanes. If you really want to get moving, Bowlmor Lanes in Times Square has a five-hour open bar party hosted by "Dancing with the Stars'" Karina Smirnoff. Bowl to hip-hop and rock music all for the price of $75 and up.

The very last place I expected to find a Japanese tea ceremony was in Macau. 

While the English can wax on about their royal "High Tea" and the fancy assortment of scones, watercress sandwiches and what not, the concept of tea as a beverage that is freshly brewed, prepared and served is a Chinese concept that spread to other countries. In as early as 727 A.D., The Chinese Tang Court presented tea as a gift to Emperor Shomu of Japan. Tea then was planted in the Imperial Garden of Kyoto in 794 A.D.

So, I should not have been surprised to see the various ways the Macanese take their tea during my recent visit.

The Chinese and Japanese have profited from centuries to make their tea just right (tea was discovered in 2772 B.C. by the Chinese emperor and inventor Shennong, and initially planted in the Chengdou province in China).

Wherever we went, the place settings and the attention to detail seemed so other wordly. "Only in Asia," I thought, thinking of the crazy mess in my dining room. I was sure my new Macanese friends would have a mild heart attack if they set foot into my house. 

One of my first experiences with how the Macanese served their tea was at the authentic Cantonese restaurant, "Treasure Palace" located on the main level of the Boulevard of the "City of Dreams" Macau. The giant "City of Dreams" triplex can put many Manhattan skyscrapers to shame, and as with many prestigious restaurants in Macau, is located smack dab in the thick of all the action: the Cotai Strip (the Cotai Strip was modeled after the Vegas Strip –some say it outshines Vegas).

"Treasure Palace" didn't serve us a proper Chinese tea, but the food was so beautifully presented and the service was superb, so I wanted to show you what an authentic Cantonese culinary/tea experience can be. As soon as you enter the restaurant, you're greeted by a long red lacquered tea station where a beautifully-dressed lady is curating tea as though she was born in a tea garden. Everything you see below is fragrant, loose leaf tea, which she carefully scoops, measures and then pours into one of the clear teapots below for steeping. 

And then there is our place setting  – a group of eight hungry journalists seated around a table on which a clear glass Lazy Susan rests. The restaurant itself is characterized by a bold red decor, but the place setting is so minimalist and white. And for people who are not comfortable with the chopsticks, no big! The servers are used to frequent requests of supplying forks and knives.

We gaze at a peaceful artificial lake that glistens, right outside our window. Everything seems calm and zen, and very healthy. None of the hustle and bustle I typically associate with casinos (City of Dreams pulls a substantial portion of its income from its casinos) and the atmosphere naturally lent itself to finding your inner peace.

The menu is created and supervised by Chef Tam Kwok-Fung, who is known for his mastery of the Cantonese cuisine. If you're a vegetarian, you'll have no issues because they will supply you with steamed vegetable dumplings that are perfectly done (the dough is not overcooked or too watery, and the flavors are well balanced, sodium free and not spicy), as well as several vegetable dishes of your choice. 

But this all brings me back to the tea. The tea we had at Treasure Palace was Chinese tea, and you may have had various versions of this tea in Chinese restaurants around the world. But the experience got me thinking about the difference between the Chinese and Japanese tea ceremonies because immediately following lunch, we visited an authentic Japanese hotel, the "Okura."

The Okura is a newly minted hotel (it opened in July, 2011) that was built specifically to cater to the increasing number of Japanese visitors to Macau.

Visitors are greeted in the lobby by a beautiful blooming Japanese cherry blossom tree, and a lady in a pale pink Kimono who is as perfectly groomed and styled as a Harajuku doll. 

The "Okura" is part of the "Galaxy Macau" five-star resort. 

When you visit one of the many rooms in the hotel Okura, you'll see how much pains the designers took to keep the rooms quite minimalist –but there's always that spotlight on the tea (notice the difference in the Chinese and Japanese tea displays). 

The highlight of my trip was meeting the Japanese Tea Ceremony Mistress in Okura's signature restaurant, Yamazato. The exquisite, graceful and Kimono-clad Shirai Yayoi is a master of the ancient style of serving Japanese tea (the proper terminology for this ceremony is "Otemae") for over 50 years, and has performed this ceremony to several Japanese emperors including the late Emperor Hirohito and his son,  the current Emperor Akihito. 

It was a joy and a thrill to be able to get into the "igloo" with her (note: the "igloo" is not the official name for where the tea ceremony is held but rather my inept, watered down way to give you an idea of what it looked like; the inside of the "igloo" is warm, cozy and very very clean). I had a picture taken of my with Shirai Yayoi but unfortunately –much to my extreme disappointment –the SD card got corrupted and I could not retrieve them when I came home! 

Below you'll see one of my writer buddies, Alexis Quinlan, who was also with me as Yayoi showed us how the tea is prepared. 

The art of the Ancient Japenese Tea Ceremony is a very quiet, reflective ceremony, and one that involves a lot of patience and the art of savoring. Yayoi had several precise steps she took before offering us a pot of the freshly prepared "matcha" tea. The reason why the matcha tea is served with sweets is to balance the bitter aspect of the tea. So the ceremony, in essence, is not only about drinking the tea –it's about appreciating all the little but significant steps in the preparation of the tea —a ritual that changed my life forever. 

PREPARATION: Alexis and I sat in silence and watched Yayoi prepare the tea herself. She took a teapot of clear boiling water and set it aside. Then she made sure the teacups themselves were sparkling clean, before scooping up a precise amount of freshly powdered green Matcha tea and placing the powder at the bottom of a master bowl.

There are some precise rules applied to the utensils and how to care for them, clean them and have them ready for the Tea Ceremony. Everything is placed on a clean mat made of bamboo, upon which the guests sit.

APPRECIATION: What I loved most about watching Yayoi is how she appreciated every little task, from ladling the hot water into the master bowl, to whisking the matcha green tea and the water. As she handed the cups to us, with both hands and a courteous bow, she ordered us to "appreciate the bowl" after we were done tasting and drinking the tea.

Before tasting the tea, we followed Yayoi's example of sniffing, savoring and sipping the tea gingerly, and then gulping it down. It's impressive that even when it comes down to the art of drinking tea, there are fine steps to follow to enhance your appreciation. 

I left Hotel Okura with a sense of accomplishment, and now I wanted to transfer this spirit of zen-ness and appreciation to all my daily tasks, from boiling my American tea kettle to doing the dishes. As the saying goes, it's easy to do things, it's hard to do them well. After Yayoi told me to "appreciate the bowl" I surrendered to her wisdom and simplicity because the latter must be —had to be — the key to happiness.

For the second time in two years, I've been invited to attend TravelGuard's "World's Unluckiest Traveler" contest results, and listen to the plight of some really unfortunate globetrotters. Last year, Dr. Gary Feldman won for what I thought was a genuinely funny yet unfortunate story: he was standing on the edge of a cliff to answer Nature's Call in Vietnam, and slipped and tumbled 30 feet, and broke both his legs. 

I've been in a pretty pickle here and there but some of the stories submitted to the Insurance Company deserve to be on the Travel Channel (file under "Travel Nightmares"). 

We interviewed the winner of TravelGuard's 2011 "World's Unluckiest Traveler" contest, a do-gooder who saved her husband's life. Rebecca Fisher was on her last minute honeymoon to New Zealand when she discovered that she'd have to give emergency surgery to her husband, and ended up saving his life. 

We caught up with Rebecca in a Q&A, and were curious to know if she enjoyed any part of her trip at all, and how she plans to spend that delicious $10,000.

1. You went from becoming a "last minute" bride to a "last minute" nurse and congratulations for taking care of your husband so well. If you could highlight your MOST frustrating aspect of the entire experience, what would it be?

7. What do you plan on doing with the award?

It is really too soon to tell.  Bruce’s children are very excited and coming up with ideas all the time.
I’m leanings towards Tahiti and staying in a bungalow over the ocean. Something relaxing.

A few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to learn more about Beaujolais from Master Sommelier Laura Maniec (the only woman to have this title in the world; there are 18) at a cool event called "Golf and Gamay," held a the Chelsea Piers Golf Club. Visitors sampled several varieties of Beaujolais while flexing their "teeing off" muscles. 

A good place to start: try the D. Descombes 2009 Beaujolais. Descombes is considered one of the pioneers. 

There were so many amateur and professional oenophiles in the crowd and I felt a bit of an imposter — although I've been drinking red wine for years, I didn't know the first thing about Beaujolais and the gamay grape. 

Here are five reasons why you may want to appreciate this wine more:

• Highly accessible: The Beaujolais gamay grape is grown in the region's 12 different appellations, and they always produce a range of wines at all price points.
• Sip Beaujolais all year long: From the more fruity kind (pick this one for summer months), to the  bolder and more complex variety, Beaujolais wines come in all gradations and varieties for all courses. 
• Gamay grape: The red Gamay grape is grown in 99% of the region, and is at its best form in the region of Beaujolais.
• Everything is going for it: in the region of Beaujolais in France, the climate, soil and centuries of grape growing techniques are all conducive for the wines.
• Enjoy them slightly chilled: some of the fruitier wines can be enjoyed chilled– perfect for the summer months.

Beaujolais it the most common and well known of the region's appellations, but the others include Beaujolais Villages and the Beaujolais Crus –the first press wines, and the creme de la creme of the regions. 

So experiment and come back and leave me a comment on what vintages you like the best. To learn more, visit Laura Maniec's recently opened wine bar, Corkbuzz, which is located on University Place in New York City. 

Even though I was born in India, I've never really been to "Asia." When I was three years old, my father took my sister and I for a whirlwind trip around Europe, but China has been one of the destinations I've really wanted to visit.

So, when I received an opportunity to visit Macau, I was very intrigued, and even did a post and a giveaway on it (congratulations to most of you for being spot on –I'm so impressed with my worldly-wise readers!).

The day before the trip, I had a gala to attend at the Grand Hyatt in New York City, and was genuinely concerned if I would be able to sleep that entire evening: partly because I had not packed yet, and partly from sheer excitement. In some ways, a trip to Asia warrants that you stay up the evening before, because you have around 14 hours to sleep on the plane–unless you're like me, anxious to catch up on in-flight entertainment because you seldom go to the movies.

I was flying Cathay Pacific, an airlines I had heard nothing but great things; part of journey anxiety can be softened if you are dealing with airline professionals who really know how to take care of you, and I have nothing but positive things to say about Cathay. The flight attendants, dressed impeccably, were like doting parents who wanted to make sure everyone received their proper meals, had unlimited supply of water, tea and coffee, and received adequate amounts of rest during the flight.

One of the many ways you know you're not in Kansas anymore: sign spotting

Macau, a Special Administrative Region of China, was a Portuguese colony; I expected to find European touches throughout the island–which I did! The most convenient way to reach Macau is to fly to Hong Kong Airport, and taking the Sea Express (a turbo boat) for 45 minutes. There are two areas where you can board the Sea Express  — one is at the airport terminal itself, and the other one is in downtown Hong Kong.

The idea of where to go through immigration was one of the interesting aspects of my journey. I learned that if your final destination is Macau, you don't have to pick up your bags and go through the immigration in Hong Kong — you do that in Macau itself. All your luggage is efficiently tagged directly to your final destination: I'm glad they value visitors' time!

Since I went with the Macau Government Tourist Office (who know what they are talking about) I thankfully chose to ignore the advice given to me by the Cathay Pacific agents at check in who told me to go through Hong Kong immigration, receive my luggage, and check the luggage into the SeaExpress separately. If I had gone this route, I would actually not have been able to enter the airport again without a ticket, and would have had to take the SeaExpress from the downtown Hong Kong location.

I'm really glad I ignored that bit of advice; otherwise I would have really been someone from the movie Lost in Translation. 

This is the view from one section of the Hong Kong Airport; as you can see, the immediate vicinity is green and mountainous

The Macau SeaExpress is a 45 minute ride from the Hong Kong Airport to Macau, and costs roughly $100 U.S. for a round trip ticket

The island of Macau as seen from the SeaExpress

Visitors can also take the helicopter- it's a brief ride

After a relatively uneventful flight, three movies later (I sobbed as I saw Like Water For Elephants, and counteracted the sobbing with Bridesmaids and a few Curb Your Enthusiasm episodes), I arrived in Hong Kong fourteen hours later after having lost a day to time zone changes.

I don't know if you're familiar with the book Chinglish but I was hoping for some interesting sign spotting when I was in Macau. I did manage to find one at the airport.

Stay tuned for more adventures…

Your friendly Asian correspondent,

Charu

This is a guest post from my sister, Sharmi, who currently resides in Johannesburg, South Africa. I am in awe of her spirit and bravery and give her major kudos for climbing Kilimanjaro to celebrate her 30th birthday.

Summit night, 11pm. The guide stands outside my tent, calling softly to wake me up. After two hours of anxious sleep, I rub my groggy eyes, fasten my headlamp on my balaclava, and don my “armour,” the layers of thermal and outerwear that are going to be critical in helping me brave the freezing weather. I turn to my tent mate, wanting to go over our daily checklist –gear, food, medicine. I suddenly realize, with a lurch in my stomach, that she wasn’t joining us on this final stretch. My bravado leaves me, deflating me as I contemplate what lies ahead. Panic constricts my throat.

On autopilot, I push on. I unzip our tent flap, pack in my toe-warmers under my socks, put on my climbing shoes. It’s pitch black, freezing. I clamber out of my tent, stumble outside. In the darkness, all I can see are the headlamps dotting the nightscape of the cold, wind-swept ridge at the base of Africa’s tallest peak, Kilimanjaro. I can’t believe I am going to summit tonight. I am excited. I am terrified.

***

I had decided to climb Mount Kilimanjaro as a personal challenge in honour of turning thirty. I was looking for a transformative experience, one that would mark the turn of a new decade, and one that would celebrate my three already in existence. Months of preparation – which included slowly depleting my life’s savings in favour of expensive hiking gear and engaging in a masochistic fitness programme had me confident that I was up to the challenge. For each of my companions on this adventure (including my rather reluctant husband and a crew of six friends), the trip represented a personal challenge, a quest for transformation.

We arrived in Moshi, Tanzania, the afternoon before our climb, little knowing what to expect. We had spoken to the veterans, but their advice was overwhelming, often inconsistent—some said physical fitness was immaterial, others wished they had trained more. We took heed of the advice, paid little attention to the inconsistencies, and blindly trusted our potential to succeed as long as we were “prepared.”

That evening, we met our designated guides for the trip—August and El Bariki. These two soft-spoken, knowledgeable, and patient men were responsible for our team’s eventual success. We listened attentively as they described the terrain we were attempting to conquer, the Machame route, popularly known as the “Whiskey” route for its relative difficulty. They spoke of challenges such as the Wedge, the Barranco Wall, and finally, in hushed tones, summit night. We were told that we would “walk high, sleep low” to help us acclimatize to the altitude. We were told that pole pole (slowly slowly in KiSwahili) was the only sure-fire way of getting us to the top. We nodded blithely, unaware of what really awaited us.

The next morning, we drove into the park, where other teams and their crews waited for clearance to start the climb. We were still at 1800m, and our route forward was displayed on a signboard—3000m, 3800m, 3900m, 4600m, 5895m. It looked so simple, really, just a little bit higher every day… Our 5-kg day packs, a reasonably heavy burden to us, paled in comparison to the heavy loads that the porters had to carry, ranging from sacks of potatoes, pots, pans, tents, even our portable toilets! These heroes of our journey never failed to amaze us, reaching out and lending a steady hand when one of us tripped, gracefully balancing their cargo with their one free hand. In what was going to be a typical pattern, the porters, who had left after us, passed us on the trail, elegantly balancing their burdens as they sprinted up the muddy trail.

As we walked through the rainforest, we laughed and joked that it was too easy—the light rain and the cool weather making for a pleasant hike. But our beginner’s enthusiasm quickly waned as the rain intensified and the trail got tough. By the time we reached the first camp, we were winded. And we had only made it to 3000m! That night, spirits were high as we camped out for the first time in our cosy (or claustrophobic) tents. However, it was only as I laid out my sleeping bag and organized myself for the next morning did it really dawn on me—the extent of the challenge I had imposed on myself.  Was I really going to be able to do this for the next five days? My self-confidence, indomitable at the outset, wavered. The night grew chilly, and despite the cheery bustle of a crowded campsite, a core of fear gnawed on my insides.

The next day, we began walking straight into and beyond the cloud cover of the rainforest, the beautiful landscape falling away in dizzying heights around us. We kept a gruelling pace, clambering over and around rocks, as the vegetation slowly waned from lush, thick rainforests to scrub forest on craggy, lunar outcrops—a surreal landscape, a strangely beautiful wasteland.

At the end of day two, I was struck by my first wave of acute mountain sickness (AMS). I became light headed, nauseous, and my head swam – and I thought I was losing my mind. That night, I went to bed loaded on diamox, afraid I would have another attack, that I wouldn’t make it to the top. I drugged my fears to sleep, convinced that I would wake up strong. My fears did dissipate in the quiet light of pre-dawn, when I saw the object of our ambition gleaming quietly in the distance—beckoning, mocking.

Our target altitude on day three was a whopping 100m, our path leading us over “The Wedge,” up to 4300m, and down again to our camp at 3900m! After a few hours of taking pole pole to its logical extreme, we spotted our peak for the day, Lava Tower—an eerie, rocky protrusion surrounded by swirling mists—an ancient, volcanic Stonehenge. We camped that night at Barranco with the mystical peak looming over our starlit campsite.

Our guides pointed out the Barranco Wall the next day, the sheer cliff we would scale during the early part of the day. We watched in awe and horror as a few porters weaved their way up the rockface. My second, brief attack of AMS, meant that I would hold the rear of the group until the very end. A line of traffic made its way slowly up that wall, composing a human chain up the rockface, porters reaching out a hand whenever the climbers needed a steady hand.  The top of the wall and a hot lunch brought some relief, but we were quickly taken aback to find out what lay ahead of us.

We were to make our way down and up Karanga valley, and the terrain ahead looked tortuous and desolate—a post-apocalyptic landscape giving way to an even bleaker, oddly beautiful gravel desert. We were by then easily exhausted, the lack of oxygen depleting our energy far quicker than would have been the case on lower altitudes. Our guide August, ever patient, encouraged us to move consistently forward despite our exhaustion. Just when we thought we could go no further, we caught a glimpse of the treacherous ridge leading up to the very top. The lack of oxygen had us gasping, open-mouthed, speechless at this magnificent sight. Breath and words left us as we gazed in awe at the roof of Africa.

By the time we reached base camp, it was almost dusk. The ridge fell sharply away from our campsite, and the wind howled around our tents, making for a perilous respite. As we ate, rested and contemplated our last few hours before summiting, the pit in my stomach deepened. I didn’t want to look up at our route, purely because I was afraid I would be too frightened to continue. I decided to calm myself down, silence my fears for a few hours at least, and try to snatch a few hours’ sleep.

***

Summit Night. One foot in front of another, I tell myself, as the jog of bright headlamps ahead of me weave their way up the mountain, blurring into infinity with the stars. There are times I feel like I am falling asleep. I am cold, tired. I don’t want to look ahead for fear I will not want to continue. August holds my hand, gently pushing me forward, at times shaking me awake. I die a hundred deaths that night—my body does not want to go on. Climbers pass us on the way up; others, less successful, make their way down, unable to continue. I will myself forward, inch by inch, reminding myself of my promise, my commitment to myself. I turn around, watch the dawn light steal across the city of Moshi. It is now visible in the distance, far away from our precarious little ridge.

I catch sight of Stella Point, the crater a few hundred metres away from the peak. Dawn is breaking, and I am nowhere near the top. I am about to give up. I will barely make it to Stella Point. I want to go down.

Then, all of a sudden, a strange wave of inspiration strikes. We run into a rush of climbers starting their descent. “Don’t lose courage!” they say. “You’re nearly there! It is worth it.”

I am near tears, I have lost all hope, and here I am suddenly, a few hundred metres away. All I needed to hear was that I am close, I can do it.  I have come this far.

Summoning my last reserves, I make my way up the gravelly, slippery scree to the crater’s rim. The sun beats fiercely upon us. The peak is within reach.

I have fallen to the absolute rear, the slowest member of the team. I take one agonizing step after another, each step bringing me closer to my conquest, each step oddly renewing. The tall, blue-ice, glacier gorge gleams in the morning sun, exuding an ancient, other-worldly calm. I see the signpost beckoning, the marker for the highest point on the African continent.

The last few metres towards my destination are exhausting, exhilarating. I am in a daze, unable to comprehend where I am, and yet strangely exultant. I have done it.

I have conquered the mountain.

Base Camp at Machame Gate: Sharmi, her husband James and friends

Sharmi and James take their first, brave steps up Kilimanjaro

- By Sharmila Surianarain

For the past four days, the media has engaged in nothing short of frenzied activity informing people to clear out of  Hurricane Irene's path. On Friday, Mayor Bloomberg highlighted the mandatory evacuation zone areas for New York City and its surrounding burroughs.

I was freaking out, and was having some form of inner panic attack. Would my house be uprooted like a turnip? Would Butterscotch survive? And since my basement has been witness to copious amounts of flooding in the past, I was convinced that Irene would do a number on it.

I had not been through Gloria in 1984 (I hadn't even set foot in the U.S. at that point) but my husband remembers it well. He felt that Irene would be pretty similar to Gloria so luckily he remembered all the tips and tricks he had employed at that time to prepare. OBVIOUSLY I would get flashlights but all the stores were sold out of flashlights on Friday. We had a few headlights with strong lights (these really resemble miner's lights) but I felt at the very worst we could use those; plus we stocked up on plenty of triple A batteries for them.

Since I'm also a beauty blogger, I had tons of designer candles floating around the house. I felt prepared. As I watched the news on Saturday morning, I was appalled to see kids surfing on Long Beach just hours before the storm was scheduled to hit, and people walking on the beach in Point Pleasant, NJ — a mandatory evacuation area. I guess I'll never be as brave (or stupid?) as some of these folks.

Friday night, the grocery stores were packed with people purchasing nearly 30 days worth of food. I mean, seriously people?! Can't we just get the essentials and move on? Apparently not. All the shelves were out of pasta, sauce, coffee and water. All I wanted was to buy a few cases of water but no luck. I was getting a bit nervous. As we drove to get some quick Indian food in Jersey City later on that evening, we stopped to refuel our car at a gas station. And lo and behold, they had CRATES of water left.

I asked the attendant how much each case (30 bottles) was. "$8 each," he said. You know, I didn't even bat an eyelash. Typically you pay $5 a case in grocery stores but for a $3 markup and zero lines it sounded like a bargain to me. We had our water.

On Saturday morning, I didn't venture outdoors at all. We weren't in an evacuation zone (Weehawken is on top of a cliff) but we received several calls from worried relatives who told us "Hoboken is evacuating, why aren't you evacuating?" and we explained to them that Hoboken was right near the water and we would be okay. Still, it added to my anxiety that all the residents were fleeing in my neighboring town.

The sky was lead gray all Saturday morning and as the evening came, I just decided I would start making lots of food and storing it in Tupperware, just in case our electricity died (we knew we'd still have gas, but wouldn't be able to make rice, for instance, as easily without a rice cooker that was working). As Saturday evening rolled around, the rain started to intensify and I could hear the wind howling like a banshee. The worst of it wouldn't really happen in our area until 2 or 3 in the morning, but since we were so plugged into the news and Twitter, we just followed the timeline of events and heard about a few deaths and casualties.

It was a restless night on Saturday, I'll admit. Our electricity went out more than once but immediately came back on — major kudos to PSE&G for maintaining our power. We woke up a few times to inspect the basement since that was our sole point of concern, and were thrilled to find no damage or flooding there!

On Sunday morning, I woke up at the crack of dawn to make sure nothing was amiss. There was a minor leak right above our front door and our entrance room is a tad bit damp but nothing else. Our car, which was parked on the road, had also survived (I was worried about falling trees and branches).

This morning, I chatted with the EMS situated next door to my house and they said there were "zero casualties" in Weehawken. They also told me that Jersey City was completely flooded but as was Hoboken. She had heard people in Hoboken were "bailing water out of their house with buckets."

I caught up with a few of my blogger buddies to see how they had survived Irene and how they had taken measures to prepare:

Anne Raso (@anne241) says:  I filled about 10 quart bottles of water, made sure my flashlight had batteries, went food shopping and made sure the local laundry delivered my clean underwear yesterday! LOL! Oh, and I also made sure that both my Blackberry and Ipod Touch–which also gets email–were charged overnight on Saturday!

Alywalansky (@alywalansky) on what helped her get through Irene: TWITTER: It was sketchy for a while, but being online made me never feel alone. Also, NETFLIX is the best thing that ever happened to a marooned alarmist.

Kimmie Smith (@cocoabebe) was not in town but she prepared nevertheless: "I flew out for a segment, I made sure my boyfriend had candles, knew what foods in the fridge should be eaten & had batteries"

Andi Perullo (@andiperullo) wasn't exactly in Irene's path, but was plugged into the whole scene: We didn't prepare for Irene because we were never in the path. We've just stay tuned to the the news for the last 5 days straight.

Natasha Neagle (@agirlnamednat) lost electricity during Irene: My family camped out in the living room when the power went out and updated friends and family through Twitter and Facebook.

Mario (@MarioTravels) on how he survived: I survived the storm by eating my way through the pantry and catching up on some reading. My waistline was the only thing Irene destroyed.

Amber de Grace (@amberdegrace): I've been through worse storms but we have a tree down, destroyed quarter of our fence. All safe but not without stress.

Leslie Koch (@leslietravel): Irene barely touched the East Village. I awoke from a sound sleep to see a few scattered leaves. Apocalypse averted!

Aaron Shapiro (@adventurousness) on how he survived Irene: Closed windows, stocked up on batteries, canned food and water and stuck to Twitter!

Candice Sabatini (@SabatiniOnStyle), a beauty and travel editor, on how she survived Irene: Had a Girls-Night-In w/ two neighbors. We figured out how to fix the world while consuming wine, vodka, hummus, cheese, fruit and crackers.

The aftermath of Irene. My street was completely like a ghost town. Luckily there were no fallen trees or casualties.

The EMS next to our house was very quiet, a good sign

This was about the real severe damage of Irene

A lone man sits on a bench in front of the Pathmark Shopping Mall right after the eye of the storm went past us

The 24/7 Pathmark behind our house doesn't open until noon today

Butterscotch seems puzzled at all the fuss and wonders, "where are my treats?"

A man presumably headed home after he spent an evening at the shelter

A very misty, drenched view of Weehawken's track & baseball field on Sunday morning

A survivor

A view of New York City's skyline at approximately 6:00pm on Sunday, when most of the storm had cleared

Taping windows is an art

Taped signals : I can't believe someone thought to do this!

Have an Irene story to share? Leave  a comment below or email me at Charu AT Butterflydiary DOT COM to be included in the roundup. Be safe everyone!

- Charu Suri