B U C K E U P
L
100 AMERICANWAY
JANUARY 15 2009
I
French fries), and Indian food.
The payoff? Vacations in France: roaming
romanticchâteaus intheLoireValley, strolling
inmedieval Ezeand thehilltopvillageVézelay
… Who am I kidding? It was all about the
food: sweetbreadsandsaddleofvenison, fried
frog legsand foiegras, Champagneandgrand
crus. Arriving late for dinner one evening in
a village north of Carcassonne, wewere told
by the kitchen staff (whowere ready to close
for thenight) that theyhadonly liver left.We
persisted, and the liver arrivedwithgrapes in
amysterious red sauce. Itwas the
bestmeal
I’d ever eaten. That’swhen I began to under-
stand the old adage “Travel isn’t about the
destination.” It’s the journey, getting outside
your comfort zone.
That was certainly true of my experience
inLebanon in the1980s.My favoritegetaway
there — a stop on the daily drive to cover
Yasser Arafat’s last stand in Tripoli — was
Byblos, a great place for lunch. In the old
town, once inhabited by the Crusaders, you
could dine on an ancient stone terrace over-
lookingaMediterraneanport dating toPhoe-
nician times. The real world receded with
eachbottle of Ksarawine.
Sitting there one day, I understood the
idyllic life the Lebanese had lost. Here I had
beenwriting about themarines at theBeirut
airport while the real story lay in the lives of
the staffers (one Christian, one Muslim, one
Armenian) at the office— how hard it was
to cook and wash and, yeah, watch TVwith
only a few hours of electricity a day. They
survived on a shockingly large consumption
of sedatives.After that,my storieshome took
onmore nuance. (Today, the harbor at Byblos
is full of tourist boats!)
My first overseas posting for
Time
was
Rome, but my favorite scam during those
years took place in Turkey. We had amodel-
turned-photographer named Rudi Frey, who
was the best “fixer.” We did regular runs to
Ankara for political coverage, but since there
was no direct flight to the Turkish capital,
Rudi would book us on the early flight to Is-
tanbul. Thefirst time, I thoughtwewould sit
at theairport and I’dnursemynotesuntil the
afternoon connection. Instead, Rudi whisked
us off to the Istanbul Hilton, which overlooks
the Bosporus, and booked a poolside cabana.
We ordered meze (hummus and tabbouleh)
and luxuriated by the pool for three hours or
so, chattingwith locals and fellow travelers.
I fell in love with Turkey this way and
came to understand its split personality of
the poor in the tense border region north of
Iraq, where we were headed, and also the
European-centricbusinessmen (andbusiness-
women) of Istanbul. My clichéd view of Tur-
key as the land of
Midnight Express
prisons
fell away as my fascination with the Turkish
bourse grew.
I’ve had badmoments on supposed boon-
doggles. After Hurricane Katrina, I thought I
would report the revival ofNewOrleanswhile
hunting down the best shrimp rémoulade. I
hadn’t counted on caring so much about
the city’s people. At one point, I was so de-
pressed, I didn’t leavemy hotel for four days.
It hurt toomuch to see the place still ripped
up, doctors operating in a department store,
lives put on hold.
The last time I was there to report, I
met with relatives who’d lost their home in
Lakeview. We met at the Rib Room. I was
shocked; Friday lunch was packed. People
were downing crab bisque and cocktails. It
was a lesson in survival, a hopeful note, and
a reminder thatwhen traveling, youmust get
out of your hotel room, even if disaster and
disappointment loom outside the door.
My mother once had a friend who asked
herwhether she shouldbuynewdrapes or go
to England for the summer. My mother, God
bless her, didn’t hesitate. She said, “Travel.
Travel. Travel.” Thanks for the lesson, Mom.
Now I just need some advice about the
stepdaughter.
ByCathyBoothThomas
Thanks for
theMemories
Iwrote for
Time
magazine for 22 years,
interviewed Fidel Castro four times, traveled
with the pope, disco dancedwith the Italian
foreignminister, andwas shot at and shelled
upon inLebanon. Now I’ma stepmom. Need I
saymore? I amameans of transportation, an
irritating interruption of all-important cell-
phone communication, and the person who
can’t help with precalculus or even English.
(Um, preterit verb, anyone?) As a result, I
have been finding solace lately in reminisc-
ing about my once-glamorous globe-trotting
existence and the travel scams pulled onmy
bosses.
My first gig overseas was in Londonwith
UnitedPress International, where I spentmy
days sitting beside a bank of aging Teletypes
(yeah, I’m that old) banging outWham! and
Frankie Goes to Hollywood music features
while I was turning two-line telexes from
Africa into bell-ringing stories for delivery
back home. Thanks to low pay, I subsisted
on scones, chip buddies (sandwichesmade of
