In an ongoing effort to expose our daughter to as many cultures as humanly possible, we recently visited our friends in Kuwait. And it was awesome.
Hi from Namibia, otherwise dubbed "the land God made in anger" because of its merciless expanse of dust and currents. More on this surreal place soon, (it's become one of my favorite countries) but for now, lets focus on the task at hand: travel gear!
Being married to a travel photographer, I often find myself in sensitive situations when it comes to photographing indigenous peoples. No matter how familiar, I always end up tiptoeing around nervously, lurking in the hintergrund.
We were sitting outside the church in Avarua. Everyone was in their Sunday best- the women wore coconut frond rito hats laden with flowers and the kids in the choir, white button-down shirts. We squeezed Sia into a floral frock we’d been carrying around since San Diego. Even Michael zipped the bottom legs onto his convertible pants.
I was freaking out. The Cessna was so loud I thought Sia’s hearing was going to be damaged once and for all. I had already dragged her to a music festival and a riveting performance of bottle drums and bush bass, but this, this was a soul-rattling mode of transportation. For an hour. Over an active volcano.
Air Tahiti was on strike. "STUCK IN TAHITI," I messaged one of my friends. As if that was actually possible- a paradise once lionized by Gauguin, with serious waves and food trucks serving streak-frites and poisson cru.
This is our first big road trip as a family. Because driving is really the only way to see Hokkaido. And Hokkaido is about the landscape.
“So cute! Like a doll!”
Little did I know I’d be hearing this for the next few weeks. It was true. She really could have been one of the little keychain Monchichis on the girls' backpacks.
Greetings from snowy, not-yet-cherry-blossoming, ever-polite Japan- more specifically its northernmost island, Hokkaido (yes, we can see Russia from here!).
Traveling with a baby bears as many gifts as it does challenges, not the least of which is the instant party when we go places. Especially if it's Central America at one of the greatest undertakings of mankind, the Panama Canal.
We arrived in Cartagena in a merciless heat wave; the locals shook their heads, claiming El Nino.
April is almost upon us, we have our route situated and our tickets booked! I'm feeling a combination of excitement, nervousness and the unfortunate grief that comes when leaving a place.
Set off a busy street in Crete's capital city Heraklion, Stelios Peterakis greeted us into his sunlit workshop, surrounded by unfinished Bulgari bodies.
It’s 2016 which means we are on the countdown till our Round the World trip with our baby begins in April. And we haven’t booked anything yet.
Hidden away in the hills outside of Crete's capital city, Hiraklion, is a pandora's box for any aficionado of rare musical instruments.
I’ve been following the situation in Yemen all summer, watching a country we visited last year endure airstrikes, ground fighting and starvation amidst what is being called “the forgotten war.”
I came across this gorgeous video of a Mongolian herder singing to his herd and had to share it.
Hidden away on clandestine stretch of sand in the Sahara, miles from the closest city Timbuktu, is a music festival that is, according to their website, “still in exile.”
Lately I've been recording soundscapes on my travels. The composer R. Murray Schafer created the term in the 1970s, referring to our "acoustic environment".
Ask a musician their favorite venue to perform in, more than likely they will say an ampitheatre.
In Robert Pirsig’s classic 1974 novel Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, the protagonist straddles the two worlds of technology and art during a road trip across America.
Barcelona is a mélange of culture, architectural whimsy and Basque-style tapas bars- the perfect city to get lost in your thoughts amidst the watermelon suco. And music is not exempt.
I awoke to this magical little Spanish paradise with no less than 4 tortoises crawling around on the terrace.
Strasbourg is on the border of France and Germany, but there’s no denying that once you step foot over the border, you are unapologetically in France.
And then... there were grapes. If you've ever put a glass of German Riesling or a sweet Federweißer to your lips, you would know our delight when we arrived in the Mosel Valley for a photo shoot, only to find the annual grape harvest in full throe.
I was a jerk in California. I was a roving banshee, insecure, unbridled, unguided and damnably selfish.
A couple of things I noticed while in Denmark: 1. Scandinavians speak much better English than I do. 2. The bikes. 3. The women. 5. The prices.