Cell or mobile phone carriers (depending on your term of choice) vary greatly by country, and that plan you have at home doesn’t translate out of your home area. For example, while you may have an unlimited data plan at home, using that same amount of data overseas may cost you hundreds of dollars.

Some phone won’t work on other networks. And even though companies like T-Mobile might be international giants, that doesn’t mean their mobile phone plans work across various countries.

Ken Grunski, President of Telestial, an international SIM card provider, offers the following advice for travelers going overseas.

Purchase a prepaid Sim Card

Mobile phone providers charge exorbitant fees (data and roaming) to use smart phones/mobile phones in foreign countries, thus we understand why many travelers leave them at home. But with a Telestial prepaid Sim card, travelers can easily retain control over costs while keeping their mobile phones, smart phones and tablets operating. With a prepaid Sim card, rates to make an international call are as little as 49 cents per minute and it’s free to receive calls in over 75 countries (using a global UK number). And prepaid data is available in 135 countries for as little as 39 cents per MB.

Know your carrier

The major cell phone carriers – Sprint, AT&T, T-Mobile and Verizon – charge anywhere between $1.29 and $2.59 per minute for international roaming. Compare that to Telestial’s rates as low as 49 cents in more than 95 countries. For data, it’s even more dramatic. The major carriers charge between $15 and $20 per MB for data. That’s $20-$40 to upload a photo of the Eiffel Tower to your Facebook page. Telestial charges as little as 39 cents per MB for data. Upload photos, check emails or download music for a fraction of the cost of the major carriers.

Get free calls on your mobile phone

Sounds simple enough, right. You’re already spending thousands on airfare, hotel and transportation, why spend more cash on incoming calls when you can get them free? With a Telestial Sim card, you are assigned a US number and a UK number. Give the UK number to family and friends, and incoming calls cost you nothing. Need to dial out? Not a problem. Telestial offers roaming rates for as little as 49 cents per minute.

Invest in an unlocked GSM Phone

To use a prepaid SIM card (like Telestial), you need an unlocked GSM phone. There are two mobile phone standards in the United States: Global System for Mobile Communications (GSM) or Code Division Multiple Access (CDMA). Sprint and Verizon Wireless use CDMA, which is not meant for global travel. AT&T and T-Mobile use GSM, considered the global standard for cellular networks. Most mobile phones sold by GSM carriers in the U.S., however, are “locked.” The iPhone, for example, is “locked” to AT&T. If you’re with a GSM carrier, and want to purchase a prepaid SIM card, you have two options: unlock your phone yourself (www.unlockingcodesforphones.com) or purchase an “unlocked” international phone

Beware Skype overseas

Skype can be a great communication tool, but be careful how you use it overseas. When connected to Skype, make sure that you’re using free WiFi (from the hotel or a coffee shop), and NEVER use AT&T/T-Mobile’s roamed data services. Also, some countries with state-run telecommunication and Internet-providing companies block VoIP services like Skype.

If you use an i-Phone, turn off apps, data roaming and fetch data

Every time these update, you’re burning precious data … which is precious cash.

Don’t upload vacation pictures while roaming on smart phones

This can be extremely expensive, as many photos are more than 2 to 3 MBs each. Instead, hold the photos until you have access to the internet (at your hotel) or wait until you return home to share your experiences with the family.

Purchase an international charger adapter

You brought your iPhone to France, but you don’t want to run out of juice. Foreign countries have different electrical systems and your US phone charger probably won’t work overseas. Purchase an adapter that will be compatible wherever you’re traveling or you won’t be able to charge your phone.

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Piazza Umberto I, popularly known as the Piazzetta, is the place to see and be seen in Capri, as folks gather day and night for a coffee or a cocktail. Photo by Amy Laughinghouse

Capri is best known as a fashionista’s paradise frequented by celebs such as Gwyneth Paltrow and Beyoncé Knowles. But if you wander beyond the labyrinth of lanes flanked by boutiques like Dolce & Gabbana and Versace, you can exercise more than your buying power on a variety of challenging hikes.

This Italian isle’s pulse-pounding potential is immediately apparent as our ferry from Naples approaches the port of Marina Grande. Wedged atop a rocky bluff, above the marina’s narrow strip of trinket shops and pizzerias, perches the town of Capri—a relatively compact maze of exclusive shops and sidewalk cafes populated by beautiful people who have elevated sweater-draping to an art form.

Visitors can surmount the slope on foot, but most opt for the funicular, which deposits passengers just below a gracious terrace where bougainvillea-draped columns frame views of stucco houses tumbling towards the coast.

White sails gleam like giant shark fins slicing the surreally teal water, but more ominous still are the formidable cliffs to the west, scarred by a faint zigzag stripe known as the Phoenician Steps.

Until the 1870s, these centuries-old stairs provided the only access between Marina Grande and Capri town’s more relaxed little sister, Anacapri, where shops are more likely to stock authentic local wares than the latest runway fashions. These days, a narrow, winding road skirts the cliff face to connect Anacapri with Capri, providing an adrenaline rush of its own, particularly when riding one of the public buses at night, when the world is enshrouded in inky blackness, save for the marina lights twinkling far, far below.

Near the top of a funicular which transports visitors to the town of Capri, a terrace offers sweeping views of the island. Photo by Amy Laughinghouse

As we round a particularly harrowing bend one evening, even a jaded-looking local is moved to make the sign of the cross, though she coolly attempts to disguise the gesture as a hair toss.

Perhaps the Phoenician Steps aren’t such a bad alternative after all, we reason—at least when attempted in broad daylight (and headed down, rather than up). So we find ourselves at the top of this daunting and seemingly endless staircase, with the colorful fishing boats of Marina Grande bobbing 200 meters below.

Lizards scamper with enviable ease between the big stone steps, rustling among dried leaves and disappearing into weeds, but we’re soon huffing and puffing, our thighs and lungs burning.

Towards the bottom, as the steps level out into an alleyway leading into town, we encounter a British couple, already red-faced and panting as they begin the ascent.

“How far to the top?” the wife asks plaintively.

“Did you bring a sack lunch?” I reply.

Her husband—clearly the instigator of this little adventure – stares daggers at me as I urgently attempt to blink a Morse-code message to his wife: “Forget what Nike says! Just DON’T do it!”

But hubby, undeterred, sweeps her along, and if they made it, they must have experienced a sense of satisfaction at least equal to our own. If we could survive these sadistic steps, then surely we had bested the biggest challenge that “Stairmaster Island” (as my husband Scott nicknames Capri) could boast.

At least, that’s what we thought until we undertake the Sentiero dei Fortini, a rocky path linking the ruins of several Napoleonic-era forts along Capri’s wave-lashed west coast.

We begin with lunch at Add O’Riccio, a friendly little restaurant overlooking the Grotta Azzurra, a cave renowned for reflecting the ethereal blue light of the sea. We had hoped to take a boat tour of the cave, but the water is too choppy, so after sharing a hearty plate of cheese ravioli and a super-sized Caprese salad (“Grande, like me,” jokes our diminutive waiter), we set off towards the fort course a couple of hundred meters down the road.

Minutes after descending a short flight of steps to the dirt trail, we’re rewarded with a glimpse of Orrico, the most impressive, in my opinion, of the three forts along the way.

This orderly stone semi-circle seems to have grown out of the jagged precipice upon which it presides, like neatly ordered molecules forming spontaneously from natural chaos. Though the fort is open to the sky, intriguing features like a brick fireplace remain, and it’s easy to imagine British soldiers gazing pensively out to sea, eyes straining for any sign of the French fleet, who did indeed take Capri in 1808. (The island was returned to the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies in 1813).

Continuing onwards, we pass through a cool forest, where pine needles deaden the sound of our steps. Soon thereafter, we’re evicted into a gray moonscape, clambering over rocks, in and out of gullies, and past blue-fingered fjords and caves that pluck at the eroding limestone.

Painted ceramic plaques alongside the path illustrate the flora and fauna that hikers might encounter along the way, such as the rather unimaginatively named “wall lizard,” the Western whip snake (“not poisonous, but prone to bite”), and, somewhat improbably, the Moray eel. If I find myself face to face with an eel, I think, something will have gone drastically, horribly wrong.

White cliffs provide a dramatic backdrop for the port of Marina Grande in Capri. Photo by Amy Laughinghouse

Cringing at the unwelcome sound of thunder, I observe that a storm must have been coming. “Or,” Scott whispers ominously, “Could it be cannon fire?”

Thankfully, the storm (or the French invasion) holds off, and we live to hike another day, choosing a trek to the Arco Naturale—a massive natural stone arch on the east coast—as our grand finale.

It’s possible to reach the arch via a relatively short walk from Capri town along the Via Matermania. But we’re seduced by the more scenic, albeit longer and more arduous, Via Pizzolungo, which flirts with the southeast coast.

This undulating route proffers fantastic views of the Faraglioni–an array of thrusting pinnacles just offshore—and winds past the Grotta di Matermania, a horseshoe shaped cave that may have played host to ancient fertility rituals. After a final ascent and a jog past the strategically placed Le Grottelle restaurant, we descend one last staircase to view the arch itself.

Rough and unpolished, it shines golden in the sun, offering a keyhole view of the aquamarine sea. As the gray skies that had beleaguered us begin to clear, a rainbow forms just beyond the arch—a celestial confirmation that we’re gazing at one of Capri’s greatest treasures, a priceless view on an island of big bucks and bling.

How to Get to Capri

From Naples, it’s a short taxi or bus ride to Molo Beverello harbour, where you can catch a ferry or jetfoil to Capri. Note: Cars are severely restricted on Capri, but it’s easy to get around using the public buses or taxis.

More walks and hikes in Capri:

Via Krupp: Viewed from above, this route, with its hairpin turns carved out of a steep stone slope, resembles a mouse maze as it winds down to the beach at Marina Piccola.

Monte Solaro: You can hoof it to the peak of Monte Solaro, the highest point on the island, in about an hour and a half—or take the chair lift, which hoists you to the top in just over ten minutes. You’ll be rewarded with 360 degree views of Capri.

Villa Jovis: The route to this crumbling Roman villa, built for the Emperor Tiberius, leads through a quiet residential area on the outskirts of Capri town. The 45-minute walk becomes quite steep at the end, but the stone and brick ruins command a panoramic vista of the Amalfi Coast that is well worth the effort, and the € 2 admission.

The Hotel Caesar Augustus in Anacapri is one of the island’s best places to view the sunset. Cocktails in hand, guests gather to gawk at the flaming spectacle reflected in the mirror-like surface of the infinity edge pool. Photo by Amy Laughinghouse

Where to stay in Capri

Hotel Caesar Augustus. Via G.Orlandi, tel: +39-081-8373395, www.caesar-augustus.com. Balanced on a cliff top 1,000 feet above the Bay of Naples in Anacapri, this Relais & Chateaux property encompasses 55 rooms and suites, an elegant bar and lounge with a fireplace, candlelit restaurant, two-tiered infinity pool, al fresco fitness area, and steam bath. Cascading terraces offer spectacular sunset views towards Mount Vesuvius.

The Capri Palace, Via Capodimonte, tel: +39-081-9780111, www.capripalace.com. The hotel, which includes 79 rooms and suites in Anacapri, is renowned for its Michelin-starred restaurant, L’Olivo, and spa, The Capri Beauty Farm, whose fans include Gwyneth Paltrow.

Grand Hotel Quisisana. Via Camerelle, tel: +39-081-8370788, www.quisisana.com. With its coveted cocktail terrace in the heart of Capri, a pair of swimming pools, tennis courts, and spa treatments, this 150-room, 19th-century grande dame has wooed celebs like Sting and Tom Cruise.

Best time to go to Capri

Visit between April and October, as many hotels and restaurants close in the winter.

For more information on Capri

www.capritourism.com, tel: +39-081-837 5308. See also www.capri.com.

More articles on Capri from GoWorldTravel.com
IL Dolce Far Niente: Kicking Back In Capri

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Palazzo Farnese, photo credit: passionelotto.forumcommunity.net

After touring two thermal spas here in Italy this week, our tour took a pleasant and unexpected turn when we reached Capralola.

Our bus navigated narrow roads, stone bridges and winding passes to enter Capralola, a small town accented by the Cimini Mountains.

The range of volcanic hills jut into the distance, with Capralola serving as the piccolo cittá (small town) sitting above.

The tour led us to Palazzo Farnese, a beautiful Italian villa designed using Renaissance architecture.

Plans to build Palazzo Farnese begun in 1504, but were not complete until 1573, due to a complicated history with several factors, the largest of which involves the advancement of Cardinal Alessandro Farnese to the papacy in Rome (Pope Paul III).

The grounds of the Palazzo were luxurious, intricate, and covered in art from floor to ceiling. My neck still aches from craning to take in its many artistic displays.

A circular center courtyard affording a view to the sky was surrounded by a pentagon-shaped mansion with three floors, similar to a slice of angular swiss cheese with one gaping hold in the middle.

The ornate decorations abounding proved true to its era of creation.

Art, while pleasing to the eye, also serves the multi-dimensional purpose of conveying history, symbolism, religious meaning and status. The Farnese crest, comprised of six fleur de lis (known as a lily in Italy), was infused into the art countless times.

We passed through room after room, but one proved to be particularly captivating. A long rectangular room with high ceilings displayed roughly eight maps of the world created at that time. Australia hadn’t been discovered yet, and while explorers hadn’t named Antartica, they had noted a large land mass. Outside of Europe only North America, South America, Asia, and Africa had been discovered.

Portraits of the world’s great explorers interspersed the maps. Dressed in formal attire, the serious faces of Christopher Columbus, Ferdinand Magellan, Amerigo Vespucci, and Marco Polo looked down upon us.

The vast and expansive winter garden led to a long set of stone and grass stairs leading to the summer estate. Framed by 30-foot stone sculptures and intricately carved bushes, my attentive listening skills as a tour attendee were shattered when a small kitten appeared.

Strolling towards me with squinting eyes and childlike curiosity, the adorable furball purred as I scratched her ears.

Who doesn’t fall in love with an adorable little animal eager for love and attention?

It is for this very reason that I do not allow myself to visit a shelter or pet shop. I want a dog so badly I fear that I will walk away with a pup before my logic has caught up with my emotion.

But I was safe to enjoy her. I couldn’t very well take an Italian kitten from the Palazzo Farnese home with me. The thought did cross my mind though. (And was quickly squelched by my memory of a previous failure to commit long-term to the perfect cat, Madeline).

Gato Farnese found a temporary home in my arms and I poured as much love on her as I could before forcing myself to place her down and walk away.

Departing Palazzo Farnese, we walked back through town. My eyes combed each detail, taking in the boutiques, bars and the ever-present caffé, but resting with a heavy heart and smile on a crowded bus stop.

Five adorable elderly women and men sat patiently waiting for the bus, canes in hand and stoic faces looking forward.

Wanting to bring happiness to their day, I excitedly waved towards them. They shared my enthusiasm and waved back.

My own grandmother Liberata could have been on this very same corner, in another time.

Part of my family tree extends to central Italy, and it is safe to say that my ancestors had walked the very streets I now discover. It now seems not so long ago that my great-grandparents Libro and Lucia came from Italy and settled into Chicago.

The delights of Italy abound, and this trip has proven therapeutic and rejuvenating to both my body and soul.

My hips, now that is another question. But for now, I will just enjoy.

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Everything in Italy can only be viewed through rose-tinted designer sunglasses. Listening to the cacophony of collective rolling r’s (or, erre) and warm greetings provides the equivalent of a fine, aged auditory merlot.

Rolling through the Italian countryside to Canale Morales, I watched plush green fields accented by trees stretch ahead. We arrived at Terme di Stagliano (the thermal springs and hotel of Canale Morales) one hour later and after checking into my small room, I began to explore the grounds.

The springs were set deep into the countryside, so far in fact that there was nowhere else to go. I explored the beautiful grounds punctuated by endless evergreen shrubbery, trees, bamboo, bushes and of course, the occasional fountain.

Curious, I sampled the chlorinated pools and warm springs alike.

A beautiful pool in the countryside at Tempe di Stigliano in Canale Morales

I’m not sure if it was the spring water, the bright sunshine or the whisper of Italian accents in the background, but all my tension and worry quickly melted away.

After relocating a glittering blue pool set against steep green hills, I settled into the sunshine once again. Meditating with deep inhalations, the calm settled deeper until the sharp shriek of an exasperated and guttural moan robbed the silence.

To my delight, a competitive chorus of mooooooos resounded over the hills. This certainly was the Italian countryside.

If I am going to share this beautiful setting, why not with black, brown and white cows from a neighboring farm?

Given the language barrier (their English was better than my Italian) I had a hard time being sure I had uncovered all of the spa features. Thus, the sauna eluded me until the next morning.

Before entering the grotto, or sweating cave, you must have your blood pressure checked by a medical professional and receive a prescribed length of time. My heart health proved strong with a pressure of only 100, but as this could make me prone to fainting (‘tis true), 10 minutes was my allowed maximum.

The cave is set only 25 feet underground, but once inside, you feel as if you’re tickling the bowels of the earth. The temperature was hot but manageable, with heat similar to a bikram yoga class accompanied by heavy, wet air rising off steaming hot springs.

Dim lights offered a guide to a small bridge over bubbling springs, with the main entrance offering a 20 foot trough of hot water and a ledge to sit upon.

The closer I get to the earth, be it dirt or tree, the happier I become.

While I didn’t fully learn this hard-wired facet of my psyche until later in life, this fact has remained constant since.

Something as natural as a cave with hot springs and clay mud elicits the same response as a child entering a rainbow-colored inflatable bouncy castle.

My ten minutes passed gleefully, and I wanted to stay longer. But an Italian buffet breakfast awaited me, as did my sixteen fellow colleagues (of which I am the only American resident).

Time for a piping hot macchiato, melon shaved paper-thin and thinly sliced prosciutto.

On to the next thermal spring of Lazio. Arrividerla!

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My Bollywood adventure began in the frenetic tourist district of Colaba, in Mumbai, India. Honestly, I had entertained a tiny fantasy of experiencing the Indian movie industry first-hand — but it was far from my mind as I teetered on a narrow (and I do mean narrow: my toes hung off one side and my heels the other) cement median in the middle of four lanes of exhaust-spewing traffic.  I gauged my odds of crossing in one piece as similar to that of the scores of limping dogs that I had seen since arriving in India.“Has anyone approached you about being an extra in a Bollywood movie?” Costumes and makeup were part of the 10-hour shoot day. I threw a quick look over my shoulder to see a clean-cut man in his 30s smiling openly at me. My priorities lay elsewhere: “Help me cross the street!” I shadowed him through the choked traffic, knowing I had a better chance of traversing unscathed if I used a local as a human shield. (This also works with local elementary school students, I am not ashamed to admit.) He then presented me with a business card: “Planet Star” Casting Company was looking for 18 “Western European–looking” tourists to work as extras. The terms: to meet at the popular Leopold’s Café the following morning at 7 a.m., from whence we would be taken by luxury coach to the film set. We would put in a long day of shooting, starting with costumes and makeup, until 6 p.m. or so. Lunch and payment of 500 Indian Rupees (about US$ 10) was included. Was I interested? Absolutely! Arriving early the next morning, I passed the time in a 24-hour Internet café chatting with family and friends about my exciting day ahead. Everyone was online and our conversations flowed in real time. “What is the movie called?” my husband inquired. “Doom 2!” I exalted across cyberspace. Fear cloaked as disapproval churned in his response. “Isn’t that based on an ultra-violent video game?” The actual title was Dhoom 2, as I would learn later, sequel to the hugely successful action flick Dhoom, starring a handful of India’s hottest, hippest actors. Friends in New Delhi proffered advice. “They will think you are loose because of how you look and because you are Western. But you will be fine because of how you handle yourself.” At Leopold’s, pockets of already-sweating foreigners sipped instant coffee and downed yellow omelets and cold toast in the silence of steamy dawn. We pooled our information and stoked our imaginations. “They said we will have beautiful costumes and professional hair and makeup!” “I wonder if we will have to do stunts?” “Maybe it will be a battle scene like in Lord of the Rings! Will we have to ride horses?” “We are going to be movie stars …” As with every Western expectation of India, the day’s events happily unfolded “something like that.” Our “luxury” coach was filthy and snarled with dents, broken seats and no air-conditioning. But we were heady and ecstatic, up for glorious adventure. This vehicular throwback to the British Raj–era India became our limousine, the driver our personal chauffeur, the roadside pedestrians our fans. No teeny-tiny, tight or revealing costumes for this actress; a little complaining led to loose-fitting Indian-style clothing. At Studio 5 we were hustled into a long, mirrored room for wardrobe, where we unashamedly rubber-necked for racks of beautiful costumes. A burly Indian strode in, threw open an enormous metal trunk and began tossing out items of clothing … very small items. Tank tops, scarves — no, wait, that’s a mini-skirt — and fur-and-feather lined pieces! The women’s costume pieces were teeny, tiny, tight and revealing. I was presented with a miniscule tube of stretchy fabric. “You want me to wear this?” Dismissed with a flick of the hand toward the changing room, I didn’t know if my mystery scrap was a top, a skirt or a micro-dress. Remembering my friend’s prophetic words about loose foreigners, I pulled the tube snugly over one trousered thigh, grinning and gesturing comically at the fit. After two more futile attempts to dress me, I had made my point and was exasperatedly waved on, having earned the right to make my film debut wearing loose-fitting Indian-styled clothes. “Go! Go-go-go! This way!” Eighty uniformed primary school children surged toward us, shrieking. Panicked museum staff flapped their arms, attempting to stop the deafening pandemonium. The cavernous exhibit room was smoke clogged, and the giant, thick-boned T-Rex skeleton shook viciously with the force of hundreds of feet pounding the cold floor. My friend tumbled to her knees in the human tidal wave. As I reached back and grasped her arm to pull her up, in front of us a tiny Chinese girl tripped over her black patent shoes and flopped onto her face. She squinched up her bright eyes and opened her rosebud mouth to wail; I scooped her up and fought through to the safety of the wall of Aztec artifacts. “Stop! Stop!” Slowly we all ground to a halt, panting in the humidity. The sense of urgency dissipated with the thinning canned-fog effects and feeble air conditioning. The ivory papier- mâché T-Rex grinned down on us, toothily amused, now only quivering slightly as if in anticipation of the next take. “Children, there will be no smiling! Any smiling children will be ERASED by the computer!” In a last-ditch attempt to manipulate the hordes of tiny actors and actresses into taking their jobs more seriously, the frustrated director resorted to techno-terrorist threats projected through a megaphone. We were into Hour 3 of sprinting, dodging and stomping to escape the gnashing mandibles of “giant spiders” (apparently the size of Jack Russell terriers and much fiercer), to be digitally inserted post-production. A cell phone tinkled distantly, fainter than my pulse slamming in my ears. I sank to the floor, intent on resting my screaming leg muscles before the next grueling take. “Shut UP! “SHUT UP! Get OFF MY SET! I’m serious — are you serious?” All sound in the room zippered into imperfect silence. The Big Actor had spoken — screamed, actually — at the man with the cell phone. Tantrums — complete with stomping feet and pin-wheeling arms — continued hourly, much to the amusement of us Westerners, who were used to such antics being confined to the schoolyard. After each outburst Hair Repair and Makeup workers scurried to repair the damage. Hair Repair held up a melon-sized mirror while The Big Actor scrutinized each combed black lock for perfection, scowling ferociously at his flawlessly handsome, chiseled features. It was reminiscent to a budgie cooing at its own reflection. It was a long day, 10 hours total. By 6:30 p.m. we were exhausted and not a little fearful that shooting would continue infinitely. But as promised, we were fed a delicious lunch, given hot sweet chai during our frequent breaks, and finally returned to Colaba — paid in full — late that evening. All in a day’s work: 10 hours of shooting for one second on screen. Much later, at home, I found the movie at my neighborhood video store. Excitedly, I scanned through every scene for a glimpse of myself. I was surprised at how much was added post-production; even Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs were added in. Then, during a giant-spider action sequence, there I was! I was relieved that it was a full-body shot from a distance, and not a close-up of my dirty feet. Despite scrutinizing every additional scene, that was it … I was on for all of 1.5 seconds. Ten hours of hard work for just over one second! I thought back to the director’s commands that day: “ And you will run … and there is precious treasure … and you will run this way … and that way … and … ACTION!” The director’s orders were unwitting poetry describing India herself: the force of her energy as continuous movement and staccato sound; the frenetic crush and vivacity of her people; and their trueness of purpose and commitment to life. That day, we were pushed and pulled until, finally, filming was stopped and all was quiet. If You Go Mumbai Tourism www.tourism-of-india.com India Tourism www.incredibleindia.org

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Snorkeling in Jellyfish Lake, Palau. Photo by Lorry Heverly

1. Jellyfish, Jellyfish Lake, Palau

If you’ve ever wanted to see jellyfish up close, you can do just that at Jellyfish Lake in Palau –and no, you won’t get hurt. Over the last millennia, the golden jellyfish (Mastigias) and the moon jellyfish (Aurelia) in this enclosed body of water have developed a mild, almost unnoticeable sting. This offers a rare opportunity to swim with thousands of these unique creatures. Access to the lake is only permitted with a local tour company, and there is a $35 entry fee per person. Popular packages include snorkeling, a lunch in the Rock Islands and a visit to Milky Way, a beautiful cove famed for its white, skin-rejuvenating mud.

Manatees frequent the waters by Citrus County, Florida. Photo by Citrus Country CVB

2.  Manatees, Crystal River, FL, USA

The warm, spring-fed water of Citrus County, Florida is a favorite destination for manatees—and one of the only places where nature lovers can legally swim with these gentle giants. More than 400 manatees congregate in these waters during the winter, but the animals can be seen year-round. Snorkeling or diving in the Crystal River offers the rare opportunity to view the animals in their own habitat. Be sure to go out with the assistance of a tour company. They’ll supply a wet suit and gear, and show you how to view the manatees without disturbing them. Manatees seem unafraid of humans, and react to swimmers and divers with characteristic good nature.

Beluga whales in Hudson Bay. Photo by Travel Manitoba

3. Beluga Whales, Churchill, Manitoba

They have been called “ocean canaries” because these white beluga whales seem to sing like birds when you hear them underwater. And you can do just that in Hudson Bay, near the tiny town of Churchill, Manitoba, Canada. Each summer, thousands of belugas come to the bay to molt. You can snorkel with the whales (you’ll need to go out with an outfitter, who will provide a dry suit to keep you warm), or view them by boat or kayak. The whales react to snorkelers with indifference or curiosity, and sometimes swim near to get a better view. You can even stand on the shore and watch these amazing creatures, which often swim in pods of 8 to 12.

Giana manta rays in Hawaii. Photo by John Haut, Kona Divers

4. Giant Manta Rays, Big Island, Hawaii, USA

With wing spans that reach up to 15′ across, giant manta rays look like awesome birds in flight. The Big Island of Hawaii is one of the few places where you can view these amazing ocean creatures up close. Giant manta rays frequent the clear waters of Keauhou Bay, and local outfitters will take you out at night to snorkel or dive with the manta rays. After donning a wetsuit, you float near a string of lights. Plankton is drawn by the light, and the manta rays feed on the plankton. The graceful manta rays are unimpressed by visitors and go about their nightly feeding, gliding near snorkeler to the delight of their audience.

Cage diving with great white sharks. Photo by South African Tourism

5. Great White Sharks, Dyer Island, South Africa

Five miles out to sea on the southernmost tip of South Africa is Shark Alley, a favorite hunting ground of the Great White Shark. The waters are teeming with Cape Fur Seals and Jackass Penguins, a smorgasbord for these magnificent beasts. Shark cage diving has become a popular sport, offering the rare opportunity to see the sharks up close. Outfitters provide the cages, the gear and the know-how. All you need to have is some courage. No scuba experience is required. For the feint of heart, the great white sharks can often be seen from the boat, sometimes even breaching above the water while hunting.

Green Sea Turtle, Photo by Flickr, chucklepix (Steve)

6. Green Sea Turtles, Maui, Hawaii, USA

Turtle Town is stretch of coastline between Nahuna Point and Black Sand Beach on the Hawaiian Island of Maui. It’s known for its high concentration of Hawaiian Green Sea Turtles. The turtles often frequent the waters right off Maluaka Beach, feeding near the coral reef, even in the shallows. Grab a snorkel and you’re likely to see one—or several. Green sea turtles are endangered, so give them plenty of room and don’t harass them in any way. Green sea turtles can live up to 80 years.

Dolphins at play. Photo by Benjamin Rader

7. Dolphins, Bimini, Bahamas

The two small islands that make up Bimini, Bahamas are known for sports fishing, reef diving and swimming with the wild dolphins that call these warm clear waters home. Local outfitters take guests out by boat and provide snorkel gear. Snorkelers drop into the water, and dolphins often choose to come near for some playful interaction. It’s not unusual for them to swim alongside snorkelers, or flip and jump from the water. You can look, but don’t touch. The experience is unforgettable.

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All of this is completely new to me. This American gal has an extremely short resume when it comes to spas.

In fact, my spa experiences are limited to the occasional massage necessary to negate back pain after hours of hunched typing on a laptop. Sound familiar?

So when I decided to take a six-day trip to explore the spas of the Lazio region in Italy, I was filled with excitement — and a little trepidation.

Each day of my trip will mark a visit to a different spa in Canale Monterano, Viterbo, Rome, Tivoli and Fiuggi.

Italian spas offer therapeutic and indulgent spa treatments ranging from thermal springs containing the most iodized water in Europe (more to come on why this is beneficial), thermal therapy specialized to the treatment and prevention of chronic diseases, and swimming pools for bathing amassing 5,500 square meters.

I will be the proverbial sponge, soaking up new experiences and absorbing the benefits of ancient waters – some with a history dating back to early third century B.C.

My bathing suit is packed, passport poised for a fresh stamp, and I am bringing an open mind. I am unsure what awaits, but I am prepared to ditch the swimsuit for my birthday suit should cultural tradition deem necessary.

I’m heading to the airport now for my jaunt to Europe. Check back in a couple days for the delicious details.

Until then, ciao!

FOLLOW GINA’S ADVENTURES HERE

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The Haas Haus stands next to St. Stephen’s Cathedral.

They say that you can’t go home again; that things always change, so it’s no use trying to recreate the past. I don’t want to revisit the past, really, but rather the city that helped to form me. That is why I’m stretched out on a narrow bunk bed on the night train, its rails clicking and clanking with a familiarity that will soon lull me to sleep. We’re rushing through the Swiss countryside, where I’ve been working this past week, and the Alps are a thick blur in the darkness. In a few hours, we’ll cross the border and make our way across the tiny, key-shaped country of Austria. Then in the early morning, we’ll reach Vienna, the place that I’ve been missing. Below me in the lower bunk, my 10-year-old daughter is fast asleep, snug and content in the miniscule cocoon that is her bed for the night. I’m eager to share this adventure with her, to show her a part of myself that she may not know. With air travel so cheap in Europe now, we could have flown to the Austrian capital for the same cost. But it only seemed right to return to Vienna by rail. After all, this is how I first came to know the former imperial city, when I was just another American kid schlepping a backpack through the train stations of Europe. It’s funny how one decision can make such a difference, how a country I had barely even heard of could alter the path of my life. Vienna is famous for its coffeehouse culture. Pictured here is Café Central, one of the author’s favorite haunts. I had planned to study abroad in Spain, where I have relatives and could understand a bit of the language. But then a friend dragged me on a two-week trip through Europe, and I came face-to-face with Vienna and a boy named Richard. I was instantly infatuated with both of them. So Spain was forgotten, and I landed in Austria six months later at age 20 with three suitcases and two months of German study under my belt. I was to attend an American university in the Austrian capital, but it was the culture here that intrigued me. Vienna is known as the city of music and for its famous coffeehouse culture. Many visitors, however, forget the town’s royal past. Yet, it’s from this unique viewpoint that this city of two million is best understood. For nearly 640 years, Vienna served as the heart of the mighty Austro-Hungarian Empire. The ruling family, the Habsburgs, stretched the fingers of their rule from Austria to Hungary, and even into what is now the Czech Republic. The royal family built beautiful palaces; ordered court composers (like Mozart) to write dramatic music; and ate the royal pastries that were invented just for them. When the empire fell after World War I, the remnants of this imperial heritage remained. It lives on in the regal air of Vienna’s citizens, the haughty atmosphere in many cafés and restaurants and the highly-regarded arts and cultural scene. World War II also left its mark on the city. The wounds still run deep from those shameful times, but five decades have passed, bringing new understanding and knowledge. After WWII, Europe was divided up between the Soviets and the West. While Czechoslovakia, Hungary and even parts of Germany were pulled into the Eastern Bloc, Austria was allowed to be “neutral,” a fragile outpost of Western thought walking gingerly at the doorstep of communism. That is the Austria I met when I arrived in 1987. I have a photo at home from that first week in Vienna. In it, I am smiling, wide-eyed and naïve, open to whatever the city sends my way. And in the background, in the gray skies and the busy sidewalks of Mariahilfestrasse, Vienna stands wary, caught between East and West. Locals enjoy a quiet evening at a Viennese wine garden. There is a Hungarian Lada driving past in a blur, a microwave strapped to the roof, rushing back across the border which may or may not be open tomorrow. In the right hand corner of the photo, there is a weary old woman with a cane, wearing a coat of green Austrian wool, moving slowly across the cobblestone. And there in the corner, way off to the side, is a group of teens, not quite sure of their place in this city or even the world, but enjoying a smoke all the same. We are all in transition in the photo, but we just don’t know it. Vienna’s angst at being pulled between East and West was soon to find relief. That year marked the beginning of the end for the Eastern Bloc. The Hungarian fence would soon come down, and two years later, the Berlin Wall would fall. Europe was on a road of change, and Austria would soon be swept up in the current. As for me, I was about to begin the journey that every foreigner feels when they move to a new country. At first, everything about Vienna delighted me — the quaint, narrow streets that made me feel as if I were walking into another century; the city’s distinct aroma of humid air, ancient buildings, fresh bread, cigar smoke and coffee — all mixed up together; the slow pace of life that allowed me to savor one glass of wine all afternoon in a restaurant; the tiny grocery stores with aisles that were only two people wide; the reserved Austrians who greeted each other politely when they arrived and left; and the aloof waiters who served me with flair and style. It was all new and fascinating and amazingly wonderful. I wrote long letters home to my parents detailing each delightful discovery. But the letters began to change as the city’s newness began to wear on my resolve. Used to open faces and quick smiles, I began to long for friendly stranger faces; the constant cigarette smoke made me gag; the narrow alleyways seemed confining and I longed for open spaces; Viennese pretensions got on my nerves; the tiny groceries didn’t carry enough products; and oh, the language struggles! The short German course I had taken was useless. The Viennese spoke a different dialect and I couldn’t understand a darn word they said. All these feelings, I learned later, were a part of culture shock, the second phase that many foreigners go through. It was as if I were standing outside of Vienna, my nose pressed against the glass, watching those inside and wanting to come in, but not knowing how. Even coffee is served with style in Vienna. Pictured here is a local favorite: a mélange and Sacher torte. As is often the case when one has a problem, help came to me from a friend — several of them, in fact. Richard, the handsome young man who had drawn me to the city, turned out to be only a friend, but a good friend indeed. He showed me his favorite haunts, and drilled me on my Austrian German, unrelenting when I couldn’t roll the Viennese letter “L” properly. Still other friends came to light slowly. Compared to the American culture I grew up in, Austrians are quiet people, polite but often wary of strangers. You come to know them gently, one step at a time. But as one of my friends told me: “Once you have an Austrian friend, you have a friend for life.” My new Austrian friends, it turns out, were the real treasure of Vienna. One of them was 15 years my elder; others years younger. But age never stops kindred souls from understanding each other. My friends welcomed me into their homes and lives. And through their eyes, I came to understand this city in her own way. Vienna, I came to see, is a grand old lady with a reserved spirit and genteel manners. She will never jump into your face with welcome, but beckon quietly, gracious and waiting. For example, to an outsider Viennese waiters may appear snooty and aloof. Sometimes this is the case, but often, it’s an air of pride and refinement. Dignity can be found in small things, such as serving a cup of coffee on a silver tray with spoon and sugar set perfectly to the side, while addressing your customer as gnädige Frau (gracious lady). It was just one of the lessons this city had to teach me. When I arrived in Vienna, I didn’t like coffee, wine, waltzing, classical music or political discussions. Yet one by one, these bastions of Austrian culture became a norm in my life. I spent long leisurely afternoons in my favorite cafés, lingering over a Wiener mélange (a cross between a cappuccino and latte) and a thick piece of chocolate Sacher torte, discussing politics and the meaning of life with friends. In the rooms of a former palace, I learned to waltz in a long blue gown to the music of Strauss, confident in the arms of my partner. Vienna’s First District pulses with life. Warm summer evenings were spent drinking g’spritzte (white wine and mineral water) at Mayer am Pfarrplatz, our favorite wine garden in the hills of Vienna. And as the months wore on, I began to tolerate — then actually enjoy — classical music. How could I not? My university was right across from the music conservatory, and each school kept their windows open. While I studied international relations with professors from the United Nations, I heard hour after hour of classical music. Even the street musicians play Mozart and Beethoven in Vienna. This is, after all, the city of music. Most of all, I found a new perspective in Austria. The world is much bigger than the neighborhood where you live, the country you were born in. And when you live in a place wedged between two opposing powers, this becomes even more obvious. When I returned to America two years later, I was a different person. I had come of age in the Austrian capital, and though still a foreigner, Vienna had become a part of me. But almost 18 years have passed since then, and as the train nears the station, I become a bit nervous. Will Vienna have changed as much as I have? Austria is now part of the European Union. The schilling has been replaced by the Euro; it is a whole new economy. But I needn’t have worried. My Viennese friend, Nicole, is there to greet us at the station. I’m thrilled to find that the city still feels like home, no matter how long I’ve been away. It smells the same and the sounds haven’t changed. The streetcars have a fresh coat of paint and there are new stores along the streets, but I see the same faces and mannerisms, the culture that has stood here for centuries. And yet, there is something different. Vienna seems brighter, newer, pulsating with life. Though she has added years to her age, the city looks younger and wealthier. (If only that applied to me!) The EU looks good on Vienna. There seem to be more products, better prices, better service. New trendy restaurants have popped up all over town; chic boutiques and shops line the avenues. Youth is everywhere — hip colors, bold music and the latest fashion — yet all done with that typical Austrian sense of style. I see that vibrant pulse best on the Mariahilfestrasse, a well-known shopping street that had once been filled with second-rate stores and tired restaurants. It had been one of the more affordable shopping areas in the city, and I had spent many hours there as a student. But it looks like a whole new neighborhood now. From the balcony of our elegant suite at the chic Hotel Das Tyrol, my daughter and I watch the street below. The sidewalks are filled with shoppers loaded down with bags from Swedish clothiers, Italian shoe shops and French designers — companies from all over Europe. It’s a whole new experience. We spend the week with friends, visiting my favorite haunts, hiking in the Vienna Woods, having mélange at Café Central and shopping in the First District. I show my daughter where I used to live and I tell her stories of my time here. We visit the new MuseumsQuartier, where she plays at the children’s museum and practices her Viennese words, sounds she has heard since birth, though often in my American-accented tongue. We marvel over the art at the Liechtenstein Museum and get sick on the rides at the Prater amusement park. And, all the time, we are with friends, the same friends who came to my rescue almost 20 years ago. On our last night in Wien, my friend Torsten takes me to Do&Co, a fashionable restaurant on the top of Haas Haus across from St. Stephen’s Cathedral in the heart of Vienna. The summer air is warm, so we sit outside, the light from the church drifting across St. Stephen’s Square below. I can see clear across the rooftops of Vienna, and below us, the city moves like tiny ants at our feet. “So much in Vienna has changed,” I muse, “and yet, it still seems the same, don’t you think?” Torsten, who is in mid-bite, simply nods at my contradictory statement. He knows what I mean, for Vienna is a city of contradictions. We spend the evening looking out over the Austrian capital, marveling over the wonders and pitfalls of the EU and the difference 20 years can make, not only in a country but in our own lives. All the while, our waitress has been dashing about, serving table after table, but basically ignoring us. Finally, Torsten beckons for another coffee. The woman nods, barely acknowledging our existence. Yet minutes later, a coffee appears with elegant presentation. Then before we can thank her, the waitress is gone again. And then I know for sure that I’m back in Vienna. If You Go Austrian Tourist Office www.austria.info Vienna Tourism www.vienna.info Rail Europe www.raileurope.com Eurail Train Tickets www.eurail.com Museums Quarter www.mqw.at/news.en.html?tsel=news1

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White Bay, Jost Van Dyke. Photo by BVI Tourism

I can hardly breathe, and my knees are wobbly as I climb the ladder from the sea onto the catamaran’s main deck.

“You’re never going to believe this!” I say, trying to catch my breath after my exciting snorkeling expedition. “Just as soon as I jumped in, there he was – a giant Barracuda — lurking in the dark shade of the boat just an arm’s length away. And I swear – he was smiling at me!”

But my fellow snorkelers just laugh, unconcerned about the grinning Barracuda. After all, this was exactly what the travel brochures promised: “In the British Virgin Islands (BVI), even the fish are glad to see you.”

Visitors to this 60 square mile (153 square kilometers) small island empire in the Caribbean should really brace themselves for a “blue miracle.” All those promises of glossy catalogues emerge as a colorful reality: Turquoise waters, snow white sandy beaches, cordial people, colonial-style buildings in pastel colors, fragrant Frangipani flowers and romantic anchorages.

Anegada’s shores are just one example. It is the only atoll, a coral island consisting of a reef surrounding a lagoon, of the British Virgin Islands and appears like a glistening mirage in the crystal-clear seas. The remaining 60 islands and islets of the archipelago (about 50 miles or 80 kilometers east of Puerto Rico) are of volcanic origin.

Christopher Columbus discovered the Virgin Islands in 1493. Since 1672 its eastern half has belonged to the British Overseas Territory, while the western part has been administered by the United States since 1917.

Columbus baptized them both in honor of Saint Ursula and her 11,000 virgins – perhaps because he was hoping to impress the Spanish crown of the multiplicity of its newest discoveries. Perhaps it was due to the very suggestive and roundish silhouettes of the islands. Although we’ll never fully understand his association, travelers should follow this great sailor’s example: The picture book idyll is best explored aboard a ship.

Here, you can rely on the trade winds to blow moderately (12 to 17 knots) and the temperatures to vary only slightly (on the average 78 F or 26 C). This is why these isles, which are within sight of each other, are considered to be some of the most beautiful cruising grounds on earth.

To sit aboard a yacht, a smooth “Painkiller”-Cocktail (rum, coconut milk, nutmeg, pineapple and orange juice) in hand, and watch the famous granite boulders of Virgin Gorda Island (“Fat Virgin”) glow in the sinking sun is perhaps the best experience this palm paradise has to offer.

Although several cruise ships frequent the port of Road Town – BVI`s capitol on the biggest island Tortola – most visitors sail their charter yachts through the “Sir Francis Drake Channel,” a sparkling winding waterway that crisscrosses the islands.

Sailing in the British Virgin Islands. Photo by BVI Tourism

According to the “Charter Yacht Society of the British Virgin Islands,” there are more than 1,200 motorboats and sailing ships available for private charter, with or without crew, in all conceivable sizes and with variable equipments – starting with a small dinghy to large catamarans like the “Bonavista,” nearly 65 feet (20 meters) long and owned by English Charter Yacht Company Sunsail. She has ample room for 10 guests, a multitude of water toys (sea kayaks, scuba gear, water skis) and three crew members (skipper, cook and hostess).

With over 1,600 square feet (150 square meters) of deck area, this dream ship seems almost taller than the smallest BV-isles. Take Sandy Spit, for example. This uninhabited miniature island with its three rustling palm trees looks like a postcard that has come to life. Flying fish hold a jumping competition before its sandy banks, while Frigate birds circle in the clear blue sky high above. And a handful of anchored charter ships rock back and forth in the gentle swell. Sandy Spit is a popular picnic spot on the island hopping route.

Main Island Tortola, home for almost 70 percent of the 20,000 BV-Islanders, is the starting point for most sailing trips. White Bay on Jost Van Dyke, named after a Dutch pirate, is perhaps one of the most beautiful beaches of the island empire.

Neighboring Great Bay, which is the start and finish point for “Foxy’s Wooden Boat Regatta” each May, is “the” meeting place for wooden boat enthusiasts from all over the world.

Necker Islands can only be admired from a distance by mere mortals. It is the private property of Richard Branson, owner of Virgin Atlantic Airways and Virgin Cola. “A very nice guy,” says Jason Meeuwig, marketing manager of the exclusive “Bitter End Yacht Club” at the utmost eastern tip of Virgin Gorda and directly opposite Necker Island. In case of an emergency, the nice billionaire from next door lends his private helicopter out, and sometimes, he even comes over to have dinner at the Yacht Club.

Guana Island, too, with is peculiar rock formations that remind us of its native iguanas, is private. But with Little Thatch, Mosquito Island, Marina Cay, Cooper, Peter, Salt and countless other islands, there are still more than enough unknown shores, lonely dream beaches and many more of “Nature’s little secrets” to discover. This is the official BVI-Slogan, which even made it onto license plates. And it’s true! The British Virgin Islands, where there are no American fast food or hotel chains allowed, with their inaccessible geography and higher-end costs, have been spared from mass tourism.

Snorkeling in the British Virgin Islands. Photo by BVI Tourism

Geographically the BVI`s belong to the Lesser Antilles. With their steep slopes and protected bays they once were a perfect hiding place for infamous pirates such as Edward “Blackbeard” Teach.

Those of you who always wondered how 15 men could possibly fit on a dead man’s chest – including “Yo ho ho” and a bottle of rum” – will find the answer on Dead Chest. The sinister captain marooned his mutinying crew on this coffin shaped Mini Island, hence the macabre name.

“And here on Norman Island, just half an hour further west, he then hid all those crates full of Inca gold that he had robbed from Spanish galleons,” Randy George whispers. The scruffy looking bartender of the legendary “Pirates Bight Bar” could actually be right, because Norman Island also claims to be the alleged historical setting for Robert Louis Stevenson’s novel “Treasure Island.”

I looked hard while snorkeling through eerie underwater caves, but I did not discover one single shiny doubloon. The only treasure I found were schools of smirking coral fish. I swear!

IF YOU GO:

Charter Information

www.bvicrewedyachts.com

www.sunsail.com

British Virgin Islands Tourist Board:

www.bvitourism.com

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American Samoa is located in the heart of Polynesia. Photo by American Samoa Visitors Bureau

Mention Pago Pago to most South Pacific travelers and the response will often be a blank stare. When it comes to reputations, American Samoa and its capital are, well, sort of unknown.

One reason is that American Samoa is well off-the-beaten track of overseas airline routes. Another is that the islands are far from major population centers. In truth, though, that’s part of American Samoa’s attraction and charm as a destination.

American Samoa is located in the heart of Polynesia, half way between Hawaii and New Zealand. To reach this unique American territory, you must first fly to Hawaii, and then take another five-hour flight to the islands. You can also reach it from Independent Samoa, which is just a 35-minute-flight away.

Photo by American Samoa Visitors Bureau

American Samoa includes five volcanic islands and a couple of remote coral atolls. Tutuila is the main island; Aunu`u is a small island about a half-mile east of Tutuila. The Manu`a Islands, Ta`u, Ofu and Olosega, are located roughly 62 miles (100 km) east of Tutuila.

Tutuila covers an area of 56 square miles (145 km²). It’s roughly 18 miles long (30 km) and 6 miles wide (10 km) at its widest point. The island is a series of steep rain forested volcanic peaks and ridges, indented with valleys and bays.

Fjord-like Pago Pago Harbor is a submerged volcanic crater almost bisecting the island. It’s one of the most scenic harbors in the South Pacific, surrounded by green hills and dominated by 1,718-foot-tall (518 m) Rainmaker Mountain. The climate is tropical — warm, humid and rainy the year around.

American Samoa became a U.S. territory in April, 1900. Before and after World War II, Pago Pago Harbor was an important refueling port for the U.S. Navy. The population numbers about 55,000, most living on Tutuila.

The territory’s visitor industry is small by most standards. All hotels and accommodations are locally owned.  Visitor arrivals total around 6,000 or so annually, so you can always find a nice place to stay. Many who come for the experience find it a relaxing and adventurous place to visit, with great natural beauty.

American Samoa’s economy is driven by the government, one of the largest employers. The territory gets considerable support from the U.S. government in annual grants and subsidies. The Samoa Packing and StarKist tuna canneries at Pago Pago Harbor represent American Samoa’s largest primary industry.

So what to see and do in American Samoa?

If you’re looking for an original American Samoa experience, go no further than Tisa’s Barefoot Bar at Alega Beach, a few miles east of Pago Pago Bay. This is a typical folksy South Seas watering hole. The bar’s open-air deck is built on pilings over a beautiful sandy beach with a lovely view of the surrounding green hills and bay.

Take a table and enjoy the view as you enjoy a Vailima beer (the local product from Samoa); light lunches are served as well. If you’re lucky, Tisa herself will be there to greet you and “talk story” a spell.

Fagotogo, the main business and government center of the territory, is next to Pago Pago. The Fagotogo public market is a great place to view a cross-section of American Samoa, especially on a busy Saturday morning.

There is island produce, veggies, tropical fruits and fish for sale, as well as authentic Samoan handcrafts.

The National Park of American Samoa includes sections of three islands: Tutuila, Ofu and Ta`u. On Tutuila, the park includes the mountain ridge to coastal section north of Pago Pago Bay and the area surrounding the village of Vatia. A section of Ofu’s pristine shoreline and fringing reef is protected as a marine sanctuary within the national park.

Local boys having some fun. Photo by American Samoa Visitors Bureau

The southeastern half of Ta`u is part of the national park, and features 3,000-foot-tall sea cliffs, some of the tallest in the world, as well as native bird and plant species. Visits can be arranged at the National Park of American Samoa Visitor Center, at the Pago Shopping Plaza.

If you’re a hiker, one of the best hikes is to the TV transmission towers atop 1,600-foot (488 m) Mt. `Alava, above Pago Pago Bay. The hike takes one through the rain forested hills of the National Park of American Samoa. The half-day trek follows the ridgeline high above the bay and provides great views of Pago Pago Harbor and Rainmaker Mountain.

Visitors can also rent a car and drive to the east and west coasts of Tutuila. The coastal road zigs and zags its way up the coast, following bays and coves along the way. The road passes by deserted white-sand beaches and through quiet, tranquil villages, typically with one or more large churches and several traditional-style fale, or meeting houses. Another transportation option is to take one of the colorful Aiga buses that crisscross the island.

Off the eastern shore, ferries shuttle passengers a half-mile (.8 km) across the water to the small island of Aunu`u, a good island for explorations on foot. The eastern road terminates at the village of Onenoa.

From Pago Pago, the road west heads through Nu`uuli to Tafuna, near the airport, and across the flat southern plain. Several roads here branch off to villages.

The road extends west to Leone, site of a World War II airstrip, and into the hills surrounding the coastal villages of Amanave, Poloa and Fagamalo, where the road terminates. There are several scenic viewpoints along this coastal drive, with secluded coves, waterfalls and a few beaches.

At dusk, watch the forests and coastline for “flying foxes,” fruit bats that take to the air for nocturnal foraging. Sunset skies here are filled with dozens of the airborne mammals common to American Samoa.

National Park of American Samoa
www.nps.gov

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