Results for "Cala+Gonone+|+101+>+215"
6295 results found.
Notre entourage nous prend pour des tarés totals English translation pending
salut a tous
je sais bien que peut etre c'est le cas pour un peu nous tous qui souhaitont quitté cette societe qui nous envoient des images a longueur de journée au JT de 20h que la planete est mal barre.ensuite la pub l''Oréal pour ressembler a Adriana Karembeu bref moi et mon didou on prepare un tdm avec tous les continents a visiter, on est en pleine preparation et alors franchement je crois de + en + que notre entourage amical est completement beauf, bidochon enfin tous ce qu'on veut sauf jeunes, on s'en plein la tronche avec eux du genre "rester chez vous, le monde va mal" "qu'est ce que ca va vs apporter" "il serait temp de vs stabiliser" on a 25 ans en parenthese bref je crois qu'on doit changer d'amis non!!!! 😉
je sais bien que peut etre c'est le cas pour un peu nous tous qui souhaitont quitté cette societe qui nous envoient des images a longueur de journée au JT de 20h que la planete est mal barre.ensuite la pub l''Oréal pour ressembler a Adriana Karembeu bref moi et mon didou on prepare un tdm avec tous les continents a visiter, on est en pleine preparation et alors franchement je crois de + en + que notre entourage amical est completement beauf, bidochon enfin tous ce qu'on veut sauf jeunes, on s'en plein la tronche avec eux du genre "rester chez vous, le monde va mal" "qu'est ce que ca va vs apporter" "il serait temp de vs stabiliser" on a 25 ans en parenthese bref je crois qu'on doit changer d'amis non!!!! 😉
Québécois: bilingues or not bilingues? English translation pending
Suite a une discussion et des opinions divergeantes, je voudrais avoir le point de vue des quebecois (surtout les francophones) sur le bilinguisme au Quebec. A savoir, par rapport a l'anglais, est-ce que les francophones sont dans leur tres grosse majorite : Completement bilingues Se debrouillent pas trop mal Ont le niveau des francais (cad basique) Causent pas anglais (ou veulent pas ?) Bref, est-ce qu'un visiteur qui ne parle pas le francais peut voyager et se faire comprendre sans probleme au Quebec ?
Bayahibe et Casa del Mar English translation pending
😄🤪 Bonjour à tous.
😇
Je pars le 😉 31/01/04 à 15h10 avec star airlines de roissy
Voyagiste Carrefour / Marsan /
Là-bas arrivée à punta cana via bayahibe hotel casa del mar.
Que faut il voir et faire en priorité sur 7 jours ?😠
Que faut il prendre ou ne pas prendre : quels médicaments ?
Merci à tous. super ce forum !!!😐🏴☠️
😇
Je pars le 😉 31/01/04 à 15h10 avec star airlines de roissy
Voyagiste Carrefour / Marsan /
Là-bas arrivée à punta cana via bayahibe hotel casa del mar.
Que faut il voir et faire en priorité sur 7 jours ?😠
Que faut il prendre ou ne pas prendre : quels médicaments ?
Merci à tous. super ce forum !!!😐🏴☠️
Neige à Paris, ou de l'autre côté du miroir English translation pending
Ce titre n'a pas pour vocation à plagier Bergmann.
Il est trois heures du mat. J'écris brut de fonderie, sans recopie, directement, suite à ce qui vient de se passer.
Ce soir, il a neigé de folie à Paris. Ce genre d'évènements est suffisamment rares pour fédérer comme par magie tous les noctambules. Je rentrais du judo, via un bar où j'ai discuté avec d'anciens copains de promo (la fanfare de Centrale Lyon), en vélo, sous la neige. Il neigeait des cordes (ça se dit???), et la remontée de la butte jusqu'à chez moi fut des plus rudes. C'est transformé en demi bonhomme de neige (par l'avant) que je suis parvenu dans la cour de mon immeuble où j'ai garé mon vieux vélo. J'étais dans un état d'esprit euphorique, de ces états d'esprit quand on sort d'une séance d'entrainement de judo super éprouvante, et aussi de ces états d'esprits de quand il neige à Paris. La combinaison des deux fut explosive. J'ai décidé, encore couvert de sueur et de neige, de ne pas monter chez moi tout de suite, mais de continuer encore cent cinquante mètres jusqu'à l'esplanade du Sacré Coeur (une belle course, surtout par l'arête est, à faire en hivernale quand c'est en bonnes conditions). C'était magnifique, je n'avais jamais vu Paris comme ça, la Butte Montmartre encore moins, et j'ai hâte de voir ça demain au lever du jour (gloups, c'est dans pas longtemps, en fait, je crois que je dormirai). La baston générale n'a pas tardé à avoir lieu. Les boules de neige fusaient de toute part, les équipes se faisaient au gré des configurations spatiales des regroupements. Les voitures, surtout les taxis, et les parapluis étaient visés prioritairement. C'était très rigolo. Après largement plus d'une heure de batailles acharnées, j'ai entendu des polonais crier en trinquant "Senslivego Nowego Roku" (Bonne Année). J'ai répété en coeur, et j'ai été aussitôt invité à trinquer avec eux. C'était du champagne, et ils fétaient réellement la nouvelle année. Peut être étaient-ils un peu décalés. Ce fut fantastique. Nous avons commencé à parler en polonais. Puis un peu en anglais aussi (mon polonais est quand même très limité). Et finalement, je les ai invités chez moi (cent cinquante mètre - retour) à boire un peu de Zubrowka qu'il me restait. Ils ne se sont pas fait prier. Ils étaient 4. Trois femmes polonaises, et un ardéchois. Tous des chanteurs. Lui, parlait anglais avec elles. Il était l'organisateur d'un festival de chant et de musique traditionnelle polonaise dans son village en Ardèche. Je ne sais vraiment pas ce qu'ils foutaient sous cette pluie de boules de neiges à Paris, à Montmartre, mais ils étaient là. On a bu chez moi moultes toasts, et on a beaucoup parlé, dans toutes les langues étrangères que je connaissais, c'était super sympa. Je crois qu'ils ont été enchanté de cette rencontre, et moi, je me projetais en voyage, et je m'imaginais à leur place, dans une capitale européenne difficile, où les gens savent surtout klaxonner et s'engueuler d'une voiture à une autre, ne connaissant personne, et tombant par un hasard extraordinaire sur quelqu'un qui baragouine tant bien que mal ma langue, et qui m'invite chez lui boire un coup. Je me dis maintenant que le voyage commence définitivement à la porte de chez soi, il commence avec la rencontre de l'autre, des autres. Ce soir, j'ai voyagé même dans mon propre appart. J'étais dans le même état d'esprit de rencontre et d'ouverture aux autres que lorsque je voyage. Ce fut fantastique. Merci la vie, tout simplement.
Ils viennent juste de partir, il est trois heures, et si je fais des fautes de frappe, c'est que ma bouteille n'était pas si vide que ça.
Merci de votre attention et de votre patience (j'écris un peu trop dans cette rubrique, en ce moment, je sais). Je vous laisse, je vais cuver. Ciao. Do widzenia.
Loopkin
Il est trois heures du mat. J'écris brut de fonderie, sans recopie, directement, suite à ce qui vient de se passer.
Ce soir, il a neigé de folie à Paris. Ce genre d'évènements est suffisamment rares pour fédérer comme par magie tous les noctambules. Je rentrais du judo, via un bar où j'ai discuté avec d'anciens copains de promo (la fanfare de Centrale Lyon), en vélo, sous la neige. Il neigeait des cordes (ça se dit???), et la remontée de la butte jusqu'à chez moi fut des plus rudes. C'est transformé en demi bonhomme de neige (par l'avant) que je suis parvenu dans la cour de mon immeuble où j'ai garé mon vieux vélo. J'étais dans un état d'esprit euphorique, de ces états d'esprit quand on sort d'une séance d'entrainement de judo super éprouvante, et aussi de ces états d'esprits de quand il neige à Paris. La combinaison des deux fut explosive. J'ai décidé, encore couvert de sueur et de neige, de ne pas monter chez moi tout de suite, mais de continuer encore cent cinquante mètres jusqu'à l'esplanade du Sacré Coeur (une belle course, surtout par l'arête est, à faire en hivernale quand c'est en bonnes conditions). C'était magnifique, je n'avais jamais vu Paris comme ça, la Butte Montmartre encore moins, et j'ai hâte de voir ça demain au lever du jour (gloups, c'est dans pas longtemps, en fait, je crois que je dormirai). La baston générale n'a pas tardé à avoir lieu. Les boules de neige fusaient de toute part, les équipes se faisaient au gré des configurations spatiales des regroupements. Les voitures, surtout les taxis, et les parapluis étaient visés prioritairement. C'était très rigolo. Après largement plus d'une heure de batailles acharnées, j'ai entendu des polonais crier en trinquant "Senslivego Nowego Roku" (Bonne Année). J'ai répété en coeur, et j'ai été aussitôt invité à trinquer avec eux. C'était du champagne, et ils fétaient réellement la nouvelle année. Peut être étaient-ils un peu décalés. Ce fut fantastique. Nous avons commencé à parler en polonais. Puis un peu en anglais aussi (mon polonais est quand même très limité). Et finalement, je les ai invités chez moi (cent cinquante mètre - retour) à boire un peu de Zubrowka qu'il me restait. Ils ne se sont pas fait prier. Ils étaient 4. Trois femmes polonaises, et un ardéchois. Tous des chanteurs. Lui, parlait anglais avec elles. Il était l'organisateur d'un festival de chant et de musique traditionnelle polonaise dans son village en Ardèche. Je ne sais vraiment pas ce qu'ils foutaient sous cette pluie de boules de neiges à Paris, à Montmartre, mais ils étaient là. On a bu chez moi moultes toasts, et on a beaucoup parlé, dans toutes les langues étrangères que je connaissais, c'était super sympa. Je crois qu'ils ont été enchanté de cette rencontre, et moi, je me projetais en voyage, et je m'imaginais à leur place, dans une capitale européenne difficile, où les gens savent surtout klaxonner et s'engueuler d'une voiture à une autre, ne connaissant personne, et tombant par un hasard extraordinaire sur quelqu'un qui baragouine tant bien que mal ma langue, et qui m'invite chez lui boire un coup. Je me dis maintenant que le voyage commence définitivement à la porte de chez soi, il commence avec la rencontre de l'autre, des autres. Ce soir, j'ai voyagé même dans mon propre appart. J'étais dans le même état d'esprit de rencontre et d'ouverture aux autres que lorsque je voyage. Ce fut fantastique. Merci la vie, tout simplement.
Ils viennent juste de partir, il est trois heures, et si je fais des fautes de frappe, c'est que ma bouteille n'était pas si vide que ça.
Merci de votre attention et de votre patience (j'écris un peu trop dans cette rubrique, en ce moment, je sais). Je vous laisse, je vais cuver. Ciao. Do widzenia.
Loopkin
Inde du Sud English translation pending
Bonjour, 🙂 nous arrivons de nuit ( à 23h55) mi mai à Bangalore.
Comment se rendre de l'aéroport au centre ville.
Quelqu'un a t'il un hotel à nous conseiller à Bangalore ?
Merci pour vos réponses 😎
Alod
Nouvelle-Zélande et Australie English translation pending
🙂Bonjour à tous,
🙂Je quittes le québec dans une semaine, c'est à dire dimanche pour la merveileuse destination qu'est la N-Z . Après 3 mois là, je vais en Australie pour 1 mois donc fin avril et début mai. Ce mot et pour savoir si il y a du monde qui vont être là dans les même moments, je suis très partante pour en rencontrer....à plusieurs, c'est toujours mieux.😎 Alors gênez-vous pas....
à la prochaine peut-être
🙂Je quittes le québec dans une semaine, c'est à dire dimanche pour la merveileuse destination qu'est la N-Z . Après 3 mois là, je vais en Australie pour 1 mois donc fin avril et début mai. Ce mot et pour savoir si il y a du monde qui vont être là dans les même moments, je suis très partante pour en rencontrer....à plusieurs, c'est toujours mieux.😎 Alors gênez-vous pas....
à la prochaine peut-être
Température en avril à Varadero? English translation pending
😎Bonjour....
Quelqu'un est-il déjà allé à Varadero, Cuba....pendant le mois d'Avril? est-ce beau? pas trop chaud et pas trop de pluie??
Aussi......quels sont les commentaires sur ces hôtels: Superclub Breezes varadero, Arenas Blancas, Barcelo Solymar, Bahia Principe?
Merci!
Quelqu'un est-il déjà allé à Varadero, Cuba....pendant le mois d'Avril? est-ce beau? pas trop chaud et pas trop de pluie??
Aussi......quels sont les commentaires sur ces hôtels: Superclub Breezes varadero, Arenas Blancas, Barcelo Solymar, Bahia Principe?
Merci!
500........ English translation pending
Champagne virtuel......c'est mon 500 ème post...! 🙂
Merci à Voyageforum pour le rêve procuré à chaque fois que je me branche, mais surtout merci à tous ceux qui me font rêver sur ce forum et avec qui je partage de nombreuses émotions, et je voudrais par l'intermédiaire des prénoms qui ont enfanté vos pseudos, vous remercier, et surtout :
- Askar, Azertyx, Benoît, Bragon, Chantal, Chrystel, Djamila, Emilie, Fabrice, François, Gene, Gérard, Globe, Grobi, Isabelle, Jacques ( les deux ), Jean, Jean Sébastien, José, Josée, Julien, Laurent, Marie, Marie-Christine, Marie Noelle, Memphre, Monique, Nancy, Oliv, Philippe, Sandrine, Serge, Thibaut, Véronique, Vincent, Yannick, YouY, Yves.....et pardon si j'ai oublié quelqu'un....
Pour les autres, je ne demande qu'à mieux vous connaître.....
Mes prochains posts auront toujours la même teneur, à savoir de concilier voyage et découvertes des autres par le respect que l'on doit à la nature et aux hommes qui nous accueillent chez eux....
Bonne route,
Merci à Voyageforum pour le rêve procuré à chaque fois que je me branche, mais surtout merci à tous ceux qui me font rêver sur ce forum et avec qui je partage de nombreuses émotions, et je voudrais par l'intermédiaire des prénoms qui ont enfanté vos pseudos, vous remercier, et surtout :
- Askar, Azertyx, Benoît, Bragon, Chantal, Chrystel, Djamila, Emilie, Fabrice, François, Gene, Gérard, Globe, Grobi, Isabelle, Jacques ( les deux ), Jean, Jean Sébastien, José, Josée, Julien, Laurent, Marie, Marie-Christine, Marie Noelle, Memphre, Monique, Nancy, Oliv, Philippe, Sandrine, Serge, Thibaut, Véronique, Vincent, Yannick, YouY, Yves.....et pardon si j'ai oublié quelqu'un....
Pour les autres, je ne demande qu'à mieux vous connaître.....
Mes prochains posts auront toujours la même teneur, à savoir de concilier voyage et découvertes des autres par le respect que l'on doit à la nature et aux hommes qui nous accueillent chez eux....
Bonne route,
Bon plans pour 1er voyage en Thailande... English translation pending
Bonjour, 🙂
Je pars le même jour que Pistache, en Thailande pour la première fois.
Moi non plus, je n'ai rien réservé, je compte me débrouiller sur place.
En gros, j'arrive à BKK, j'y reste une nuit avant de partir pour Chiang Mai et le Triangle d'Or. Puis, avion pour Phuket: destination les iles de la mer d'Andaman jusqu'à Kho Lipe. Puis, retour sur BKK pour shopping et visite (2 jours).
Bon, j'ai quand- même besoin de votre expérience:
Que voir particulièrement dans le Triangle d'Or ?😇
Quelles iles me conseillez- vous en Adaman ?😎
Et, SVP, des bonnes adresses dodo à Chiang Mai, Tirangle d'Or, et iles d'andaman... ?
J'en demande beaucoup. Mais, c'est ça les femmes !😛
Merci beaucoup.
Audrey
Je pars le même jour que Pistache, en Thailande pour la première fois.
Moi non plus, je n'ai rien réservé, je compte me débrouiller sur place.
En gros, j'arrive à BKK, j'y reste une nuit avant de partir pour Chiang Mai et le Triangle d'Or. Puis, avion pour Phuket: destination les iles de la mer d'Andaman jusqu'à Kho Lipe. Puis, retour sur BKK pour shopping et visite (2 jours).
Bon, j'ai quand- même besoin de votre expérience:
Que voir particulièrement dans le Triangle d'Or ?😇
Quelles iles me conseillez- vous en Adaman ?😎
Et, SVP, des bonnes adresses dodo à Chiang Mai, Tirangle d'Or, et iles d'andaman... ?
J'en demande beaucoup. Mais, c'est ça les femmes !😛
Merci beaucoup.
Audrey
Tour du monde avec 1 ou 2 euros par jour, est-ce possible? English translation pending
Depuis mon plus jeune age, je ne pense qu'à une chose : partir.
Le plus important pour moi c'est la philosophie de voyage. Je veu partir dans un ou 2 ans, avec le moins de budget possible. Vivre avec 1 ou 2 euros par jours.
Je cherche des témoignages de gens qui sont partis ou on envie de partir, sans argent ou presque.
Je cherche des témoignages de gens qui sont partis ou on envie de partir, sans argent ou presque.
Je me lance... English translation pending
Bonjour a tous et toutes!!!!
J'adore faire de la photo selon certain pote je fais de belles photos sans le vouloir surtout parce que je suis attiré par l'émotion (pas assé agressive selon un pote photographe aussi mais bon)....
Alors apres quelques voyages et quelques photos bien réussi et que j'ai présenté à des concours. Je me suis dit qu'il faudrait peut etre que je prenne conscience de ce que je faisais...
Eh ben ca ce passais bcp mieux avant quand je me posais pas de question va vous dire....
Alors eclairé moi un peu surtout pour les films avant j'utilisais toujours du 200 le compromis quoi. J'ai essayé le 100 l'an dernier au Népal j'ai été plus ou moins satisfaite du résultat. Et le 400 et moi ou bien j'ai pas compris ou bien on est pas fait pour s'entendre.
Mieux vaut partir avec du 200 croyez vous et comme ca on a le bon compromis selon les intempéries???
Ensuite en N&B apres plusieurs test plus ou moins fructeux je me suis retrouvé avec du 400 et 200.... Et la je suis vraiment larguer parce que je sais vraiment pas utilisé quoi quand????
Je suis longue a comprendre en photo... Tres longue ca allais bcp mieux quand je pensais a rien....
Francois j'ai pas compris ton histoire de tiers.... Quand les points se touche???? Je suis tres tres tres tres visuelle.....😊
J'adore faire de la photo selon certain pote je fais de belles photos sans le vouloir surtout parce que je suis attiré par l'émotion (pas assé agressive selon un pote photographe aussi mais bon)....
Alors apres quelques voyages et quelques photos bien réussi et que j'ai présenté à des concours. Je me suis dit qu'il faudrait peut etre que je prenne conscience de ce que je faisais...
Eh ben ca ce passais bcp mieux avant quand je me posais pas de question va vous dire....
Alors eclairé moi un peu surtout pour les films avant j'utilisais toujours du 200 le compromis quoi. J'ai essayé le 100 l'an dernier au Népal j'ai été plus ou moins satisfaite du résultat. Et le 400 et moi ou bien j'ai pas compris ou bien on est pas fait pour s'entendre.
Mieux vaut partir avec du 200 croyez vous et comme ca on a le bon compromis selon les intempéries???
Ensuite en N&B apres plusieurs test plus ou moins fructeux je me suis retrouvé avec du 400 et 200.... Et la je suis vraiment larguer parce que je sais vraiment pas utilisé quoi quand????
Je suis longue a comprendre en photo... Tres longue ca allais bcp mieux quand je pensais a rien....
Francois j'ai pas compris ton histoire de tiers.... Quand les points se touche???? Je suis tres tres tres tres visuelle.....😊
Carte de touriste à Cuba? English translation pending
😊Bonjour,
Je pars pour cuba pour la première fois, je suis allé sur le site d'air transat et ils disent que pour aller là-bas, il faut avoir en main passeport et carte de touriste, j'ai mon passeport mais comment je me procure la carte de touriste??😕
Si quelqu'un est au courant veuillez me renseigner et me rassurer s.v.p
merci😉
Je pars pour cuba pour la première fois, je suis allé sur le site d'air transat et ils disent que pour aller là-bas, il faut avoir en main passeport et carte de touriste, j'ai mon passeport mais comment je me procure la carte de touriste??😕
Si quelqu'un est au courant veuillez me renseigner et me rassurer s.v.p
merci😉
Protection de l'environnement au Gabon English translation pending
Hommage au président Omar Bongo,
Oui, grand coup de chapeau à un homme qui vient de signer les décrets d'application pour l'ouverture de 13 parcs nationaux au Gabon, qui vont permettre de protéger 11 % du territoire de ce pays et surtout de protéger une faune unique en son genre, singes mandrills, gorilles de forêts, éléphants de forêts, antilopes sittatungas et j'en oublie....
Tout celà également grâce à la ténacité de Michael Fays qui a traversé les forêts du Gabon à pied et a recensé une grande partie de la faune de ce pays ainsi que les régions à protéger, et qui a permis de faire prendre conscience aux autorités de l'importance de la protection de l'environnement.
Mais encore fallait il trouver un interlocuteur capable de prendre les bonnes décisions, ce qui a été fait grâce au président....
Dieu lui rende grâce et puisse t il donner des idées à d'autres hommes politiques....
Soyons optimistes...
Avez vous déjà vu un hippopotame se laisser porter par les vagues de l'Atlantique....ce sera bientôt une chose possible.
A bientôt,
Oui, grand coup de chapeau à un homme qui vient de signer les décrets d'application pour l'ouverture de 13 parcs nationaux au Gabon, qui vont permettre de protéger 11 % du territoire de ce pays et surtout de protéger une faune unique en son genre, singes mandrills, gorilles de forêts, éléphants de forêts, antilopes sittatungas et j'en oublie....
Tout celà également grâce à la ténacité de Michael Fays qui a traversé les forêts du Gabon à pied et a recensé une grande partie de la faune de ce pays ainsi que les régions à protéger, et qui a permis de faire prendre conscience aux autorités de l'importance de la protection de l'environnement.
Mais encore fallait il trouver un interlocuteur capable de prendre les bonnes décisions, ce qui a été fait grâce au président....
Dieu lui rende grâce et puisse t il donner des idées à d'autres hommes politiques....
Soyons optimistes...
Avez vous déjà vu un hippopotame se laisser porter par les vagues de l'Atlantique....ce sera bientôt une chose possible.
A bientôt,
Réunion: hôtel ou pension pas cher à St Denis English translation pending
😉 Bonjour,
Routard de passage à St Denis pour une ou deux nuits, je recherche un hotel ou pension le moins cher à Saint Denis (moins de 20 euros la nuit), pourriez vous me donner qqs adresses ou éventuellement des e-mails pour faire la réservation depuis la France. L'avion attérisse vers 22h à Gillot, plus de bus, quel moyen le plus économique pour se rendre à St Denis ?
Merci d'avance,
Une jeune femme en Inde au Rajasthan English translation pending
Bonjour.
Voilà, je suis en train de planifier un voyage de 3 semaines en Inde et/ou au Radjasthan seule. J'ai 23 ans et je n'ai jamais voyagé ni seule, ni loin.. j'aurais aimé savoir si cela était très risqué.
Merci pour vos réponses..
Moeurs au Cambodge English translation pending
Bonjour,
Nous sommes un jeune couple et allons probablement aller au cambodge pendant 1 mois (eventuellement un peu plus). Ma copine est d'origine cambodgienne (de parents cambodgiens habitant en france, elle n'est jamais alle au cambodge) et moi francais. Nous allons y aller avec son pere, sa mere, son frere, sa soeur et le fiance de sa soeur (francais comme moi). J'aimerai avoir des informations et l'avis de personnes cambodgiennes (mais tout commentaire est bienvenue) sur quelques points. Une de mes premieres questions concerne mes cheveux ! et oui. Car j'ai les cheveux longs, j'ai lu et remarque (avec ses parents) que les cambodgiens n'aiment pas vraiment cela. Est ce que je pourrai avoir des problemes de ce cote la ? je vais rester dans la famille de ma copine, donc cambodgienne (ils sont assez puritains, ex: certains marriages arranges, marriage/relations entre un francais et un cambodgien pas toujours accepte au debut etc..). Quels problemes pensez vous que je puisse rencontrer ? Le pere de ma copine lui avait dit d'une maniere (Certes avec humour mais quand meme) qu'il lui avait enventuellement trouve un mari, mais qu'elle aurait quand meme le choix ! Je voudrai savoir si les marriages arranges sont encore de vigeur ? et egalement si pour beaucoup de cambodgiens ou certains une relation/fiancailles entre une cambodgienne (mais quand meme ayant vecu toute sa vie en france) et un etranger sont mal vus etc.. ? (je sais que ca depend des personnes, c'est pareille dans tout les pays, mais on prefere se rassurer, car l'avis de son pere n'est pas toujours fiable). Nous seront dans la banlieue de Phnom Penh, et peut etre un peu bouger dans le pays pour visiter et voir de la famille
Ces questions peuvent parraitre stupide ou anodine, mais j'aimerai bien que si un cambodgien residant au cambodge passe par la, puisse nous repondre ! merci
Nous sommes un jeune couple et allons probablement aller au cambodge pendant 1 mois (eventuellement un peu plus). Ma copine est d'origine cambodgienne (de parents cambodgiens habitant en france, elle n'est jamais alle au cambodge) et moi francais. Nous allons y aller avec son pere, sa mere, son frere, sa soeur et le fiance de sa soeur (francais comme moi). J'aimerai avoir des informations et l'avis de personnes cambodgiennes (mais tout commentaire est bienvenue) sur quelques points. Une de mes premieres questions concerne mes cheveux ! et oui. Car j'ai les cheveux longs, j'ai lu et remarque (avec ses parents) que les cambodgiens n'aiment pas vraiment cela. Est ce que je pourrai avoir des problemes de ce cote la ? je vais rester dans la famille de ma copine, donc cambodgienne (ils sont assez puritains, ex: certains marriages arranges, marriage/relations entre un francais et un cambodgien pas toujours accepte au debut etc..). Quels problemes pensez vous que je puisse rencontrer ? Le pere de ma copine lui avait dit d'une maniere (Certes avec humour mais quand meme) qu'il lui avait enventuellement trouve un mari, mais qu'elle aurait quand meme le choix ! Je voudrai savoir si les marriages arranges sont encore de vigeur ? et egalement si pour beaucoup de cambodgiens ou certains une relation/fiancailles entre une cambodgienne (mais quand meme ayant vecu toute sa vie en france) et un etranger sont mal vus etc.. ? (je sais que ca depend des personnes, c'est pareille dans tout les pays, mais on prefere se rassurer, car l'avis de son pere n'est pas toujours fiable). Nous seront dans la banlieue de Phnom Penh, et peut etre un peu bouger dans le pays pour visiter et voir de la famille
Ces questions peuvent parraitre stupide ou anodine, mais j'aimerai bien que si un cambodgien residant au cambodge passe par la, puisse nous repondre ! merci
Un bon moyen, le stop English translation pending
... ou le pouce, pour nos amis québécois.
Un bon moyen de voyager pour pas cher, tout en faisant des rencontres intéressantes, puisque par définition, ceux qui prennent sont des originaux. Evidemment, on peut tomber sur des gars un peu jetés, mais c'est aussi ce qui fait le piment du voyage. Pour ma part, j'ai pas mal expérimenté ce moyen, et j'en garde de très bon souvenirs. Entre le couple de retraités super sympas qui nous donnent des oranges au moment de nous quitter, le mafioso en mercédès noire qui roule à 180 et qui paye en liquide avec des liasses de billets de 200 € au péage, les camionneurs-bricoleurs-ingénieur-recycleurs ayant trois nationalité et parlant quatre langues à la frontière espagnole, etc... on ne s'ennuie pas! A faire à deux (deux filles, ou un mec et une fille) ou un mec seul. Deux mecs, j'ai fait, mais c'est plus dur de se faire prendre (même si j'ai fait ça plusieurs fois). Une fille seule, à ne pas faire. Deux filles, succès assuré et pas si dangereux.
Vos avis? Vos récits de stop?
Un bon moyen de voyager pour pas cher, tout en faisant des rencontres intéressantes, puisque par définition, ceux qui prennent sont des originaux. Evidemment, on peut tomber sur des gars un peu jetés, mais c'est aussi ce qui fait le piment du voyage. Pour ma part, j'ai pas mal expérimenté ce moyen, et j'en garde de très bon souvenirs. Entre le couple de retraités super sympas qui nous donnent des oranges au moment de nous quitter, le mafioso en mercédès noire qui roule à 180 et qui paye en liquide avec des liasses de billets de 200 € au péage, les camionneurs-bricoleurs-ingénieur-recycleurs ayant trois nationalité et parlant quatre langues à la frontière espagnole, etc... on ne s'ennuie pas! A faire à deux (deux filles, ou un mec et une fille) ou un mec seul. Deux mecs, j'ai fait, mais c'est plus dur de se faire prendre (même si j'ai fait ça plusieurs fois). Une fille seule, à ne pas faire. Deux filles, succès assuré et pas si dangereux.
Vos avis? Vos récits de stop?
Voyage à travers le Canada et les États-Unis English translation pending
Allo,
Je compte partir en voyage a partir de début mai(après mes cours). J'aimerai avoir de l'information sur la plantation d'arbres et autres boulots payant qu'on peut faire dans l'ouest Canadian. Car d'ici à mai l'argent que je vais me ramasser sera seulement suffisant pour m'acheter le stock de camping et le billet d'avion.
J'aimerai en savoir plus sur les excurssions que je pourrait faire ds l'ouest et les prix.
Merci
J'aimerai en savoir plus sur les excurssions que je pourrait faire ds l'ouest et les prix.
Merci
Reportage sur les tatouages en Thaïlande English translation pending
je suis photographe et je souhaiterai faire un reportage sur les tatouage notament les moines qui se tatouent.
Quelqu'un aurait-il des infos??
Je souhaite me rendre dans le sud de la thailande, les plages, les iles etc...
Billet d'avion Chine à petit prix? English translation pending
hello à tous
je compte me rendre en chine dans les mois à venir et je me demandais si quelqu'un avait des bons plans pour ne pas payer trop cher le billet d'avion
d'autre part, quelle est la saison de l'année la moins chère?
merci bien
cédric
je compte me rendre en chine dans les mois à venir et je me demandais si quelqu'un avait des bons plans pour ne pas payer trop cher le billet d'avion
d'autre part, quelle est la saison de l'année la moins chère?
merci bien
cédric
Feedback on Cape Town to Johannesburg itinerary (2nd trip) in 3 weeks
Hello everyone!
It's been a year since I've been longing for South Africa. Our first trip in August 2025 amazed us, and—rarely—it was a unanimous hit with our little family! We were touched to the core, and from the moment we got home, we couldn’t stop talking about going back. 😄
I’d like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who gave me advice on the itinerary for that first trip (Johannesburg loop: Blyde, Kruger, Eswatini, St. Lucia, Durban, Drakensberg)! Thanks to you, our trip went like a dream!
Since then, I haven’t stopped reading articles and discussions on VoyageForum to keep my head in South Africa a little longer!
So, we finally caved and just booked our tickets for January 2027 (from the 3rd to the 26th), with a plan to do a road trip from Cape Town to Johannesburg in about 3 weeks.
I’ve got a rough itinerary that seems great based on what I’ve read on various forums, but there are still some uncertain points, and that’s where I could use your advice.
3/01: Arrival in Johannesburg at 11:45 PM 4/01: Flight to Cape Town, pick up rental car. Afternoon sightseeing 5,6,7/01: Cape Town to visit the big classics in the area (any tips for finding accommodation: which neighborhood, a specific place?) 8/01: Overnight stop before Oudtshoorn—but where??? (Is it essential, or is the CT-Oudtshoorn drive manageable? If so, I’d gain a day in Oudtshoorn. Google Maps shows over 5 hours of driving...) 9,10/01: Oudtshoorn (or would 3 nights be better to really enjoy the area?) 11,12/01: Knysna, Plettenberg Bay (to have time for hiking—if you’ve got hiking tips, I’m all ears!) 13,14/01: Tsitsikamma (still to have time for hiking—who knows the must-do hikes in the area? But maybe 4 nights in the Knysna-Tsitsikamma area is too much—I’m not sure) 16,17/01: Addo Elephant (I’m torn between 3 nights at Addo or 3 nights at Mountain Zebra. Based on travel journals, especially Michel’s on MZ, I’ve scheduled 3 nights at MZ 😄...) 18,19,20/01: Mountain Zebra NP 21/01: Camdeboo NP (because it looks so beautiful!) 22/01: Overnight stop (where?) before wrapping up the trip with either 2 or 3 nights at Golden Gate NP or the Lesotho option, which appeals to me, but I don’t know if it’s doable in 3 days to be back in Johannesburg by the afternoon of the 26th.
That’s my trip idea for now... I’m eagerly waiting for your advice, ideas, and comments... Can’t wait to be back there again!
3/01: Arrival in Johannesburg at 11:45 PM 4/01: Flight to Cape Town, pick up rental car. Afternoon sightseeing 5,6,7/01: Cape Town to visit the big classics in the area (any tips for finding accommodation: which neighborhood, a specific place?) 8/01: Overnight stop before Oudtshoorn—but where??? (Is it essential, or is the CT-Oudtshoorn drive manageable? If so, I’d gain a day in Oudtshoorn. Google Maps shows over 5 hours of driving...) 9,10/01: Oudtshoorn (or would 3 nights be better to really enjoy the area?) 11,12/01: Knysna, Plettenberg Bay (to have time for hiking—if you’ve got hiking tips, I’m all ears!) 13,14/01: Tsitsikamma (still to have time for hiking—who knows the must-do hikes in the area? But maybe 4 nights in the Knysna-Tsitsikamma area is too much—I’m not sure) 16,17/01: Addo Elephant (I’m torn between 3 nights at Addo or 3 nights at Mountain Zebra. Based on travel journals, especially Michel’s on MZ, I’ve scheduled 3 nights at MZ 😄...) 18,19,20/01: Mountain Zebra NP 21/01: Camdeboo NP (because it looks so beautiful!) 22/01: Overnight stop (where?) before wrapping up the trip with either 2 or 3 nights at Golden Gate NP or the Lesotho option, which appeals to me, but I don’t know if it’s doable in 3 days to be back in Johannesburg by the afternoon of the 26th.
That’s my trip idea for now... I’m eagerly waiting for your advice, ideas, and comments... Can’t wait to be back there again!
Off on an adventure in Réunion!
Week 1 - July 2026
Traveling with just one spare pair of underwear, considering a hot shower a miracle, never staying in the same place too long by sleeping wherever night catches us, taking whatever local, improbable, and rickety transport we can find—this is the DNA of us wanderers. Except this time, the script for our movie is going to be a whole different genre. On paper, the destination doesn’t exactly scream epic adventure: Réunion! And what’s more... we won’t be two, or four, or even ten. We’ll be a solid thirty. All from the same family. Yes, thirty. At this point, it’s not just a trip—it’s a summer camp on the move! Why inflict this on such a peaceful island? Because my brother decided to get married there with his lovely bride. A great idea, you might say... especially when it involves relocating the equivalent of a small Ardennes village 10,000 kilometers from home for three weeks! So who’s stepping up to be the guide and wave the little flag?
So, for an exceptional trip, exceptional stories! Don’t worry, the debates at the supermarket over whether to choose plain chips or roast chicken chips, the beach picnics washed down with ti’ punch, and other rougail sausages to digest by the pool will only make it into the family archives. Here, I’ll stick to the tales of our beautiful escapes, the ones where we explore the wild corners of this little volcanic rock planted in the middle of the Indian Ocean. So where exactly are we headed?
For the first week—the subject of this first installment—we’re taking it easy. We’ll start by rediscovering the coastline, from the Souffleur in Saint-Leu to the Hermitage lagoon, before a little trip to the Cirque de Cilaos and its legendary road with 400 turns, just to get our legs warmed up.
Traveling with just one spare pair of underwear, considering a hot shower a miracle, never staying in the same place too long by sleeping wherever night catches us, taking whatever local, improbable, and rickety transport we can find—this is the DNA of us wanderers. Except this time, the script for our movie is going to be a whole different genre. On paper, the destination doesn’t exactly scream epic adventure: Réunion! And what’s more... we won’t be two, or four, or even ten. We’ll be a solid thirty. All from the same family. Yes, thirty. At this point, it’s not just a trip—it’s a summer camp on the move! Why inflict this on such a peaceful island? Because my brother decided to get married there with his lovely bride. A great idea, you might say... especially when it involves relocating the equivalent of a small Ardennes village 10,000 kilometers from home for three weeks! So who’s stepping up to be the guide and wave the little flag?
So, for an exceptional trip, exceptional stories! Don’t worry, the debates at the supermarket over whether to choose plain chips or roast chicken chips, the beach picnics washed down with ti’ punch, and other rougail sausages to digest by the pool will only make it into the family archives. Here, I’ll stick to the tales of our beautiful escapes, the ones where we explore the wild corners of this little volcanic rock planted in the middle of the Indian Ocean. So where exactly are we headed?
For the first week—the subject of this first installment—we’re taking it easy. We’ll start by rediscovering the coastline, from the Souffleur in Saint-Leu to the Hermitage lagoon, before a little trip to the Cirque de Cilaos and its legendary road with 400 turns, just to get our legs warmed up.
Delighted review of my MSC Virtuosa cruise from April 5 to 19, 2026
Hi everyone,
As promised, here’s my review of the cruise I took from the 5th to the 19th on the MSC Virtuosa.
As you know, I had initially booked a cruise with Mein Schiff departing from Dubai (from Dubai to Cape Town). It was a 22-day cruise. Due to the issues in the Persian Gulf, my cruise was canceled by Mein Schiff.
So, we started looking for a Plan B because we really wanted to go. Especially my wife, who had just had a minor procedure and needed some rest. Since she had already taken time off, she was determined to travel. However, we were looking for an affordable Plan B since we weren’t sure when Mein Schiff or the airline would reimburse us.
While browsing online, I found a 15-day cruise departing from Pointe-à-Pitre (including flights, transfers, the cruise, and drinks) for a price of 1,200 € in a Fantastica balcony cabin. We thought, *Why not?*
I should mention that I’m not usually a big fan of MSC. My last experience with them was post-Covid (I took two cruises, one in 2021 and another in 2022), and it was honestly a disaster. We didn’t want to repeat that, but after talking to Catherine, who told me she was very happy with a short Christmas cruise, we decided to give it a try.
I have to say, I was left speechless. Honestly, the cruise was absolutely perfect. There’s nothing to complain about (or just a few minor details). In terms of service and food, I felt like I was on a premium cruise line. I’d even say MSC has nothing to envy from some of those companies. While premium lines like Holland, Celebrity, and Royal are cutting back on services, I think MSC has made huge improvements. Seriously, I wasn’t expecting this at all. You’ll see what I mean as we chat more.
I won’t do a full review like I usually do because there weren’t many stops: 1. We boarded in Pointe-à-Pitre 2. We stopped in Saint-Martin 3. Then it was a direct crossing to the Azores...
This cruise was really about relaxing, even if it’s not the kind of trip we usually take.
First off, I’m not a big fan of "flight and cruise" packages. I asked if we could leave two days early, but they said it wasn’t possible. We had to take the flight, then the bus, and board the ship directly.
It’s not really my thing, but given the price we paid and since we really wanted to relax, we thought, *Why not?*
Here’s the itinerary:
Boarding in Pointe-à-Pitre Saint-Martin Five days at sea The Azores Four days at sea Hamburg One day at sea Le Havre
But as I mentioned, it wasn’t about the itinerary. It was really about taking a break and unwinding. Honestly, I came back thrilled.
Departure and boarding details to come
As promised, here’s my review of the cruise I took from the 5th to the 19th on the MSC Virtuosa.
As you know, I had initially booked a cruise with Mein Schiff departing from Dubai (from Dubai to Cape Town). It was a 22-day cruise. Due to the issues in the Persian Gulf, my cruise was canceled by Mein Schiff.
So, we started looking for a Plan B because we really wanted to go. Especially my wife, who had just had a minor procedure and needed some rest. Since she had already taken time off, she was determined to travel. However, we were looking for an affordable Plan B since we weren’t sure when Mein Schiff or the airline would reimburse us.
While browsing online, I found a 15-day cruise departing from Pointe-à-Pitre (including flights, transfers, the cruise, and drinks) for a price of 1,200 € in a Fantastica balcony cabin. We thought, *Why not?*
I should mention that I’m not usually a big fan of MSC. My last experience with them was post-Covid (I took two cruises, one in 2021 and another in 2022), and it was honestly a disaster. We didn’t want to repeat that, but after talking to Catherine, who told me she was very happy with a short Christmas cruise, we decided to give it a try.
I have to say, I was left speechless. Honestly, the cruise was absolutely perfect. There’s nothing to complain about (or just a few minor details). In terms of service and food, I felt like I was on a premium cruise line. I’d even say MSC has nothing to envy from some of those companies. While premium lines like Holland, Celebrity, and Royal are cutting back on services, I think MSC has made huge improvements. Seriously, I wasn’t expecting this at all. You’ll see what I mean as we chat more.
I won’t do a full review like I usually do because there weren’t many stops: 1. We boarded in Pointe-à-Pitre 2. We stopped in Saint-Martin 3. Then it was a direct crossing to the Azores...
This cruise was really about relaxing, even if it’s not the kind of trip we usually take.
First off, I’m not a big fan of "flight and cruise" packages. I asked if we could leave two days early, but they said it wasn’t possible. We had to take the flight, then the bus, and board the ship directly.
It’s not really my thing, but given the price we paid and since we really wanted to relax, we thought, *Why not?*
Here’s the itinerary:
Boarding in Pointe-à-Pitre Saint-Martin Five days at sea The Azores Four days at sea Hamburg One day at sea Le Havre
But as I mentioned, it wasn’t about the itinerary. It was really about taking a break and unwinding. Honestly, I came back thrilled.
Departure and boarding details to come
Review of an expedition cruise to the Seychelles with Ponant from January 25 to February 2, 2026
Hi everyone,
It was totally by chance that I found this cruise while chatting with Alfred in November 2024. It wasn’t planned, but the price was attractive—one of those "great deals" from Ponant that I love and that don’t exist anymore. Since everyone’s wondering, here’s the answer without waiting for the end of the story: after my various loyalty discounts, I paid **3,250 € per person** for 8 nights/9 days on the expedition cruise *The Essentials of the Seychelles*.
Expedition cruises are by far our favorites. The outings are done by Zodiac with the ship’s naturalist guides, everything’s included, and there’s no need to add any excursions or prepare anything.
We’re liking long flights less and less, so to break up the trip, we decided to stop over in Doha for four days on the way there and one day on the way back.
I’m happy to share the good and not-so-good moments, the great surprises, and the disappointments of this trip with you.
It was totally by chance that I found this cruise while chatting with Alfred in November 2024. It wasn’t planned, but the price was attractive—one of those "great deals" from Ponant that I love and that don’t exist anymore. Since everyone’s wondering, here’s the answer without waiting for the end of the story: after my various loyalty discounts, I paid **3,250 € per person** for 8 nights/9 days on the expedition cruise *The Essentials of the Seychelles*.
Expedition cruises are by far our favorites. The outings are done by Zodiac with the ship’s naturalist guides, everything’s included, and there’s no need to add any excursions or prepare anything.
We’re liking long flights less and less, so to break up the trip, we decided to stop over in Doha for four days on the way there and one day on the way back.
I’m happy to share the good and not-so-good moments, the great surprises, and the disappointments of this trip with you.
From the Awakening to Travel to Morocco in the 90s
As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, I inherited my love of travel from my parents and some of my grandparents. A strong passion, but one that was unfortunately limited by our family’s modest resources. Back then, living in northern Alsace, a simple trip to the southern part of the region—with the Wine Route as our destination—felt like an extraordinary journey to a land of plenty for the little boy I was in the late 60s and early 70s.
Everything seemed so huge when you were still just a kid.
Back then, I was overwhelmed by countless sensations—I was already highly sensitive, with a keen mind and a nose and taste buds that were developing like a pro’s. Which, as I’d later realize, wasn’t always an advantage.
Those magical days always began with a gentle late-spring or midsummer morning. The interior of the white Peugeot 404, license plate 210 LZ 67, had already soaked up the sun before the engine purred to life, and the cabin gave off a scent I could still recognize today—a fragrance I found so pleasant. Back then, I had no idea it was just the smell of warm plastic from the car’s interior. Yes, the scents of the 404 on sunny days became my madeleine de Proust... What’s more, the whole family was unusually cheerful because those moments of relaxation and leisure were rare. Everyone worked, and no one had an easy job or was well paid. Without the *Trente Glorieuses*, these experiences might never have happened.
Once we crossed the canton’s borders, I felt like I was light-years away from my everyday surroundings, and every kilometer plunged me deeper into *terra incognita*. It was thrilling. Far from my so-called "medium-sized" town, wheat fields, cornfields, and cabbage patches stretched out, punctuated by tall poles connected by long wires and topped with vegetation—like giant clotheslines without laundry, where magical beanstalks might grow to touch the sky. Back then, I was still far from tasting their product, which was simply beer. At the time, there was still a significant local hop production. Fun fact: it wasn’t until 2002 that Anglo-Saxon scientists proved hops and cannabis belong to the same biological family.
After the fields, the landscape took another step up as it rolled past the little boy’s eyes, often glued to the windows. First came modest hills, then a succession of rolling slopes that soon formed an unbroken chain. Their 700 meters in altitude felt like Himalayan peaks to me—impressive, inert giants, a whole new world. Gazing at them, an intense emotion welled up somewhere between my stomach and lungs, nearly taking my breath away. What mysteries, what treasures did these heights hold? And then there were the cherries on top—the crowning touch that made the scene even more magical: proud, majestic castles perched on the summits like impassive sentinels. Monuments from the past, yet firmly rooted in the present on their rocky spurs. The little boy’s eyes sparkled—he’d been given a castle for Christmas, complete with battlements, towers, a drawbridge, and fully armed knights. He’d watched and lived *Ivanhoe* on the only French TV channel that existed back then.
Only once did my paternal grandfather join us on one of these trips. A tall, intelligent man with a face that could shift from stern to mischievous, clearly full of humor and charisma. Sadly, his relationship with alcohol had taken a toll on his life and, by extension, those of his loved ones. He had a strong personality—if his boss crossed the line, he wouldn’t hesitate to punch him, which meant he went through a lot of different jobs. Back then, you could quit one job and easily find another. It was quite something to see him in his final stages, hallucinating pink elephants and even drinking perfume when he had nothing else left. The last time I saw him, he’d slipped away from the doctors and nurses while hospitalized in pretty bad shape—at least, I assume his liver was the issue. We were sitting down for a family lunch when the door burst open, and there he stood in his pajamas, eyes twinkling with mischief, clearly pleased with the dramatic entrance. That theatrical moment didn’t spare us from burying him a few months later at the age of 71. One day, my mother told me the family doctor had quietly remarked that it was a shame—with his robust constitution, he could’ve lived to be a hundred. Yes, the family doctor—this was the man who’d come treat you any day, at almost any hour, just for a phone call. It really existed, it’s not a myth!
That day, his wife—my paternal grandmother—was also along for the ride. Everyone agreed that Jeannette was a good woman. She worked as a waitress at *Le Tigre*, the biggest brasserie in town, right in the center. Most customers preferred to be served by her, including local dignitaries and even the mayor. As a kid, I didn’t find her very fun, open, or warm—she seemed a bit stern. Back then, women in their fifties already had the face and build of grandmothers. Same went for men, don’t get me wrong. I had no idea about the struggles she faced because of her husband. I didn’t know that 30 years earlier, she’d had to flee Alsace while pregnant, under threat from Nazi fighter-bombers. I didn’t know she’d had several miscarriages, and that my father—her only surviving child, born prematurely in March 1940 at the other end of France—weighed less than a kilo at birth and was so tiny he could fit in a shoebox. Hard to imagine he’d grow into a strapping man nearly 1.80 meters tall, tipping the scales at 100 kilos. When you come back from summer camp in early August and ask why she didn’t pick you up with your parents, and they gently tell you she’s "in heaven," you don’t realize she passed away at 54 after suffering greatly from stomach cancer that had spread.
Back to that family outing, that enchanted parenthesis. I even remembered where we’d had lunch when I passed through Dambach-la-Ville decades later. One of those charming, flower-filled towns Alsace produces in abundance—and preserves so well. This one sits high on a hill, and I was a bit stunned on the parking lot because the view stretched far, revealing the Alsace plain below—its fields, villages, hills, and forests. The world seemed so vast and enticing that day, even though I was only glimpsing a tiny fraction of it.
The region was already very touristy, but I wouldn’t notice the downsides until much later. That Sunday noon, I discovered a large restaurant filled with diners. I can still see the enormous piece of meat they served me, decorated with a little wooden skewer topped with a flag. I kept that one for a long time. Those were the golden days of rich, flowing, thick sauces—so flavorful—and the era of the world’s best fries, made on the spot with the best potatoes. To top it off, I was *exceptionally* allowed a small bottle of apple juice, Orangina, or—even better if possible—Sinalco. Yes, Sinalco—like Orangina, but better. A brand that must’ve disappeared in the 70s, but why, and what a shame! Since then, Orangina’s little bubbles have taken the brand to the other side of the planet—it’s now Japanese.
Year after year, I’d eagerly await that ecstatic moment when the most beautiful castle in Alsace, the Haut-Koenigsbourg, appeared in my field of vision. The perfect model, the archetype that blended into the landscape at the height of a child’s dreams. The trip home always felt like a reality check—less jarring than an alarm clock, but more diffuse and melancholic. From then on, there was only one wish: *When do we leave again?*
Those magical days always began with a gentle late-spring or midsummer morning. The interior of the white Peugeot 404, license plate 210 LZ 67, had already soaked up the sun before the engine purred to life, and the cabin gave off a scent I could still recognize today—a fragrance I found so pleasant. Back then, I had no idea it was just the smell of warm plastic from the car’s interior. Yes, the scents of the 404 on sunny days became my madeleine de Proust... What’s more, the whole family was unusually cheerful because those moments of relaxation and leisure were rare. Everyone worked, and no one had an easy job or was well paid. Without the *Trente Glorieuses*, these experiences might never have happened.
Once we crossed the canton’s borders, I felt like I was light-years away from my everyday surroundings, and every kilometer plunged me deeper into *terra incognita*. It was thrilling. Far from my so-called "medium-sized" town, wheat fields, cornfields, and cabbage patches stretched out, punctuated by tall poles connected by long wires and topped with vegetation—like giant clotheslines without laundry, where magical beanstalks might grow to touch the sky. Back then, I was still far from tasting their product, which was simply beer. At the time, there was still a significant local hop production. Fun fact: it wasn’t until 2002 that Anglo-Saxon scientists proved hops and cannabis belong to the same biological family.
After the fields, the landscape took another step up as it rolled past the little boy’s eyes, often glued to the windows. First came modest hills, then a succession of rolling slopes that soon formed an unbroken chain. Their 700 meters in altitude felt like Himalayan peaks to me—impressive, inert giants, a whole new world. Gazing at them, an intense emotion welled up somewhere between my stomach and lungs, nearly taking my breath away. What mysteries, what treasures did these heights hold? And then there were the cherries on top—the crowning touch that made the scene even more magical: proud, majestic castles perched on the summits like impassive sentinels. Monuments from the past, yet firmly rooted in the present on their rocky spurs. The little boy’s eyes sparkled—he’d been given a castle for Christmas, complete with battlements, towers, a drawbridge, and fully armed knights. He’d watched and lived *Ivanhoe* on the only French TV channel that existed back then.
Only once did my paternal grandfather join us on one of these trips. A tall, intelligent man with a face that could shift from stern to mischievous, clearly full of humor and charisma. Sadly, his relationship with alcohol had taken a toll on his life and, by extension, those of his loved ones. He had a strong personality—if his boss crossed the line, he wouldn’t hesitate to punch him, which meant he went through a lot of different jobs. Back then, you could quit one job and easily find another. It was quite something to see him in his final stages, hallucinating pink elephants and even drinking perfume when he had nothing else left. The last time I saw him, he’d slipped away from the doctors and nurses while hospitalized in pretty bad shape—at least, I assume his liver was the issue. We were sitting down for a family lunch when the door burst open, and there he stood in his pajamas, eyes twinkling with mischief, clearly pleased with the dramatic entrance. That theatrical moment didn’t spare us from burying him a few months later at the age of 71. One day, my mother told me the family doctor had quietly remarked that it was a shame—with his robust constitution, he could’ve lived to be a hundred. Yes, the family doctor—this was the man who’d come treat you any day, at almost any hour, just for a phone call. It really existed, it’s not a myth!
That day, his wife—my paternal grandmother—was also along for the ride. Everyone agreed that Jeannette was a good woman. She worked as a waitress at *Le Tigre*, the biggest brasserie in town, right in the center. Most customers preferred to be served by her, including local dignitaries and even the mayor. As a kid, I didn’t find her very fun, open, or warm—she seemed a bit stern. Back then, women in their fifties already had the face and build of grandmothers. Same went for men, don’t get me wrong. I had no idea about the struggles she faced because of her husband. I didn’t know that 30 years earlier, she’d had to flee Alsace while pregnant, under threat from Nazi fighter-bombers. I didn’t know she’d had several miscarriages, and that my father—her only surviving child, born prematurely in March 1940 at the other end of France—weighed less than a kilo at birth and was so tiny he could fit in a shoebox. Hard to imagine he’d grow into a strapping man nearly 1.80 meters tall, tipping the scales at 100 kilos. When you come back from summer camp in early August and ask why she didn’t pick you up with your parents, and they gently tell you she’s "in heaven," you don’t realize she passed away at 54 after suffering greatly from stomach cancer that had spread.
Back to that family outing, that enchanted parenthesis. I even remembered where we’d had lunch when I passed through Dambach-la-Ville decades later. One of those charming, flower-filled towns Alsace produces in abundance—and preserves so well. This one sits high on a hill, and I was a bit stunned on the parking lot because the view stretched far, revealing the Alsace plain below—its fields, villages, hills, and forests. The world seemed so vast and enticing that day, even though I was only glimpsing a tiny fraction of it.
The region was already very touristy, but I wouldn’t notice the downsides until much later. That Sunday noon, I discovered a large restaurant filled with diners. I can still see the enormous piece of meat they served me, decorated with a little wooden skewer topped with a flag. I kept that one for a long time. Those were the golden days of rich, flowing, thick sauces—so flavorful—and the era of the world’s best fries, made on the spot with the best potatoes. To top it off, I was *exceptionally* allowed a small bottle of apple juice, Orangina, or—even better if possible—Sinalco. Yes, Sinalco—like Orangina, but better. A brand that must’ve disappeared in the 70s, but why, and what a shame! Since then, Orangina’s little bubbles have taken the brand to the other side of the planet—it’s now Japanese.
Year after year, I’d eagerly await that ecstatic moment when the most beautiful castle in Alsace, the Haut-Koenigsbourg, appeared in my field of vision. The perfect model, the archetype that blended into the landscape at the height of a child’s dreams. The trip home always felt like a reality check—less jarring than an alarm clock, but more diffuse and melancholic. From then on, there was only one wish: *When do we leave again?*
Havana, Cuba / January 2026
I got into music with the will
To light up many hearths like Che could do,
To circulate ideas, to advance utopia
Alternating barricades, sharp thought, and poetry.
Mc Solaar, Guérilla
Subscribing without a fight to the slightest line of my itinerary sometimes feels like an illusion. Because there are countries where, despite the fever and enthusiasm, despite the triumphant revolution, certain elements block my path. And if I had planned, for F. and me, a beautiful ascent up Tabouret Hill (Loma del Taburete, 453m), it was without accounting for vegetation as dense as it was thorny, which barred our way after just a few quarters of an hour of walking. Exhausted, I had to face the facts: we wouldn’t go any further. I needed to come up with some kind of Plan B.
But what is this country, an unwitting laboratory of the worst that white civilization has done during its reign? What is this magnificent place—yet another—entrusted to the care of oblivion, just 150 km from the land of freedom? According to Donald Trump, a country supporting terrorism; according to the locals, the vast battlefield of 20th-century ideologies; according to the average tourist, a hot country, a beautiful country, a country where the last illusions of a lost paradise are dying.
On the other side of Havana Bay, we love that statue of Christ blessing the city. There’s something gentle, soothing, in that patriarchal gesture. You’d almost be tempted to forget that at the dawn of the 16th century, those who claimed to represent the Church had no scruples about eradicating the Ciboney and Taíno populations. Worse, you’ll find magnificent this cathedral dedicated to the Virgin Mary, right in the heart of the old city. Under the guise of a civilizing necessity, Havana became, like so many other places, the gilded seat of European pretensions, at the expense of local populations doomed to extermination, then enslaved populations—more or less indigenous—who, you can imagine, didn’t often set foot in this holy place.
Lost in my thoughts, I try to push through this tangled vegetation. Nature reclaims its rights; nature abhors a vacuum. Yes, the well-trodden path of revolution couldn’t stay free of weeds! The road is buried. We give up and turn back, until that fork I’d noted before leaving, which would let us reach the top of the hill by skirting its northern slope.
So the white man arrives, settles, and gets rid of everything that bothers him. He has two unstoppable forces at his disposal: gunpowder and the spiritual certainty of being on the side of an all-powerful god. While the first gives him an unmatched material advantage over his new enemy, the second lets him use the first without feeling too guilty. That’s the magic of this supreme Church: it condemns all forms of pleasure—calling them impurity—while promoting plunder and crime under the cover of evangelization.
Walking through the city, you find a bit of Algiers, except that here, the decay is almost irreversible. You feel the splendor of the past, a disconcerting image of all vanity, from an era when men knew how to build beauty—especially if they didn’t have to share it. We’ll debate the benefits of colonialism for a long time, while glossing over the fact that those benefits often stopped at the city limits, limits all too obvious to the indigenous people. Havana isn’t just one or a few buildings; it’s an impressive collection of works of art built one after another, in what I think was a spirit of healthy competition. Yes, you find Algiers in this exuberance. As if these distant cities were the receptacle of everything that was best in the lands of origin. Atlantes and lintels, golds, blues, ogives, and monumental windows—exceptional architecture in an exceptional place.
Some streets are clean, swept with care; others are not, scattered here and there with potholes filled with water. A rather persistent smell of urine invades us regularly. We move on. And we look up: Havana is visited with your nose in the air. Because the beauty is truly up there, on those magnificent balconies and terracotta arches. Also because it’s not impossible that a piece of that balcony might suddenly detach, hurling our ends into an overseas tragedy we’d rather avoid. On the ground, here and there, rubble. Inexorably, this city is returning to dust.
My Plan B turns out to be no more successful than the first attempt. After a cheerful progression of a few hundred meters, same outcome, same struggle—the vegetation opposes any revolution: impossible to go around the hill! Once again, we have to turn back. We’ll try Plan C. I reassure myself by convincing myself to stay in the logic of this country: Cuba has been searching for itself for five centuries.
Coffee, tobacco, and sugarcane—the green gold of the colonies—so that money could flow and Europe could enjoy itself. Cuba’s history isn’t original. In reality, all the hot lands at these latitudes suffer the same fate: to serve the white man. While waiting for the awakening of consciences, UN Resolution 1514 and more or less affirmed revolutionary desires. Except that—and this reflection is just my own—if the awakening of consciences and the revolutionary will don’t play into what Resolution 1514 hides, there’s a good chance the said state will become a pariah. Those who don’t follow the American doctrine risk a lot; those who decide to follow Moscow risk everything. Independence was only the barely discreet instrument of American views. Patrice Lumumba will gladly enlighten us on the subject.
Turning back is good. Setting up Plan C is better. I won’t deviate from my goal: we will reach the top of Tabouret, whatever the cost! Near a small country road, I hesitate to change the program. Time is ticking—is it really reasonable to attempt the ascent? Then a tricycle taxi appears, a kind of tuk-tuk powered by an electric moped. I take it as a sign from fate, and we board for the starting point of Plan C.
In Cuba, even before Resolution 1514, independence was assured by a pawn of the United States, Fulgencio Batista. There’s no need to go over the whole history here; we’ll just remember that if you know how to give without counting to your former masters, you can enjoy a facade of freedom. Fidel Castro, on the other hand, didn’t know how to give. It never even occurred to him. That’s why the United States harbors such terrible hatred for this rebellious state, opposed to capitalist values and political prostitution. From there to slowly killing its people for nearly seventy years, one can legitimately cry injustice. But there are other priorities. Oh yes! Greenland...
Do Cubans eat their fill? Does seeing overweight people mean opulence? Food grows, no doubt about it. The soil is fertile, the climate favorable. No, what shocks here is the absolute precarity, the feeling of a people living in survival mode, and the decay of both goods and hope. Where to go? What’s the point? The stubbornness of the United States in wanting to impose its views on the Cuban government is felt much more by an overwhelmed people than by those few elites—caricatures of communism—who instill their vision of happiness with a crowbar. The embargo imposed in 1960; the false-flag attacks—American planes flying the colors of the Cuban revolution during the Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961—the exasperation of placing Cuba on the list of countries supporting terrorism. More recently, Donald Trump decided to heavily tax countries supplying Cuba with fuel. The last time I saw such long lines near gas stations was during my first trip to Romania... in 1991. It’s not for me to judge whether Raúl and his clique are playing fair by thumbing their noses at the West. I don’t hold the ins and outs of this war of egos that keeps the world’s great powers awake. I only caught a glimpse of the poverty of an island in 2026, while we in Europe are buried under an avalanche of the useless and superficial.
At the start of the San Juan baths, we find the trailhead. It climbs steeply. But the weather is relatively mild, thanks to a cold wave hitting higher up in the United States. Dallas is under snow; we’re walking in 16°C, a stroke of luck. We climb over rocks, under fairly decent vegetation, sometimes low but passable. And we succeed in the ascent in an hour. Up there, the top of the hill is somewhat maintained, at a minimum, but maintained, as if to honor Che through an awful monument erected in his glory—a stubborn specimen from those years when good taste was inversely proportional to the delusional ideas of those being honored. Birds of prey (raptors?) circle overhead; the monument is dying, crumbling, falling into ruin. *Hasta siempre*—forever—will be for the words. Nature, erosion, life itself will have the last word over all revolutions.
Back at the foot of the hill, just before a memorable swim, we talk with a family living there in miserable shacks whose stability wasn’t unlike that of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. The grandmother holds an animal, a rodent, by its feet. The grandfather has just killed it; she’s plucking its fur. A few steps away, water boils in a pot. She plunges the beast into the container. Tonight, the family will eat ragondin stew. Further on, another shack where, in a disorder rivaling the filth, a mother breastfeeds while sitting on the edge of a bed. Then, on the way down, we’ll meet a middle-aged man carrying a large jerrycan of water on his shoulder. Are these people happy here, far from the cities and their stakes? Is it too much to ask that they at least have access to electricity, running water, and decent, safe housing?
Outside the old city, Havana reveals wide avenues serving imposing institutions here and there. But whether in the colorful alleys of the old town or on the majestic and austere Plaza de la Revolución, the same feeling moves me: sadness. Seeing that only chaos has come from ideas crushes me. We praise, we sing the revolution—above all, we impose it in people’s minds as a necessity, when it’s nothing of the sort. Revolution is just the fruit of a few tortured minds who, once in power, do nothing better than all those before them. Enjoy power. Impose their views. It’s just a matter of color. Fidel saw red and knew how to persuade—or silence forever—his many detractors. The West sees everything in white, through the prism of human rights, and also knows how to persuade and silence its slightest detractors forever.
Paradoxically, Cuba survives largely thanks to tourism, a key element—let’s not be afraid to say it—of capitalism. And when a few players pick up the crumbs from transactions, the lion’s share and the foreign currency go to the government. So we won’t go to Varadero, the high place of relaxation overrun by Canadians. Instead, we’ll limit ourselves to crossing the ocean 30 minutes from the capital, at Santa María del Mar, to get an idea of cheaper tourism and to splash around for a few minutes in turquoise water invaded by sargassum. At the heart of the tourist season, we’ll meet few people. Like Havana, and according to its inhabitants, the high season is rather dead. But we won’t have come for nothing: we particularly love this return where, feverish, the taxi driver pushes his Moskvitch 2140 to the max on the highway, singing karaoke versions of hits at the top of his lungs from an onboard DVD player. East/West, the culture clash with a hint of Latino.
It’s time to leave this country of resourcefulness where extremes are very present. We’re leaving a 5-star hotel in front of yet another crumbling building. We’ve known restaurants at 40,000 pesos while in the street people eat for 400. We’ve seen those countless cars from another era and another culture—Pontiac, Lada, Chevrolet, Moskvitch—being overtaken by gleaming Mercedes and other Porsche Cayennes, the prerogative—if it still needed to be demonstrated—of the newly rich in search of recognition. Boarding the plane, we also understand that we’re not just traveling with tourists: there’s undoubtedly a rich and prosperous diaspora, just as there are relatively wealthy Cubans—well, wealthy enough to travel comfortably in the front of the aircraft. Meanwhile, on all the country’s roads, other Cubans try hitchhiking, their wives and children perched on a suitcase by the roadside. The father holds out his arm and holds a few bills in his hand like a card game. Where are they going? Who will pick them up?
Behind me, the gold of the Capitol. I’m told this gold comes from Russia. Like Marx and Lenin’s smoky theories? Like Stalin’s subtle and delicate paternalism? Let’s bet that, like the other buildings crumbling around it, the Capitol will also collapse one day, to avenge the Indians who perished from the diseases and guns of the whites, to avenge the Africans who obliterated their lives so Europeans could enjoy themselves, finally, to avenge all this abandoned people, left to the arbitrariness of democratic or non-democratic elections.
A sign in the street: We understand history. This is the revolution! We understand history. That’s the revolution.
No comment.
Subscribing without a fight to the slightest line of my itinerary sometimes feels like an illusion. Because there are countries where, despite the fever and enthusiasm, despite the triumphant revolution, certain elements block my path. And if I had planned, for F. and me, a beautiful ascent up Tabouret Hill (Loma del Taburete, 453m), it was without accounting for vegetation as dense as it was thorny, which barred our way after just a few quarters of an hour of walking. Exhausted, I had to face the facts: we wouldn’t go any further. I needed to come up with some kind of Plan B.
But what is this country, an unwitting laboratory of the worst that white civilization has done during its reign? What is this magnificent place—yet another—entrusted to the care of oblivion, just 150 km from the land of freedom? According to Donald Trump, a country supporting terrorism; according to the locals, the vast battlefield of 20th-century ideologies; according to the average tourist, a hot country, a beautiful country, a country where the last illusions of a lost paradise are dying.
On the other side of Havana Bay, we love that statue of Christ blessing the city. There’s something gentle, soothing, in that patriarchal gesture. You’d almost be tempted to forget that at the dawn of the 16th century, those who claimed to represent the Church had no scruples about eradicating the Ciboney and Taíno populations. Worse, you’ll find magnificent this cathedral dedicated to the Virgin Mary, right in the heart of the old city. Under the guise of a civilizing necessity, Havana became, like so many other places, the gilded seat of European pretensions, at the expense of local populations doomed to extermination, then enslaved populations—more or less indigenous—who, you can imagine, didn’t often set foot in this holy place.
Lost in my thoughts, I try to push through this tangled vegetation. Nature reclaims its rights; nature abhors a vacuum. Yes, the well-trodden path of revolution couldn’t stay free of weeds! The road is buried. We give up and turn back, until that fork I’d noted before leaving, which would let us reach the top of the hill by skirting its northern slope.
So the white man arrives, settles, and gets rid of everything that bothers him. He has two unstoppable forces at his disposal: gunpowder and the spiritual certainty of being on the side of an all-powerful god. While the first gives him an unmatched material advantage over his new enemy, the second lets him use the first without feeling too guilty. That’s the magic of this supreme Church: it condemns all forms of pleasure—calling them impurity—while promoting plunder and crime under the cover of evangelization.
Walking through the city, you find a bit of Algiers, except that here, the decay is almost irreversible. You feel the splendor of the past, a disconcerting image of all vanity, from an era when men knew how to build beauty—especially if they didn’t have to share it. We’ll debate the benefits of colonialism for a long time, while glossing over the fact that those benefits often stopped at the city limits, limits all too obvious to the indigenous people. Havana isn’t just one or a few buildings; it’s an impressive collection of works of art built one after another, in what I think was a spirit of healthy competition. Yes, you find Algiers in this exuberance. As if these distant cities were the receptacle of everything that was best in the lands of origin. Atlantes and lintels, golds, blues, ogives, and monumental windows—exceptional architecture in an exceptional place.
Some streets are clean, swept with care; others are not, scattered here and there with potholes filled with water. A rather persistent smell of urine invades us regularly. We move on. And we look up: Havana is visited with your nose in the air. Because the beauty is truly up there, on those magnificent balconies and terracotta arches. Also because it’s not impossible that a piece of that balcony might suddenly detach, hurling our ends into an overseas tragedy we’d rather avoid. On the ground, here and there, rubble. Inexorably, this city is returning to dust.
My Plan B turns out to be no more successful than the first attempt. After a cheerful progression of a few hundred meters, same outcome, same struggle—the vegetation opposes any revolution: impossible to go around the hill! Once again, we have to turn back. We’ll try Plan C. I reassure myself by convincing myself to stay in the logic of this country: Cuba has been searching for itself for five centuries.
Coffee, tobacco, and sugarcane—the green gold of the colonies—so that money could flow and Europe could enjoy itself. Cuba’s history isn’t original. In reality, all the hot lands at these latitudes suffer the same fate: to serve the white man. While waiting for the awakening of consciences, UN Resolution 1514 and more or less affirmed revolutionary desires. Except that—and this reflection is just my own—if the awakening of consciences and the revolutionary will don’t play into what Resolution 1514 hides, there’s a good chance the said state will become a pariah. Those who don’t follow the American doctrine risk a lot; those who decide to follow Moscow risk everything. Independence was only the barely discreet instrument of American views. Patrice Lumumba will gladly enlighten us on the subject.
Turning back is good. Setting up Plan C is better. I won’t deviate from my goal: we will reach the top of Tabouret, whatever the cost! Near a small country road, I hesitate to change the program. Time is ticking—is it really reasonable to attempt the ascent? Then a tricycle taxi appears, a kind of tuk-tuk powered by an electric moped. I take it as a sign from fate, and we board for the starting point of Plan C.
In Cuba, even before Resolution 1514, independence was assured by a pawn of the United States, Fulgencio Batista. There’s no need to go over the whole history here; we’ll just remember that if you know how to give without counting to your former masters, you can enjoy a facade of freedom. Fidel Castro, on the other hand, didn’t know how to give. It never even occurred to him. That’s why the United States harbors such terrible hatred for this rebellious state, opposed to capitalist values and political prostitution. From there to slowly killing its people for nearly seventy years, one can legitimately cry injustice. But there are other priorities. Oh yes! Greenland...
Do Cubans eat their fill? Does seeing overweight people mean opulence? Food grows, no doubt about it. The soil is fertile, the climate favorable. No, what shocks here is the absolute precarity, the feeling of a people living in survival mode, and the decay of both goods and hope. Where to go? What’s the point? The stubbornness of the United States in wanting to impose its views on the Cuban government is felt much more by an overwhelmed people than by those few elites—caricatures of communism—who instill their vision of happiness with a crowbar. The embargo imposed in 1960; the false-flag attacks—American planes flying the colors of the Cuban revolution during the Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961—the exasperation of placing Cuba on the list of countries supporting terrorism. More recently, Donald Trump decided to heavily tax countries supplying Cuba with fuel. The last time I saw such long lines near gas stations was during my first trip to Romania... in 1991. It’s not for me to judge whether Raúl and his clique are playing fair by thumbing their noses at the West. I don’t hold the ins and outs of this war of egos that keeps the world’s great powers awake. I only caught a glimpse of the poverty of an island in 2026, while we in Europe are buried under an avalanche of the useless and superficial.
At the start of the San Juan baths, we find the trailhead. It climbs steeply. But the weather is relatively mild, thanks to a cold wave hitting higher up in the United States. Dallas is under snow; we’re walking in 16°C, a stroke of luck. We climb over rocks, under fairly decent vegetation, sometimes low but passable. And we succeed in the ascent in an hour. Up there, the top of the hill is somewhat maintained, at a minimum, but maintained, as if to honor Che through an awful monument erected in his glory—a stubborn specimen from those years when good taste was inversely proportional to the delusional ideas of those being honored. Birds of prey (raptors?) circle overhead; the monument is dying, crumbling, falling into ruin. *Hasta siempre*—forever—will be for the words. Nature, erosion, life itself will have the last word over all revolutions.
Back at the foot of the hill, just before a memorable swim, we talk with a family living there in miserable shacks whose stability wasn’t unlike that of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. The grandmother holds an animal, a rodent, by its feet. The grandfather has just killed it; she’s plucking its fur. A few steps away, water boils in a pot. She plunges the beast into the container. Tonight, the family will eat ragondin stew. Further on, another shack where, in a disorder rivaling the filth, a mother breastfeeds while sitting on the edge of a bed. Then, on the way down, we’ll meet a middle-aged man carrying a large jerrycan of water on his shoulder. Are these people happy here, far from the cities and their stakes? Is it too much to ask that they at least have access to electricity, running water, and decent, safe housing?
Outside the old city, Havana reveals wide avenues serving imposing institutions here and there. But whether in the colorful alleys of the old town or on the majestic and austere Plaza de la Revolución, the same feeling moves me: sadness. Seeing that only chaos has come from ideas crushes me. We praise, we sing the revolution—above all, we impose it in people’s minds as a necessity, when it’s nothing of the sort. Revolution is just the fruit of a few tortured minds who, once in power, do nothing better than all those before them. Enjoy power. Impose their views. It’s just a matter of color. Fidel saw red and knew how to persuade—or silence forever—his many detractors. The West sees everything in white, through the prism of human rights, and also knows how to persuade and silence its slightest detractors forever.
Paradoxically, Cuba survives largely thanks to tourism, a key element—let’s not be afraid to say it—of capitalism. And when a few players pick up the crumbs from transactions, the lion’s share and the foreign currency go to the government. So we won’t go to Varadero, the high place of relaxation overrun by Canadians. Instead, we’ll limit ourselves to crossing the ocean 30 minutes from the capital, at Santa María del Mar, to get an idea of cheaper tourism and to splash around for a few minutes in turquoise water invaded by sargassum. At the heart of the tourist season, we’ll meet few people. Like Havana, and according to its inhabitants, the high season is rather dead. But we won’t have come for nothing: we particularly love this return where, feverish, the taxi driver pushes his Moskvitch 2140 to the max on the highway, singing karaoke versions of hits at the top of his lungs from an onboard DVD player. East/West, the culture clash with a hint of Latino.
It’s time to leave this country of resourcefulness where extremes are very present. We’re leaving a 5-star hotel in front of yet another crumbling building. We’ve known restaurants at 40,000 pesos while in the street people eat for 400. We’ve seen those countless cars from another era and another culture—Pontiac, Lada, Chevrolet, Moskvitch—being overtaken by gleaming Mercedes and other Porsche Cayennes, the prerogative—if it still needed to be demonstrated—of the newly rich in search of recognition. Boarding the plane, we also understand that we’re not just traveling with tourists: there’s undoubtedly a rich and prosperous diaspora, just as there are relatively wealthy Cubans—well, wealthy enough to travel comfortably in the front of the aircraft. Meanwhile, on all the country’s roads, other Cubans try hitchhiking, their wives and children perched on a suitcase by the roadside. The father holds out his arm and holds a few bills in his hand like a card game. Where are they going? Who will pick them up?
Behind me, the gold of the Capitol. I’m told this gold comes from Russia. Like Marx and Lenin’s smoky theories? Like Stalin’s subtle and delicate paternalism? Let’s bet that, like the other buildings crumbling around it, the Capitol will also collapse one day, to avenge the Indians who perished from the diseases and guns of the whites, to avenge the Africans who obliterated their lives so Europeans could enjoy themselves, finally, to avenge all this abandoned people, left to the arbitrariness of democratic or non-democratic elections.
A sign in the street: We understand history. This is the revolution! We understand history. That’s the revolution.
No comment.
Another side of my trip to Thailand: Villages, nature, countryside, mountains...
February 9th is a pivotal day during my trip to Thailand. Up until this date, my focus had been on cities, temples, and other urban landmarks. Starting February 10th, I’ll finally leave the city behind for the outskirts—one town, one life, farther from tourism, more real, more authentic... Then comes the bucolic surroundings of Chiang Mai, nature, the countryside, the mountains.
This morning, I head to visit the ethnographic museum. I’d been told about another one, but it’s permanently closed. I wonder if it’s the same one that might have changed its name and location.
I thoroughly enjoy visiting this museum. At first, I’m a bit annoyed because the place is packed with noisy school groups blocking the display cases without even showing the slightest interest. But soon, their chaperones manage to lead them into another room, giving me some peace. They maintain this distance throughout the tour, allowing me to explore the museum in complete tranquility. I really appreciate their tact.
I’m amazed by the absolutely stunning fabric displays and the countless everyday objects, especially the very old pottery. There’s so much beautiful basketry and intricately carved wood. The statues are also incredible... After seeing all of them, I no longer feel like buying any from the shops.
On my way back, not far from my hotel, I discover a rather unique place that only serves one drink, which they’ve made their specialty: egg coffee! A pretty surprising novelty. I have to try it.
At the bottom of the cup, they pour a layer of milk, topped with a layer of liquid coffee, followed by a layer of egg yolk, and finally a top layer that turns out to be a mix of coffee and cocoa powder. It’s a cold drink that, in the end, doesn’t have much flavor, and the price is pretty steep for such a small cup. You’re paying for the exclusivity!
Later in the day, I venture once again into small alleys, something I love doing when exploring a new city—no specific goal, just wandering east of the city, outside the walls.
I encounter very few tourists there and discover unsuspected little shops overflowing with lovely items, much cheaper than what you find in the heart of the tourist district. Then I wander through the floors of Warorot Market. I discover another kind of temple there: the temple of good deals. I love finding clothes that are really original for locals, not the flood of shirts and pants that tourists love but no Thai would ever buy, which invade the shops in the "Historic Square." I stop in my tracks in front of a stall with beautiful shirts featuring stunning geometric patterns in elegant color combinations and very short sleeves. Hmm, these would be perfect for showing off my biceps, one of which is adorned with the magnificent Ganesh tattoo I got last year in Bali. "When you’ve got nice things, you’ve got to show them off!" he said. 😜🙏💪 I pick out two for 380 baht and negotiate them down to 300. But the seller won’t go any lower. I understand I’ve reached the limit of her commercial possibilities. Just as I’m leaving the shop, happy with my purchase, my ever-helpful inner voice, Petite Voix, suggests: - You didn’t try them on because you were too lazy to take off the one you’re wearing and also because of the sweat, but you could just put one on over the one you’re wearing. It’s light enough that it won’t bother you.
I go back to the two sellers, who burst out laughing when I ask to try them on. - Oh no, it’s way too small for you! It’s a women’s shirt! - But they don’t look particularly feminine in style! And I chose XXL... I put the shirt on, and of course, it won’t close. Then I notice the buttons are on the wrong side. That’s why the sleeves seemed so short!!! They put the shirts back on the rack and refund me without any fuss, commenting amid total hilarity: - Well, thank goodness you tried it on just as you were leaving the shop!
Since I don’t want to walk too much before tomorrow’s first Big Outing with the driver, I end my stroll with a visit to two very pretty temples recommended by Joël.
I’d rather not post more temple photos. But these ones smell like village and countryside...
I’ve never seen anything like Wat Ket Karam, so extravagant...
And I end my day with two other lesser-known temples: Wat Noung Kham, simple and finally free of gold and glitter,
and Wat Dap Phai, where an intimate ceremony is taking place at the end of the day.
This morning, I head to visit the ethnographic museum. I’d been told about another one, but it’s permanently closed. I wonder if it’s the same one that might have changed its name and location.
I thoroughly enjoy visiting this museum. At first, I’m a bit annoyed because the place is packed with noisy school groups blocking the display cases without even showing the slightest interest. But soon, their chaperones manage to lead them into another room, giving me some peace. They maintain this distance throughout the tour, allowing me to explore the museum in complete tranquility. I really appreciate their tact.
I’m amazed by the absolutely stunning fabric displays and the countless everyday objects, especially the very old pottery. There’s so much beautiful basketry and intricately carved wood. The statues are also incredible... After seeing all of them, I no longer feel like buying any from the shops.
On my way back, not far from my hotel, I discover a rather unique place that only serves one drink, which they’ve made their specialty: egg coffee! A pretty surprising novelty. I have to try it.
At the bottom of the cup, they pour a layer of milk, topped with a layer of liquid coffee, followed by a layer of egg yolk, and finally a top layer that turns out to be a mix of coffee and cocoa powder. It’s a cold drink that, in the end, doesn’t have much flavor, and the price is pretty steep for such a small cup. You’re paying for the exclusivity!
Later in the day, I venture once again into small alleys, something I love doing when exploring a new city—no specific goal, just wandering east of the city, outside the walls.
I encounter very few tourists there and discover unsuspected little shops overflowing with lovely items, much cheaper than what you find in the heart of the tourist district. Then I wander through the floors of Warorot Market. I discover another kind of temple there: the temple of good deals. I love finding clothes that are really original for locals, not the flood of shirts and pants that tourists love but no Thai would ever buy, which invade the shops in the "Historic Square." I stop in my tracks in front of a stall with beautiful shirts featuring stunning geometric patterns in elegant color combinations and very short sleeves. Hmm, these would be perfect for showing off my biceps, one of which is adorned with the magnificent Ganesh tattoo I got last year in Bali. "When you’ve got nice things, you’ve got to show them off!" he said. 😜🙏💪 I pick out two for 380 baht and negotiate them down to 300. But the seller won’t go any lower. I understand I’ve reached the limit of her commercial possibilities. Just as I’m leaving the shop, happy with my purchase, my ever-helpful inner voice, Petite Voix, suggests: - You didn’t try them on because you were too lazy to take off the one you’re wearing and also because of the sweat, but you could just put one on over the one you’re wearing. It’s light enough that it won’t bother you.
I go back to the two sellers, who burst out laughing when I ask to try them on. - Oh no, it’s way too small for you! It’s a women’s shirt! - But they don’t look particularly feminine in style! And I chose XXL... I put the shirt on, and of course, it won’t close. Then I notice the buttons are on the wrong side. That’s why the sleeves seemed so short!!! They put the shirts back on the rack and refund me without any fuss, commenting amid total hilarity: - Well, thank goodness you tried it on just as you were leaving the shop!
Since I don’t want to walk too much before tomorrow’s first Big Outing with the driver, I end my stroll with a visit to two very pretty temples recommended by Joël.
I’d rather not post more temple photos. But these ones smell like village and countryside...
I’ve never seen anything like Wat Ket Karam, so extravagant...
And I end my day with two other lesser-known temples: Wat Noung Kham, simple and finally free of gold and glitter,
and Wat Dap Phai, where an intimate ceremony is taking place at the end of the day.
What to choose for a first summer trip to Asia: Indonesia or Thailand?
Hi there,
I’m planning my first trip to Asia next summer with my partner and our daughter, who’ll be 3 and a half at the time, for 4 weeks (maybe 5).
I’ve heard that the timing is better for visiting Indonesia, but I’m hesitant because Thailand seems more accessible, and I’m worried that traveling to Indonesia during high season might be less enjoyable and a lot more expensive due to the number of tourists. We love cultural sites as much as natural ones, and we’re big foodies. We’re not necessarily looking for luxury and tend to take our time, travel by public transport, and look for accommodations with a good value for money—though we do occasionally splurge on a high-end restaurant.
I’m also wondering when and where to buy flight tickets and how comfortable the journey will be (especially for our daughter) if we fly with Thai Airways or Garuda.
Thanks in advance for sharing your thoughts and tips!
Damien
I’m planning my first trip to Asia next summer with my partner and our daughter, who’ll be 3 and a half at the time, for 4 weeks (maybe 5).
I’ve heard that the timing is better for visiting Indonesia, but I’m hesitant because Thailand seems more accessible, and I’m worried that traveling to Indonesia during high season might be less enjoyable and a lot more expensive due to the number of tourists. We love cultural sites as much as natural ones, and we’re big foodies. We’re not necessarily looking for luxury and tend to take our time, travel by public transport, and look for accommodations with a good value for money—though we do occasionally splurge on a high-end restaurant.
I’m also wondering when and where to buy flight tickets and how comfortable the journey will be (especially for our daughter) if we fly with Thai Airways or Garuda.
Thanks in advance for sharing your thoughts and tips!
Damien
A Series: June 2025 Photo Contest Theme
The theme for June is: A SERIES
"A series is a set of coherent images that share several common points while still being different from one another."
In 3 photos, posted simultaneously in the same message, I’d like you to tell me a little story with a few words. You’re allowed 2 series.
They can be narrative or thematic. For example: 3 shots representing 3 professions, 3 places of worship, 3 market stalls, 3 trains... the ideas are endless—whether in the same place or in different countries... or 3 images of the same place, photographed from 3 different angles, under 3 different lights... or 3 images where the predominant color is the same... Narrative and theme can, of course, overlap.
Practical details:
Participation Each VF member can submit up to 2 series, until Saturday, June 21 at 11:59 PM Paris time. Each series of 3 photos must be presented in a single message, with its number indicated (series 1, series 2).
Voting: Each VF member can vote for the 3 series they consider the best, based on their own criteria and the theme.
Voting will take place from Saturday, June 21 at midnight until Saturday, June 28 at 11:59 PM Paris time.
The selected series will be ranked in order of preference: - 1st series: 3 points - 2nd: 2 points - 3rd: 1 point
The winner is the author of the series with the most points.
Results will be published on June 29 during the day. In case of a tie, the number of first-place votes will decide. The winner will have the honor of organizing July 2025’s contest.
Photos that have won (1st, 2nd, or 3rd place) in another VF contest are not eligible for this one.
This thread is exclusively for series submitted to the contest. All discussions, comments, and other chatter should take place in this thread.
...................................................................
Narrative: In Bali, I took a cooking class. We went to the market to shop with the teacher. We cleaned and prepped the ingredients to make, among other things, a lovely salad.
...........................................................................
Narrative and thematic: I really loved this place 30 km from Essaouira. A little souk "just as it is," as they say. The souk of Ida Ougourd.
...........................................................................
Thematic: Green in nature. The green of tea plantations in Munnar, a bamboo forest in Les Landes, and a park in Tokyo.
In 3 photos, posted simultaneously in the same message, I’d like you to tell me a little story with a few words. You’re allowed 2 series.
They can be narrative or thematic. For example: 3 shots representing 3 professions, 3 places of worship, 3 market stalls, 3 trains... the ideas are endless—whether in the same place or in different countries... or 3 images of the same place, photographed from 3 different angles, under 3 different lights... or 3 images where the predominant color is the same... Narrative and theme can, of course, overlap.
Practical details:
Participation Each VF member can submit up to 2 series, until Saturday, June 21 at 11:59 PM Paris time. Each series of 3 photos must be presented in a single message, with its number indicated (series 1, series 2).
Voting: Each VF member can vote for the 3 series they consider the best, based on their own criteria and the theme.
Voting will take place from Saturday, June 21 at midnight until Saturday, June 28 at 11:59 PM Paris time.
The selected series will be ranked in order of preference: - 1st series: 3 points - 2nd: 2 points - 3rd: 1 point
The winner is the author of the series with the most points.
Results will be published on June 29 during the day. In case of a tie, the number of first-place votes will decide. The winner will have the honor of organizing July 2025’s contest.
Photos that have won (1st, 2nd, or 3rd place) in another VF contest are not eligible for this one.
This thread is exclusively for series submitted to the contest. All discussions, comments, and other chatter should take place in this thread.
...................................................................
Narrative: In Bali, I took a cooking class. We went to the market to shop with the teacher. We cleaned and prepped the ingredients to make, among other things, a lovely salad.
...........................................................................
Narrative and thematic: I really loved this place 30 km from Essaouira. A little souk "just as it is," as they say. The souk of Ida Ougourd.
...........................................................................
Thematic: Green in nature. The green of tea plantations in Munnar, a bamboo forest in Les Landes, and a park in Tokyo.
Recap of 17 days between São Paulo, Rio de Janeiro, and Iguaçu/Puerto Iguazu
I’ll repost here the comments I gave in reply to Camidav – see their post https://voyageforum.com/forum/partir-10-jours-bresil-en-autonomie-d10702249/.
As we’ve said several times, 10 days is short for Brazil! But it’s still enough for a “little introduction.” My very recent experience (April 2025) with a 2½-week itinerary might give you some ideas. To start, here’s the route:
- - Saturday, March 29: departure from Lisbon and arrival in São Paulo with LATAM
- - 2 nights in São Paulo
- - Monday, March 31: bus from São Paulo to Paraty
- - Monday 31, Tuesday 1st, and Wednesday, April 2: 3 nights in Paraty
- - Thursday, April 3: bus from Paraty to Angra dos Reis, then ferry > Ilha Grande
- - Thursday 3, Friday 4, and Saturday, April 5: 3 nights in Abraão, on Ilha Grande
- - Sunday, April 6: speedboat > Conceição de Jacareí, then bus > Rio de Janeiro
- - Sunday 6, Monday 7, Tuesday 8, and Wednesday, April 9: 4 nights in Rio
- - Thursday, April 10: flight with LATAM from Rio to Foz do Iguaçu
- - Thursday, April 10: one night in Foz do Iguaçu
- - Friday, April 11: visit to Iguaçu Falls on the Brazilian side, then crossing the border to Puerto Iguazu
- - Friday 11 and Saturday, April 12: 2 nights in Puerto Iguazu
- - Saturday, April 12: visit to the falls on the Argentine side
- - Sunday, April 13: return to Brazil, LATAM flight > São Paulo
- - Sunday 13 and Monday, April 14: 2 nights in São Paulo
- - Tuesday, April 15: flight from São Paulo > Lisbon with LATAM, arriving Wednesday the 16th.
So, it’s clear I’m writing this now from Puerto Iguazu (Argentina), and the end of the trip is near: back to São Paulo and then the flight to Lisbon. I’ll of course share more about all this in the following messages.