Tag Archives: by Cecilia Nowell

Exciting Does Not Have to Be Exotic: An Interview with Travel Writer Kim Foley MacKinnon

Interview

I stumbled upon Kim Foley MacKinnon’s travel writing two years ago before departing on my first trip outside the United States. I had been looking for exotic travel tips on exploring Europe, staying in hostels, and finding myself—and instead found her “Sleeping in Unusual Airbnbs Across the US.” Her article advised travelers on making the most of a rushed family vacation, and reminded me that it’s the spirit of travel, more than the destination, that make for exploration.

MacKinnon is a Boston-based travel writer and journalist who specializes in the New England area but also tackles global destinations. As I discovered during our interview, MacKinnon’s career began when she undertook a co-op with the Boston Globe while studying at the University of Massachusetts Boston. She received her training in journalism at the Globe before becoming a freelancer and then a guidebook editor.  After editing and contributing to guidebooks for a number of years, MacKinnon began to write her own guides and eventually became a full-time travel writer.

Just minutes before MacKinnon and I were about to meet, I received an email from her saying that she was stuck on the phone filing an insurance claim. Despite being in a car accident the night before, she met me with enthusiasm. Her insistence on continuing with the interview spoke to the spirit of creativity and adventure that appears in her travel writing. Aside from her creative article about staying in strange AirBnBs across the United States (highlights ranged from a renovated school bus to a converted hardware store), MacKinnon’s writing also includes pieces about staying in a Snow Hotel (quite literally made of snow) and taking a jazz-themed cruise on the Queen Mary II. MacKinnon believes that it’s her unique perspective and desire to find new angles for stories that has contributed to her success as a journalist: “Every time that I think that I’m pitching a crazy story, that’s the one that gets the most attention, that’s the one the editors want to read.”

Though her writing is unique and adventurous, MacKinnon tells travel writers that their work doesn’t have to be about distant and exotic locations to be interesting. In fact, MacKinnon encourages young writers to learn strong journalistic writing at their local newspapers and to not be afraid to cover local travel topics. MacKinnon herself has become an expert on her local New England neighborhoods, making her a valuable reference and contributor to Boston-area guidebooks. In her own writing, MacKinnon describes places she has encountered on family vacations or hidden treasures she has discovered in her own neighborhood, bringing alive day-to-day stories and transforming them into original travel narratives.

Much of MacKinnon’s writing is defined by a spirit of creativity that has less to do with where you go and more with what you do. MacKinnon emphasizes that the best travel advice she gives and follows is “to talk to people.” In her travels, MacKinnon herself talks to everyone she possibly can, embarrassing her teenage daughter no end. Yet MacKinnon continues. “You talk to people, it opens doors and breaks down barriers.” For good travel and personal growth, MacKinnon urges travelers to stay open-minded about different cultures and destinations. Despite the uncertainties of travel, MacKinnon says that’s why she keeps traveling: “to see what’s different and not what is the same.”

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Edited Transcript

Cecilia Nowell: What is your day-to-day life as a travel-writer like?

Kim Foley MacKinnon: I don’t really have any sort of defined schedule. I work from home, so depending on what assignments I have or what I need to write or work on that dictates my day. For example, I’m doing a story for the globe today and I have to do research at one o’clock so I’ll be leaving here and it’s about two hours to drive up north to do an interview. Then I’ll come home and download my pictures and look at my notes. And then, it’s sort of a two-part thing, so I have stuff to do next week so after I do those interviews then I’ll assemble it all together. Meanwhile, I’ll be working on four other things at the same time. As a freelancer, you’re happy to have the current thing that you’re doing, but you’re always looking for the next one. So, I’ll be answering emails, I’ll be emailing people, and trying to think about other ideas for stories.

C: How do you look for good ideas for stories?

K: A lot of it comes from travels that I do. Some of it is something will catch my eye; I’ll think it’s interesting. There are a lot of public relations people who will reach out to me and send me ideas. So it’s sort of a mixed bag.

C: Can you speak more about your coverage of domestic travel?

K: New England is basically my bread and butter work. I write guide books, I contribute to guidebooks about New England and Boston. There are policies at lots of magazines where you can’t take any free vacations or get any perks from anybody and there’s a lot of that in travel writing. There are a lot of trips that people will pay for, but the Boston Globe is not one of those newspapers. So, I do work locally for them that I pay for. I will be doing that research, and nobody’s giving me anything for free. That’s the benefit of working locally: you become the expert in your area. And then people will come to you. Like some photographers came to me to update a couple of their books because they had seen my work in New England and wanted to work with people who were local and know their towns or neighborhoods. So if you can become a local expert or whatever it is food, or hiking, or whatever thing it is that you’re interested in then people will come to you.

C: Do you have a favorite place that you’ve ever traveled in New England or outside New England?

K: I mean it’s usually wherever I just was or where I’m about to go. But, for international travel I’ve been to India which was really cool. Thailand is really nice. My family is doing a family trip to Italy where we love to go if we can and we’re doing that with two other families so I’m turning that into a couple of stories and that’s a family vacation but I’m going to turn it into some travel pieces. Locally, there are so many places in Massachusetts. I’ve written hiking books so I’ve explored a lot of the state. I love Martha’s Vineyard; it’s one of my favorite places. We go down there a lot.

C: Is there any clear path that journalists take to becoming a travel writer?

K: No, I don’t think so. It really depends. It’s a little bit different than when I was growing up in journalism. I was a co-op. I went to U-Mass Boston and did a co-op at the Boston Globe. I did the midnight shift, I did transcription, I wrote obituaries. I eventually left the Globe as a staffer and did freelance for community newspapers. I covered school board meetings, I did all of that. I then became the editor at a guidebook and then, after editing for a while, I wrote a guidebook. And then I really, I’ve always loved to travel, so I started doing travel pieces and that’s that. But I know there’s people who were life-long straight-news people who later decided to turn to travel writing and then there’s people nowadays—with blogs you can go straight into it and if you’re good at it you can make a living. It didn’t used to be that you could go straight into travel writing, but it seems a little more like you can do that now.

C: Do you have any good travel advice that you give people?

K: To talk to people. I talk to everybody. It horrifies my daughter, she’s like “Why do you have to talk to everybody?” But you talk to people and it opens doors and breaks down barriers and people like to talk about where they live and what to do. I talk to everybody.

C: Have you ever traveled anywhere where you’ve had a strong language barrier or cultural barrier and how have you worked through those differences?

K: I’ve been to the Philippines and India, it’s pretty foreign. I’ve been in positions where you do have some barriers, but I think that generally most people in the world are usually pretty friendly and will help you. When I went to the Philippines there was a miscommunication with the people who were supposed to pick me up and I had a lot of different strangers help me figure out where I needed to go. I think I was alone for twenty-four hours in the middle of nowhere and it was a little bit scary at times. But in the end it was completely fine.

C: How do you prepare before you go out on these stories?

K: When I have a story I do do my homework. I read, see what else has been done, I like to come up with a new angle. I write a lot about food, and that’s an exciting thing: everybody likes to eat and talk about food which is a really good way to get into whatever culture you’re looking into. People like to share their traditions and favorite things. When I don’t know what I’m doing, then I just try to keep an open mind and my eyes open.

C: Do you find stories from speaking with other people or going into new situations?

K: I think it’s both. Sometimes you don’t know what a story is until you’re in the middle of something. And something will fascinate you or be really interesting and you just ask more questions until you figure it out.

C: It seems like you like to write about things that are interesting, different, and weird?

K: I don’t like writing and I don’t like reading straight-up pieces of news. Everybody has read about Caribbean beach vacations. I’d rather find someone different to talk to or a different kind of experience. I like quirky things and I love AirBnB. That article about AirBnB was fun, and a lot of research and a lot of work to do. But it was a really good time in the end.

C: Do you have suggestions for how to come up with original content?

K: It’s so trite to say this, but you really have to be true to your personality and how you think about things rather than conforming to what you think people want to hear. Every time that I think that I’m pitching a crazy story, that’s the one that gets the most attention, that’s the one the editors want to read. So I’ll be like, “I have a really crazy idea,” and they’ll be like “I love it!” So you have to take some chances and not be afraid to sound crazy.

C: Where do travel writers get published the most?

K: There is no answer to that question. It’s such a changing landscape for journalism, especially for travel journalism. There’s a lot less pages and it’s just a moving target.

C: What tips would you give to aspiring writers?

K: You have to be willing to work really hard, you need to be creative, you have to believe in yourself. You have to have a certain amount of ego to think that people want to read what you’ve written. I would say definitely start out small. You’re not going to start out at Travel and Leisure and you need to not be too proud to write for your local paper. That’s when you learn how to write fast and write accurately and make contacts.

C: Do you have a favorite travel story?

K: I think being open-minded is just the best thing you can have. When I went to India, and I went with a group, and half my group couldn’t stand it and half my group loved it. I loved India. But it was one of the most intense experiences, and stimulating, and there’s the people and the poverty and there’s just a kind of liveliness there that I’d never experienced anywhere else and I think that’s why I travel. To see what’s different and not what is the same. I don’t want to have the same experience that I could have in Iowa when I’m out of the country. That’s what I love. I’m completely addicted to traveling, so that’s what I love.

Cultural Education Imperative in Responses to Terrorist Attacks

Letter to the editor

Re: “Another Bombing, This Time in Pakistan” (editorial, March 28): Your editorial reminded me of my first childhood encounter with terrorism: September 11th. The memory of this terrorist attack shaped my understanding of terrorism as something that happened to major Western metropolises, like New York City. When attacks occurred in Paris and Brussels earlier this year, I–like doubtless many other Americans–felt I was reliving the experience of seeing a distant yet familiar city come to harm. However, when Beirut and Lahore were attacked this year, we, as Americans, were guilty of minimizing the pain felt by the Lebanese and Pakistanis.

One has to wonder: if Americans can relate to the French and the Belgians, what makes Pakistanis so different? The Times’s editorial quotes a spokesman for the Taliban who states that the attacks were meant, surprisingly, to target Christians enjoying an Easter outing. Since the majority of Americans identify as Christian, it would make sense for Americans to identify with Christian Pakistanis rather than Muslim Pakistanis, toward whom many Americans might feel hostile. Yet it seems that American indifference writes off all Middle Easterners as “Muslim terrorists,” raising the question: why do Americans so deeply fail to accept that Western and non-Western cultures share certain basic values? Though our geographic isolation and radical individualism may be to blame, this American urge to villainize the Middle East suggests that many Americans fail to imagine a Middle East outside the framework of terrorism and inside the greater context of humanity. Our reactions to recent attacks in distant places speak poorly for the state of cultural education in this country.

Vanishing Voices in Ida

Film review

Some things are too painful to talk about: the death of a child, losing one’s faith, the near-extermination of an entire race. Yet, the Polish 2015 Academy Award winning film Ida shares all of these stories—and more—and does so through subtle imagery and appeals to the viewer’s emotion. Following the story of a novice nun known as Anna, the film begins when the Mother Superior of Anna’s Order tells Anna that before she takes her vows she must visit her aunt. Ida tells the tale of Anna’s journey to meet her aunt, her discovery that she is not the Christian Anna but the Jewish Ida Lebenstein, and her realization that her family died in the Holocaust. In this film, stories are not told outright, but evoked through fragmented references and images that mirror the reality of Polish history: some things are better forgotten because they are too painful to remember.

As she embarks on her journey, Ida trades the routine of her convent for the wild world of her aunt and brings some of the quiet of the abbey to the bars and concert halls of Soviet-era Poland. With her hair covered, her eyes lowered, and her mouth often closed, Ida seems submissive but also gives the impression she’s listening for something unspoken. She asks questions when necessary to dig up her family’s history, but takes action in reverential silence. The decision to center a narrative about the unspoken truths of the Holocaust on a quiet, aspiring nun highlights the missing stories from this period of history. In a world that buzzes with the new sounds of jazz, Ida’s few, carefully-chosen words remind viewers of the voices that have been silenced.

Though nearly twenty years have passed since Ida’s family was killed, no one seems to know what happened to them. Ida turns first to her aunt Wanda, who then turns to the family that now inhabits the Lebensteins’ former home, but they can offer no answers. In the confusion and evasions that ensue, the film uncovers the shame still attached to Polish memory of World War II: the guilt of catholic Poles who turned against their neighbors and watched as Jews were “led to slaughter.” In a climactic graveyard scene, the man who has confessed to murdering Ida’s family digs up their bones.  His silent atonement becomes a moment of profound noise in the quiet of the Lebensteins’ unmarked grave.

In this silence of unspoken stories, the few words that hold true meaning stand out: names like Ida, Anna, and Lebenstein. Ida’s name almost vanished: her Jewish name gets exchanged for Anna at the orphanage because she can pass as a gentile with her red hair and fair skin. However, Ida’s name is not the only one missing in this film: there are no gravestones left to record the names of Ida’s family or Wanda’s son. Instead, Ida finds small relics—photographs and pieces of stained glass—that evoke the memory of her family. While visiting her family’s former home, Ida finds a stained glass window in the barn that reminds her of Wanda’s descriptions of her mother’s artwork. In the stained glass, Ida finds a small piece of her mother that has survived war and time. Similarly, during one night at Wanda’s home, Ida sorts through photographs as Wanda reminisces about their family. In these photographs, Ida discovers that she looks like her mother and that she was related to a little boy—a boy who she later discovers was her aunt’s son. Later, when Wanda tells Ida that her son was with Ida’s parents when they died, Ida’s childhood in the silence of the convent makes sense: she understands why her aunt could not raise a niece who would constantly remind her of her absent son.

Jews like Ida’s parents were often buried in unmarked graves during the Holocaust—their names erased and their memories nearly forgotten. This loss of Jewish life and memory portrayed in Ida reminded this reviewer of the Jewish history about which I had the chance to learn on a Holocaust education and service trip to Poland called “Together, Restoring their Names.” Watching as Ida and Wanda tried to put together the pieces of their family history into a coherent and memorable story, I could almost feel the drill I had used to break apart a schoolyard fence, part of infrastructure built by the Nazi regime during World War II.  The large stones I pulled from the wall were tombstones that the Nazis had appropriated from Jewish graves. As Ida touched her mother’s stained glass and Wanda retrieved her son’s bones, I remembered wrapping my hands around the piece of stone and turning it over to find a Hebrew inscription, a name. In order to find her mother and father, Wanda’s son, and so many other forgotten Jews, Ida slips into the silence of guilt and sadness to find missing names and relics. Names that you might find when returning a skull to its proper resting place or touching the bits of art that loved ones left behind. The ones of which it’s too difficult to speak, but that it might just be possible to touch and remember.

 

La Vida en la Calle

Feature article

Romeria de San Isidro

Hurrying through the quiet streets of my host family’s neighborhood, I prayed that no one would be awake quite so early on a Saturday. After all, most everyone in the town had been celebrating late into the night before and I only had a few blocks to go. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted my reflection in a shop window and smiled a little self-consciously at the sight, glad so few people were around to see. I had dressed that morning in the traditional Spanish fashion appropriate for religious holidays—though my borrowed clothes were a few years behind the latest trends. I had pulled my hair into a tight bun and bobby-pinned red and white carnations to it before donning a green and white polka-dot dress that flowed from my collarbone to my ankles. Despite clashing terribly with the classic Spanish style I hoped to achieve, I wore tennis shoes for the sake of comfort. Looking out of place on the city streets was the least of my concerns: I was on my way to a religious celebration and wanted to look the part, especially since I wasn’t a religious person. After turning a few more corners and avoiding all but a few pedestrians, who smiled knowingly at my dress, I arrived at the town’s central bus stop and joined a familiar group.

The crowd at the bus stop included a mix of students from my study-abroad program, members of students’ host families, and our program staff. As we stepped onto the bus, our program director Maribel inspected each of our outfits, fussing with the boys’ crooked cummerbunds and adding more red carnations to the girls’ hair. When we were all finally approved, our bus took off towards the Spanish countryside where we would be joining in a local romería, or pilgrimage.

In Spain, life is in the streets. Maribel had explained this simple fact during my first week in Spain. En España, la vida es en la calle. I had been told that the Spanish celebrate more than Americans, but it wasn’t until Semana Santa transformed into Cruces de Mayo followed by romería after romería, only to be topped off by Fería, that I understood what she had meant by life in the streets. I remember coming home late one night (at least, late for an American—about three in the morning) dead tired but struggling to fall asleep, thanks to the raucous music that poured through my bedroom window from the square below. After all, it was Cruces, and Spaniards were dancing outside of churches all across the city. Even toddlers twirled alongside their mothers into the wee hours of the morning.

Just a week after Cruces, I boarded that bus into the Andalusian countryside and stepped off at the small but buzzing village of Cañete de Las Torres. As I wandered through the crowd, my brightly colored dress no longer felt so out of place. Here, women in full-length, polka-dot dresses met men in chaps and formal black hats. The reds, yellows, and blues of the women’s gowns stood out against the dirt road; everyone had flowers in their hair. As the crowd grew, women compared dresses. The newer styles featured tight, mermaid-cut designs, unlike the loose style of my outdated dress. Men wrangled animals; ponies led carriages full of children and oxen pulled large floats.

As church bells rang out the hour, the congregation of townsfolk that I had joined began a romería in honor of Saint Isidro. Starting on the paved road in the town square, we leisurely wound our way out of the village. Though the townspeople rode on giant floats covered in flowers and adorned with images of Saint Isidro, we travelers and students went on foot, crossing fields of sunflowers and groves of olive trees. I felt like I was living something out of Don Quixote—men on horseback rode over the rolling hills and the blue sky stretched on for miles.

Though the processional could have easily been over in half an hour, the Spanish spirit of fiesta stretched the celebration into an all-day affair. Along the path of the pilgrimage, we stopped every half hour or so for food, drink, and merry-making. Pick-up trucks trailed alongside us and were stocked with water and wine, baskets of fruit, and sandwiches stuffed with Spanish ham, manchego cheese, and tomatoes. Most of the crowd was buzzed on white wine by noon, happily warmed up for a day of celebration. Unhappily, due to the policy of my study-abroad program, I was not among them.

As the heat of the sun pressed down on us and the shade of the olive trees began to wane, we picked up our pace through the last mile of the pilgrimage. Turning off the main road, we stepped onto a dirt path and the townspeople left their floats behind to take the last bit of the trail on foot. Though the dust stirred up by our eager feet coated the edges of the women’s colorful dresses and the men’s pressed pants, I couldn’t care less: we had reached the end of our journey. Climbing one last hill, I spotted the tents that awaited us in the olive grove beside the church of Saint Isidro.

While the procession might have ended, the romería had only just begun. As I headed towards our study-abroad program’s tent with the other students, the townspeople made their way to the old church. The afternoon had been mostly fiesta, but this was a religious occasion and Spaniards are quick to transition from merriment to piety. One single float made it along the dirt path to this clearing—the one in honor of Saint Isidro. Led by a team of oxen, the float arrived at the church, and the Spanish locals carried a statue of the saint into their service.

Though I myself did not attend, I can only imagine how solemn the service to Saint Isidro must have been. By that point in my semester abroad, I had visited the cathedral in my host town enough times to know how dignified Spanish Catholics can be. Yet, the townspeople returned to the festivities just as quickly as they had entered the church. Each family, cultural organization, or close group of friends had set up their own tent in advance of the pilgrimage. When they finished their worship they returned to the festivities.

In the US, I was afraid to enter Catholic churches due to youthful memories of being chastised for accidentally taking communion or saying the wrong prayers. But in Spain, I would return home from a night out to find my host mom smoking cigarettes with the local priest. (Were they flirting? He returned the next day for dinner.) While religion seemed so formal and strict in my mind, in Spain I found it a cause for celebration. All of the festivals during the month of May are tied to some religious tradition—in honor of Holy Week, local churches, and famous saints—and though they start as worshipful ceremonies, they end in dancing and drinking on the city streets. It’s merriment and devotion at once: antique crosses and red carnations in girls’ hair.

Where Milbank Turns into Whitehall

Blog Post

London 032

Straight up Milbank until it turns into Whitehall. Pass Westminster Abbey and Big Ben, and then continue right on to Trafalgar Square. I repeated the directions under my breath a few more times before closing the student travel guide I had bought four years earlier when I dreamt of traveling this independently. Straight up Milbank until it turns into Whitehall—I memorized the directions in parts as I moved from one sight to another, hoping to get as far as the National Gallery and British Museum. Straight up Milbank until it turns into—Or not.

As Milbank turned into Whitehall, I came face to face with several police officers directing crowds of tourists around barricades to surrounding streets or narrow stretches of sidewalk. I had heard on the news while leaving my friend’s dorm that morning that Britain had just elected a new Prime Minister. So, as I wound my way around the maze of barricades, I assumed they were there because the PM was about to arrive at 10 Downing Street. Excited to see a bit of British government, a distant idea from high school history classes turned physical reality here in the heart of London, I parked myself between a few reporters and their camera crews and some students who looked just as curious as I surely did. Since I was alone and eager to make new acquaintances, I introduced myself to the other students and we each offered our best guesses at what might be happening—was the Prime Minister coming, would we see the Queen? Luckily, a real Londoner overheard our wild speculations and explained that there was about to be a parade in honor of the fiftieth anniversary of VE Day.

Well that certainly had not crossed my mind. The search results that my memory displayed when I thought “VE Day” included photographs of couples kissing in Times Square. As far as World War II related anniversaries went, Pearl Harbor Day was the closest my American brain could come to understanding what VE Day meant. If I pushed beyond the memory of World War II, I could imagine memorials in honor of 9/11 or Independence Day celebrations, but no kind of recent recognition of a war finally won.

And so, I clung to the barriers as Londoners and tourists crowded together—my plans for the day completely forgotten. As the Royal Guard marched in, I balanced on my toes to take in the scene. Two tall men to my right pointed out members of the royal family and the reporter in front of me announced the arriving members of government. At last, the mass of strangers broke out in a round of applause as World War II veterans joined the scene. Small British flags and parade programs were passed around, and I gladly accepted both—knowing that no one would recognize me to remind me of my own nationality, and wanting very much to look like a Brit in the midst of so much national pride.

Joining in the national anthem, I imagined myself a European of the 1940s—or at least the grandchild of one. I listened in awe as Winston Churchill’s grandson read an excerpt of his grandfather’s original victory speech, and watched as members of the royal family—descendants of the people who had led their country through that dark patch of history—laid wreaths of remembrance. Though they spoke my language, there was something just different enough about these people. A bus had nearly run over my toes earlier that day when I looked the wrong way while crossing the street, and I quickly learned that if I wanted to comprehend what England meant for the English or what World War II meant to Europe, I needed to look right and then left, pretend that Randolph Churchill was just another countryman, suspend my own identity, and wave a flag that was not my own.

Taking in the people around me, I noticed a solitary man a few rows behind me holding a handwritten sign that read, Thank you heroes of WW2 who defeated Nazism. At first glance, his sign reminded me of the pick-up trucks back home that sported yellow “God bless our troops” bumper stickers. But, remembering where I was, I realized that he had probably lived through the Blitz, had maybe even survived a concentration camp or fought in the war himself. Nazis weren’t villains from The Sound of Music here, but actual men who dropped bombs on English homes. As the national anthem came to a close, an elderly couple in the crowd called out to him, thanking him for holding up the sign. The man nodded humbly. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for them. If only for just that moment, where Milbank turns into Whitehall, I gave myself over to a different culture and shared in its solidarity.