Writing About Your Travels

 

Krueger National Park in South Africa

Traveling seems to be a national pastime. Over the 4th of July holiday, millions in the USA took to the roads, skies, and rails. Europeans are much the same with August being the big vacation/travel time. 

We appreciate the travel articles that give all kinds of info about sights to see, places to eat, hotels, weather and more. We need that kind of information to plan and get the most out of our trips. Travel writers and journalists spend money and time checking on these needed facts for travelers. 

But all who travel can be travel writers, too. Traveler's tales are more personal, have the human touch. I enjoy seeing famous sights when we are on tours or traveling on our own, but I also like to write about the people we have met on our travels, the personal incidents, and the emotions that I have when visiting another town, state, or country. 

The photos with today's post were taken when we went to South Africa to visit friends who live there. The park is known around the world, and we enjoyed our time there, but what I wrote about in my travel journal was about people and how I felt while I was touring the park with my husband and friends.

On a three-week driving trip with friends across the southern half of Germany, what I wrote about was a small hotel in a village, the woman who ran the hotel, nearby church bells that touched my heart and more. I wasn't trying to sell the hotel to other travelers but to let people know how this place affected me.

Visiting Peggy's Cove in Nova Scotia was delightful but also heart-rending because of a tragic airline crash in the sea off its coast. I wrote about how seeing the place and the memorial affected me.

On a trip to France, I wrote about a small WWII American Cemetery where we spent perhaps an hour. It affected me so deeply that I had to write about the experience and the people in our tour group. Above an altar, there was a large mosaic tile mural of an angel holding a dead soldier that sent waves of sadness through me. 

I wrote on a trip to Door County, WI, where the scenery is wonderful, but so are the people who live and work in the six villages that make up the area. Picking out one or two and writing about them brings back sweet memories. 

Writing about the humorous times, the incidents, the horrific bumbles, the people you encounter and how you've been personally touched is the kind of travel writing we can all do. You needn't write for publication, although you can. Write to keep the memories, to share with your friends and family. 

Keeping a travel journey is easy, and it is a wonderful way to savor your memories after you are home. Rereading your journals helps you enjoy a trip all over again. Photos are great, but the stories of what happened on your trip are special, as well. Use your travel journals to remind you of the details and stories you hope to write once home. One thing I learned is to write something in that travel journal at the end of each day. Skip a day or two, and it might be difficult to bring back the details and how what you saw affected you.

If you do want to share your travel stories, there are places where you might submit them. The large travel magazines use articles mostly from professionals, but there are other smaller zines and magazines that use the tales from everyday travelers, too. Use your favorite search engine to find them.

Writing the Personal Travel Essay

 

Where in this world would you like to go? Where have you been? Travel articles abound in magazines and newspapers. Most are written by professional travel writers. They give us information about the attractions in an are, the hotels and inns, the restaurants, and perhaps some of the history. It's all very helpful when we are planning a trip, and it's enjoyable for those who are only armchair travelers. 

When you travel, do you keep a daily journal? It's a delight to go back later and relive your trip by reading that daily log. It's also helpful if you want to write a personal travel essay. This kind of essay differs from the purely informational articles mentioned above. 

These give us a more personal reflection of somewhere we have traveled. Instead of a large amount of information, a personal travel essay might concentrate on one small part of a trip. Or on one part of the trip that spoke to you personally. 

There is a market for this kind of writing. Maybe not a large one, but you can find places to submit this type of essay. You might consider submitting one to a contest. But first, let's look at what a personal travel essay calls for.

A.  The name of the place you visited

B.  Interesting features and facts about the place woven into your story

C.  One or more of the people you met or saw

D.  Your reason for visiting

E.  What you experienced while there

F.  How the experience affected you *

G.  What you learned *

H.  Emphasize the human side of your visit

I.  Give a sense of place

The starred items are especially important to include. It's your raison d'etre, or why you are writing this piece.

I have had the privilege of traveling in our country and abroad over the years. When we have gone overseas, I kept a daily journal. It was often difficult to take the time at the end of a busy day, but letting it go a day or two or more means you lose something along the way. 

I've written several personal travel essays and had a few published. If you travel and a particular place or the people speaks to you, it's the perfect time to write a personal travel essay. All of the ingredients in a personal essay are necessary in this specialization. 

Write this kind of essay as though you were telling a friend about your trip. Keep it conversational, not a formal piece of writing. 

Here is one of my travel essays that has been published. We were on a three week trip with friends in southern Germany, but one place was the one that prompted an essay. I chose to write about a hotel in a small town outside of Munich. The place etched itself onto my heart--the hotel, the people who ran it, and the church across the street. 

A Hungarian Hotel in Germany

Our heads were fuzzy and our legs like jelly when we left the long, overnight flight from Kansas City, Missouri to Munich, Germany. After clearing passport control and getting our luggage, my husband and I headed to the rental car area of the airport. Despite our fatigue, we managed the paperwork and check-out with only a minimum of frustration. An hour later, we settled into a Mercedes C Class sedan and made our way out of the city, Ken at the wheel and map in my hand. Our second job of the day was to locate the hotel we’d booked on the internet. I’d searched diligently for a reasonably priced hotel not too far from the Munich airport. I found many, but somehow one kept calling to me, so I clicked and clicked until we were booked for the first three nights of our three week stay in Germany.

The half hour drive to Hohenlinden turned into an hour, then another hour. We learned that German roadways are excellent but that German road signs leave a great deal to be desired.  We also discovered that the GPS in our rental car was programmed in German. Useless for us. Round and round we went, on highways and byways, roundabouts and little traveled pathways. I was near tears and Ken near the eruption point when we somehow pulled into the small, rural village of Hohenlinden. Relief is far too mild a word to describe our feelings. Surely the Hotel Zur Linde would soon appear.

“I think it’s on the outskirts of the town,” I told Ken as he gripped the steering wheel more firmly. 

“Not so,” he said, slowing down in front of a three-story stucco building with Hotel Zur Linde painted  on the side, right in the middle of town. He pulled into the side driveway and around the back to a miniscule parking area, and we walked wearily into the hotel. A small reception area appeared dark and rather uninviting, but a teenaged girl in the office cubicle smiled, told us her name was Hanna, and greeted us so warmly, our spirits rose like a hot air balloon on a sunny day. 

All we wanted was to go to our room, take a shower and change clothes, but it was not to be.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Hanna said in perfect English. “You cannot go to your room until 2 p.m. But you can have lunch first. Her smile erased any irritation we might have had as she led us to the outdoor biergarten surrounded by greenery, an arbor and sweet-smelling flowers. We could easily spend an hour and a half here.

A tall glass of the local beer and a bowl of Hungarian soup helped revive us. We lingered in the pleasant outdoor garden until 2 p.m. when we unloaded our luggage and stepped into a tiny elevator to go to our room. It was small but clean and nicely furnished. A big window looked out on a church across the road. The bed with a snowy white duvet, sheet and soft pillows looked so inviting.

Showered and clothes changed, we set off on a walk around the town. Quaint houses, small shops, and flower gardens cooled our blood pressure back to normal as we savored the quaint houses and small gardens. In one front garden, a man wearing a long cotton coat, worked with wood using a standing saw. Seeing him thrilled Ken. He told me he’d seen pictures of men doing work like that and wearing the coat to protect their clothes. 

As we walked, we discussed our plan for the next day when we were to go back to the Munich airport to pick up good friends from South Africa, who would be traveling with us.

In the evening, we went to the formal dining room and enjoyed a leisurely and excellent meal served by a waitress who had charm plus. Several patrons ate with well-behaved dogs lying next to them. Hanna was nowhere to be seen, but her mother was the dining room hostess and hotel clerk for the evening. Mama was tall, slender and blonde, wearing a low-cut blouse and spike heels. We chatted with her and were a bit surprised to learn we had booked into a Hungarian hotel.  Good German beer and German food like roast pork, red cabbage and potato dumplings and a few Hungarian items on the menu, so not a problem, especially with the special way we’d been welcomed.

When our waitress brought our food, she asked what we would say in English to wish someone a good meal. “Enjoy!” I told her, “or even Bon Appetit!” With eyes sparkling, she called out “Enjoy!” as she hurried back to the kitchen. Our food proved to be as satisfying as the hotel itself.

We’d noticed the church across the street filled the summer air with its bells every hour on the hour—lovely bells which chimed for a couple of minutes. We strolled over to the church after dinner and found a small cemetery on one side of the building. Each plot was outlined in paving stones and perennial flowers, some with stone angels adorning the area where the marker sat. We were taken with the loving care each grave had been given and the gentle, dainty look the flowers and statues added. 

Hand in hand, we crossed the road to our hotel and bed. “I can’t wait to see Mike and Mavis tomorrow,” I said to Ken.

At 6 a.m., the church bells began to peal. Nice, I thought, as I pulled up the duvet and snuggled deeper into my feather pillow. But the bells went on and on and…. Fifteen minutes worth! Enough to wake the entire town! Surely, no one in Hohenlinden needed an alarm clock. 

After a pleasant breakfast, we zipped into Munich in less than half an hour. Amazing what you can do when you have the proper directions. We picked up our friends at the architecturally impressive airport and brought them to Hotel Zur Linde. Our innkeeper greeted them warmly as new guests and we as old friends, having been there an entire 24 hours. 

“Oh, what a nice place this is,” Mavis said to me as we helped them to their room down the hall from ours. We met in the biergarten for a tall glass of beer to toast the beginning of our time together. Living halfway across the world from one another, our times together are treasured. We ate outdoors that night with many of the locals who were having a good time judging by the chatter and laughter.

The next morning I asked if there was a guest computer. “Oh yes,” the innkeeper said, and she led me to a folding screen in the breakfast room which hid the computer. I tried and tried to get onto the internet but could not find the @ on the keyboard. I finally gave up, and went to the office to ask for help. 

“That is a Hungarian keyboard,” the woman told me. “Come, I’ll show you what to do. ”She said to hit Shift and q and the @ would come up. Success at last, but the y and z were in the opposite places of our keyboards. Otherwise, they were the same. I finally got it figured out and was able to check my e-mail.

We woke each morning to the 6 o’clock bell concert. By the third morning, I was awake and waiting. Instead of being irritated at the early awakening, I looked forward to it, knowing a wonderful German buffet breakfast awaited us on the floor below. Fresh fruit, cereal, cold meats, cheeses, and hard rolls accompanied by strong coffee and a few pastries filled us to satisfaction as we lingered in the sunlit dining room.

Before we checked out of the hotel, we booked it again for our last night in Germany, negotiating a lower price for our return. 

After touring the back roads, small towns and villages of southern Germany, for three weeks, we returned to Hohenlinden. When we pulled into the parking area, it almost felt like coming home. The four of us strolled into the reception area, and our Hungarian innkeeper came to greet us, three inch heels clicking on the tile floor, her face alight with a warm welcome. We were definitely home. 

A rainy night meant dinner in the formal dining room with a fire burning to take the chill out of the air. Good food and drink and a recap of all we’d done while touring Germany gave us a lovely final evening in the Hotel Zur Linde. 

The grand finale came at six the next morning when the church bell concert began. I lay in the comfortable bed, listening to the swell of the bell tones, pleased that I’d found this charming small hotel, or did it find me? With so many choices, why did this one keep calling out to me?

We checked out after breakfast and loaded the car, ready to go to the airport. The four of us made one last trip inside for a warm farewell from the Hungarian hostess of this special hotel. The church bells rang to let us know it was eight o’clock as we drove out of town. My instinct when searching for a hotel online had served me well.

Write Personal Travel Essays

Nancy in Rottweil, Germany

Today's photo who2w me with a well-behaved Rottweiler dog in Rottweil, Germany. The picture was taken several years ago, but is still a fond memory. We were traveling with dear friends who have since passed away. It's one reason why we take photos during our travels. Looking at them later brings back memories of the trip and the people who accompanied you.

When you add writing about the trips, you complete the circle. Whenever we travel, particularly overseas, I keep a daily journal. Must admit to those entries looking like scribbles occasionally as the days are packed full on a trip and time is rationed. 

After returning home, I go through the journals, adding a detail here and there. Then, if something stands out, I write a personal travel essay. Several have been published. The scant details in the journal are enlarged upon. 

I keep hard copies of everything I write in a large 3 ring binder (actually, 2 of them, and a third started). In one, there is a section for travel stories. I use them once in a while in programs or workshops. They are my memories, but others seem to enjoy reading about the places and events, as well. 

Besides the personal travel essays, I turned one interesting experience in South Africa into a fiction story for children. The first place I sent it accepted it. Children's magazines like stories that take place in other countries. 

What should you include in a personal travel essay? This kind of travel piece is not filled with facts and figures about a place. Those things can be worked into your essay, but the main idea is to entertain people with the personal side of your travels. Things like the first night in a B&B in Ireland, which was not a very nice place. We arrived fairly late in the evening and were sorely disappointed when we saw the first place we would lay our heads down in this country where I had deep roots. There was no place open where we could eat a late dinner. We ended up in a grocery store buying sandwich fixings, went back to the B&B and had some good laughs with our traveling companions over this introduction to Ireland. The rest of the two weeks traveling around Ireland was fantastic, but that first awful night stands out in my mind. I did not write a full essay about it, but I certainly could have with a warning to investigate the places you book thoroughly.

Include the feelings you had when a place impressed you. A heartwarming occurrence. An infuriating one. Something humorous.It's a personal travel essay, so make it seem that way. 

Try to write about the places you visit within a relatively short time after you return home. I've been known to write a first draft in longhand on the plane returning home. Don't wait too long, or the whole idea gets lost. 

One of my personal travel essays is below to give you an example.

Grandpa's Town

My husband wanted to go to Germany, rent a car and travel the scenic southern area. He had a yen to visit small towns and villages instead of big cities, which we’d already seen on earlier trips. Ken planned to drive the secondary roads and stay off the autobahn. For people who had relied on tour guides in the past, this was definitely an adventure.

 

In January, we started planning. I did multiple google searches on hotels, restaurants, attractions, transatlantic flights and car rentals. Ken’s job was to map out the route. He spread a huge map of Germany across our dining room table, leaving half of it clear for us to eat meals. He agreed to fold up Germany when company came.

Pointing to the map one morning, he said, “Here’s Lahr, the town where my Grandfather Kopp grew up.” His finger circled the immediate area. “It’s on the edge of the Black Forest. We could stay there for a few days and take in the surrounding area.”  

With that simple statement, our understanding and love for his grandfather grew tenfold, but not until we’d experienced Lahr.

We arrived in Grandpa’s town on a fine June day. We had good luck winging it as far as hotels went, but Lahr proved a different story. One hotel didn’t meet our standards. Three others were open, but we could never get assistance. They appeared deserted, even though the front doors stood open. We began to wonder what kind of place we’d come to.

We continued to drive up one street and down another. Around a curve, we happened on a place I warmed to immediately. I sent Ken in to look and book. It proved fit for kings and queens, and that’s who could afford to stay there. Ken kept driving, while I had visions of sleeping in the car. Then I grabbed Ken’s arm.

 “There! The Hotel-am-West-End. It looks nice.”

I liked the all-white building and the big, leafy trees that lined the street. The open deck on the second floor, ringed with colorful, overflowing flower boxes beckoned. Ken went in and returned, smiling. We had a room.

We climbed to the second floor reception area, and Ken introduced Dirk, the owner. Dirk must have lost his razor—either that or he liked the stubble on his face. His clothes were clean although a bit rumpled, but he gave us an effusive welcome, his smile warm and genuine.

Ken told Dirk that his Grandfather Kopp had grown up in Lahr. Dirk looked at the register where Ken had signed in. “Kopp? Ja, we got lots of them here.” Ken knew of cousins who had moved away, but not of any other relations here. Apparently, our last name was a common one in this part of the world.

We ambled down the hall on oriental carpeting, dragging our luggage behind, mouths opened as we tried to take in the amazing antique art and furnishings that lined the walls

We learned later that Dirk ran the small hotel and dealt in antiques on the side. 

 

After a quick look at our pleasant room, we met the Guest Relations Manager in the hotel restaurant. Schef was a short-legged, fat, amiable dog, who plunked himself next to my chair, hoping perhaps for a morsel of my wiener schnitzel to fall his way while we planned our agenda. We’d only been in Lahr for a few hours, but already felt warmly welcomed. 

Lahr was not a tourist stop, but had its own charm. The town was surely much smaller in the late nineteenth century when Grandpa lived here--where he went to school, played 

games, and maybe gave a wink to a pretty girl now and then. Maybe some of these shops were the same ones where his mother sent him on errands.

Each day, we thought of Grandpa as a little boy, a teen, and then a young man. In this clean, working man’s town, he learned values and formed opinions that lasted a lifetime. His cheerful outlook on life had been cultivated here on these streets. Every letter we’d received from him in our early married years began,“I am fine and dandy. How are you?” 

We did venture to the surrounding area each day, visiting the Black Forest region and crossing the border into Strasbourg, France. After one of these daylong excursions, Ken went out for a walk by himself. He seemed a bit surprised that he felt so much emotion while visiting his grandfather’s hometown. He wanted to see as much of it as possible in the time we had, and he snapped myriad pictures to show his brothers when we returned home. 

 

Wilhelm Kopf moved away from Lahr at age twenty to try his luck in America. He left mother, father, and baby brother as well as friends. More than fifty years later, he returned for a three-week visit telling Ken’s family in Illinois that he’d see them soon. Three months passed before he journeyed to America again. I have a feeling long-buried memories flooded back as he walked his boyhood paths and visited family and friends. He must have been reluctant to let them go again. But the pull of his family in America proved great enough to make him return.

Our visit to Lahr touched Ken deeply. Even more than a century after his birth, this was still Grandpa’s town, and a part of his own heritage. Ken’s connection may have once been a fragile thread, but by the time we left, it had strengthened considerably and had drawn me in, as well.