The Best Women's Travel Writing: True Stories from Around the World

( 1 )


Featuring stories by Holly Morris, Marcia DeSanctis, Apricot Anderson Irving, Laura Fraser, Amanda Jones, and Laura Resau.
Read More Show Less
... See more details below
Other sellers (Paperback)
  • All (11) from $2.50   
  • New (5) from $6.44   
  • Used (6) from $2.50   
The Best Women's Travel Writing, Volume 9: True Stories from Around the World

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • Samsung Galaxy Tab 4 NOOK 7.0
  • Samsung Galaxy Tab 4 NOOK 10.1
  • NOOK HD Tablet
  • NOOK HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK eReaders
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook)
$11.49 price
(Save 42%)$19.95 List Price


Featuring stories by Holly Morris, Marcia DeSanctis, Apricot Anderson Irving, Laura Fraser, Amanda Jones, and Laura Resau.
Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

Praise for the Best Women's Travel Writing series:

"This book will grace my bedside for years to come. " — Simon Winchester

"Delightful (and sometimes dreadful) wayfaring adventures from all corners of the globe." — The Washington Post

"There is real drama and comedy in these pages." — San Francisco Chronicle

"An inspiration and a fine read for anyone who is missing the open road." — Transitions Abroad

"Even as a veteran traveler, I found new revelations here." — Herbert Gold

Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781609520847
  • Publisher: Travelers' Tales Guides, Incorporated
  • Publication date: 8/13/2013
  • Series: Best Women's Travel Writing, #9
  • Pages: 350
  • Sales rank: 635,468
  • Product dimensions: 5.10 (w) x 7.90 (h) x 0.90 (d)

Meet the Author

Lavinia Spalding is the author of Writing Away: A Creative Guide to Awakening the Journal-Writing Traveler, and coauthor of With a Measure of Grace: The Story and Recipes of a Small Town Restaurant. Her work has also appeared in such publications as Sunset Magazine, Yoga Journal, Inkwell, and Post Road Magazine. She grew up in New Hampshire and Flagstaff, Arizona and graduated from the University of Arizona creative writing program. She has kept travel journals throughout thirty countries on five continents, and is the editor of The Best Women's Travel Writing 2011 and The Best Women's Travel Writing 2012.
Read More Show Less

Read an Excerpt

by Lavinia Spalding

In January, I sat with six women around a table in a dimly lit restaurant in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. And while they drank and laughed and clapped, I cried.

When we first arrived, I was fine. Really. It was a perfectly intimate room with a handful of tables; the ceilings were high, the yellow walls covered with artwork, and a small lamp with a punched tin shade threw stippled prisms of light around the room. We ordered quesadillas, pes a la Veracruzana, tacos de nata, chiles rellenos, margaritas, martinis, wine. We toasted and gossiped and passed iPhones, comparing photos. A week before we had been mostly strangers—just two teachers and a handful of writers convening south of the border. Now we felt inexorably bound by the stories we’d shared and the colonial town we had quickly grown to love.

About ten feet from our table, two men wearing all black sat with guitars in their laps next to a pair of striking women in flamenco dresses. One was young and sexy, in a tight black dress with a flowered pattern; the other was older, elegant, in bright red with long yellow fringe.

As our laughter crowded the small room, the other diners—mostly twosomes leaning into each other—started to shoot tiny annoyed glances our way. We ignored them; it was our last night together and we felt entitled to a little noise. But when the first guitar chords struck, our attention drifted to the musicians. And when the dancers stood and began to stomp their feet and clap their hands loudly, quickly, above their heads, we fell silent.

It didn’t take long for me to start crying, and once I started I couldn’t stop. The musicians’ fingers flurried across the strings, gently, then fiercely, occasionally rapping on the body of the guitar, sometimes muting the sound with a palm of the hand before all ten fingers fired again toward a furious crescendo. I watched and listened, and the stitches on an old hole in my heart tore open.
It was the first time I’d heard live flamenco music performed since my father—an acclaimed flamenco guitarist—died eight years before. I suddenly saw him in front of me, his lanky frame and tanned, balding head bent ever-so-slightly over his own instrument, his long slender fingers flying across the strings. I closed my eyes and listened to the notes. They were his own voice, returned to visit me in the place he once loved.

Marianne, my friend and co-teacher, sat to my left. “Are you O.K.?” she whispered.

“I miss my dad,” I told her—and the music had moved me in ways I couldn’t explain, ways I didn’t even understand.


Before I was born, my parents spent a summer in San Miguel de Allende. I grew up hearing stories of the town where my father studied guitar, and where at dusk my mother loaned my then-two-year-old sister to the local teenage girls so they could parade her around like a doll as they strolled the main plaza—the Jardin—during paseo. And now, almost fifty years later, I was finally in the fabled town myself.

Though this was my first visit to San Miguel de Allende, I’d spent my share of time in Mexico. Growing up in Arizona, border towns were the natural choice for spring breaks, camping trips, shopping excursions, and underage tequila runs. In my teens and twenties I partied in Puerto Peñasco; in my thirties my best friend and I rented a casita in San Carlos. When I wanted to retreat alone after my father died, I chose a quiet old silver-mining town called Alamos. I collected seashells at dusk on a beach in Kino Bay, and one quiet midnight in Puerto Vallarta, I rode on a marine biologist’s ATV in search of turtles hatching eggs in the sand. I was fond of Mexico, but after spending much of my life exploring more remote countries, it didn’t seem “foreign.” To me, it hardly counted as travel at all.

Nevertheless, I was thrilled to spend the first two weeks of 2013 teaching there. I had arrived on New Year's Eve, and standing in the Jardin beneath an almost full moon, an enormous Christmas tree, and the magnificent gothic La Parroquía church (its doors wide open for midnight mass), it occurred to me that nearly everything I saw was illuminated from within, including the locals surrounding me. When the hands on the clock tower met and pointed to the stars, thousands of revelers cheered and twirled two-foot-long sparklers—and when I asked a little girl in pigtails if I could buy one from her, she happily handed me two, refusing my pesos. Then a giant metal “Feliz Año Nuevo” sign exploded in flames and scared the hell out of me, and fireworks brightened the sky. As the band played cumbia, grizzled cowboys danced with their daughters, and gorgeous couples made out shamelessly. Skinny little boys hurled rocket-shaped mylar balloons into the air, and grown men wore blinking plastic Minnie Mouse bows on their heads. I stayed till the end, following the cobblestone streets back to my rented casa at 3:00 A.M.


Now, two weeks later, I was crying into my margarita.

Libby, sitting on my right, rubbed my arm gently, while across the table Jen photographed the performers, sensing I would someday want to see the images. The other women in our party just held my gaze tenderly.

Eventually I stopped sniffling, ate my quesadilla, and enjoyed the show. And after dinner when the guitarists were packing up, I approached one and tried to explain what his music had meant to me. I wanted to tell him about my father—that he studied with Paco de Lucia and played for the Prince of Spain and dedicated his life to music, the very same music they played that night—but my Spanish was limited and his English was basic. He smiled and nodded, but I knew he didn’t quite understand. It wasn’t until later that night, walking the narrow roads home past orange walls and blue doorways, beneath icicle lights and fiesta flags strung between rooftops, that I finally understood. I stopped, closed my eyes, and made a belated New Year’s resolution: I would start playing the dusty guitar that hung on my office wall back home—the one my father left me.


Mexico surprised me. I’d assumed I knew what the country had to offer, but I was wrong; I underestimated it. And while reading submissions for The Best Women’s Travel Writing Volume 9 this year, I found myself similarly surprised by the number of exceptional stories that came from not-so-far-away. Among the four-hundred-plus submissions I read were dazzling essays from locations that did not seem all that foreign to me—places that, like Mexico, “hardly counted as travel.” There were mesmerizing tales of adventure in the United States, life lessons learned in Mexico, heartbreak in Canada.

Was it a sign of the economy, I wondered? Were people staying closer to home these days? Were travel writers running out of frequent-flier miles? Or had these places suddenly become more popular destinations?

Of course, I still read hundreds of stories that flew (and ferried and taxied and tuk-tuked) me clear across the globe—to Egypt and India and Rwanda and Afghanistan, Laos and Bangladesh and Spain and Cambodia, Jordan and Australia and Italy and Namibia—plus some places I never even knew existed.
But to my delight, this year I was transported equally far, both emotionally and culturally, by stories close to home.

I find international travel ineffably rich and profound; I believe the first taste of foreignness is one of life’s greatest joys and opportunities, and that immersing oneself in another culture for an extended period of time should be required for every human being. I think listening to the words of people far away and returning to tell their stories can help make the world a more tolerant, connected place.

But I’ve also realized that the transformative effect of travel sometimes bears little relation to the distance of destination. That profundity and cultural diversity can be found anywhere. That what we take from a place is directly proportionate to what we bring to it. And that what we gain from our wanderings depends more on our mentality than our locality.

Indeed, travel is virtually limitless in its capacity to change our perspective. But then again, isn’t travel itself a matter of perspective? You may someday stumble upon an isolated village on a naked stretch of map and decide it’s the most exquisite, exotic place you’ve ever been. But the villagers, while smiling politely, will wonder what the hell you’re doing there, taking pictures of their laundry and pet cow. And while you might regard your own hometown as hopelessly mundane—the drafty old church, the all-you-can-eat Chuck-a-Rama, the vacuum repair shop—someone from that isolated village on that naked stretch of map will perceive it as impossibly exciting. She will take photos of your Chuck-a-Rama.

And maybe you should, too.

Maybe we all should.

Because if we can extend our definition of travel to the point where we begin to regard our own environs with the same curiosity a foreigner would—and with the same curiosity we ourselves would carry to a foreign land—then maybe we can reproduce that unique sense of awe we feel when we’re out traveling, discovering the weirdest, wildest patches of our planet. And if we practice this enough—though it may at first feel contrived—it might eventually become natural. And then we will find ourselves living each ordinary day with extraordinary wonder and gratitude.

Of the many lessons I’ve learned over the years from the publishers of Travelers’ Tales and the women who submit their amazing-but-true stories to the Best Women’s Travel Writing series, perhaps the most important is this: the entire world is worthy of exploration and appreciation—including the places we live, day in and day out.

Travel has the power to transform us, but it may be like the law of romantic love—to love another person, we must first love ourselves. I propose that as we go about romancing the rest of the world, we also rekindle our affair with the not-so-far-away. And this book is an excellent place to start.

In The Best Women’s Travel Writing, Volume 9, you’ll take a trip to the site of Wounded Knee in North Dakota with Jenna Scatena and her mother, who is heading home and hell-bent on redemption. You’ll go late-night frog hunting in a southern Louisiana bayou with Natalie Baszile. Kirsten Koza will drive you (and some Chinese celebrities) on a thrill ride around the U.S., chasing tornados. And you’ll join Suzanne Roberts as she kayaks one hundred fifty miles in the Gulf of Mexico and is put to the ultimate relationship test.

You’ll also visit Mexico a few more times: to Morelia, where you’ll experience Day of the Dead through the eyes of a curious two-year-old (and his pregnant mother, Molly Beer), and to Sarah Menkedick’s Oaxaca, where you’ll fall under the spell of a city caught up in a revolution. Then you’ll fly to Vancouver with Rachel Levin, where you’ll discover that life is never as simple as immigration officials want it to be.

And you’ll travel farther, of course. Julia Cooke will take you antique shopping in Cuba, and Apricot Irving will lead you on a nostalgic tour of the Haiti of her childhood. You’ll cheer on Abbie Kozolchyk as she strives to fulfill an epic quest to Suriname, Paraguay, Guyana, and French Guiana. And in Ecuador, if you’re Laura Resau, you’ll pay good money to stand in your bra while alcohol is spit in your face and fireballs are thrown at your body.
You will, as you read, wind up far, far away. Perhaps in that same isolated village on a naked stretch of map, dining at someone else’s version of Chuck-a-Rama, praying in someone else’s drafty old church. You’ll confront fears in Bangladesh with Holly Morris and in Rwanda with Marcia DeSanctis...
[more to come]

Read More Show Less

Table of Contents

Introduction by Lavinia Spalding

1. Barren in the Andes – Laura Resau - Ecuador

2. Blot Out - Colleen Kinder – Egypt [first appeared in Creative Nonfiction]

3. The Saffron Rabbit – Amber Kelly-Anderson - Spain

4. Mucking About – Meera Subramanian- India - [first appeared on]

5. Frogging Quintana – Natalie Baszile – Louisiana

6. Remember this Night – Katherine Jamieson – Guyana

7. Dreams from my Father – Apricot Anderson Irving - Haiti - [first appeared in MORE]

8. Half-Baked Decisions – Sarah Katin - Thailand/Vietnam/Laos

9. Connie Britton’s Hair - Marcia DeSanctis – Rwanda

10. Trust – Amanda Jones - South Africa

11. Business or Pleasure – Rachel Levin – Canada

12. The Revolution – Sara Menkedick – Mexico [first appeared in Vela Magazine (online)]

13. The Codeine of Jordan – J.S. Brown - Jordan - [first appeared in Bellevue Literary Review]

14. The Black Bitch – Jill Paris - Scotland - [first appeared on]

15. The Women’s Sitting Room – Angie Chuang – Afghanistan

16. Eight Million Miles – Jocelyn Edelstein-Brazil

17. The Best Show in Town - Lauren Quinn – Cambodia - [first appeared in Vela]

18. Yanet’s Vintage Emporium – Julia Cooke - Cuba - [first appeared in the Paris Review]

19. Fill in the Blanks - Abbie Kozolchyk - Suriname/Paraguay/Guyana/French Guiana

20. In the KISS Navy – Elmo Keep – The Ocean/Bahamas - [first appeared in Men's Style Magazine]

21. To Russia with Love - Deborah Copaken Kogan- Russia - [first appeared in MORE magazine]

22. The Road to Wounded Knee – Jenna Scatena - South Dakota

23. We Wait for the Sun – Carol Beddo - Ethiopia

24. Are you Ready to Walk? – Erin Van Rheenan - Scotland - [first appeared in the L.A. Times]

25. Discovery – Rachel Friedman - Australia - [first appeared in Creative Nonfiction]

26. The Rice Man Cometh – Laura Fraser- Italy - [first appeared in Real Eats]

27. City of Light-Kimberley Lovato - France - [first appeared on]

28. Who Made this Grave - Molly Beer - Mexico - [first appeared in Vela]

Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 1 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star


4 Star


3 Star


2 Star


1 Star


Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation


  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously
Sort by: Showing 1 Customer Reviews
  • Posted January 27, 2014

    This collection of 30 travel essays written by women will entert

    This collection of 30 travel essays written by women will entertain and enlighten both the adventurer and the arm-chair enthusiast. The stories range from searching for frogs in southern Louisiana to chasing tornadoes in Oklahoma to a Day of the Dead celebration in Mexico with a mother and her young son. Each author invites the reader to not just visit a place, but to see it through the lens of the people and the local culture, accompanying the writer on her own emotional journey. I enjoyed Blair Braverman's "Rangefinder Girl" as she trekked through Namibia studying black rhinos. Fearful at the beginning, she comes to appreciate the land and the creatures that occupy it, calmly flicking a scorpion from her leg on the last night. I also liked Holly Morris's "The Risky Path," a recounting of her fear of snakes and an effort to overcome it while in Bangladesh. She quotes Martin Luther King Jr., "Salvation is being on the right road, not having reached a destination." Each of these stories is a possible road, traversed by other women, but in the sharing perhaps they will spur you toward your own.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
Sort by: Showing 1 Customer Reviews

If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
Why is this product inappropriate?
Comments (optional)