When people find out that I’m a travel writer, they inevitably ask, “What’s your favorite trip?” It’s silly to distill the past two decades of work down to one locale so I try to evade the question. If they’re persistent, I’ll usually mention the Marquesas. In 1994, I took a 16-day cruise with my wife that ventured 750 miles north from Tahiti to the archipelago most distant from any continent. The only way to visit all six of the inhabited Marquesa islands was aboard the Aranui, an upscale freighter that offers air-conditioned cabins and three French meals daily. The ship’s main function, however, is to transport goods to the local residents. She comes bearing bricks and cement, pipes and tractors, fishing nets, medicines, and food, all the necessities for an isolated existence; and returns to Tahiti with copra, dried coconut meat that is processed into oil, soap, and cosmetics.
Since there are very few adequate docks in the Marquesas, travelers go ashore in wooden whaleboats to meet the locals. Burly crew members guide passengers on and off these boats quicker than they can toss a sack of rice to each other. Obviously, this is no normal luxury cruise ship. There is no shuffleboard, no stage where entertainment continually bombards you throughout the day, and no dress code for meals.
In its place, you’ll visit the island Nuka Hiva, where a 22-year old sailor named Herman Melville jumped ship and wrote about his experience with cannibals in his first book, Typee. Paul Gauguin’s gravesite rests on the neighboring island of Hiva Oa. Sitting under a plumeria tree on a hillside over the bay, the stone is simply inscribed, “Paul Gauguin, 1903.” A three-hour cruise from Hiva Oa brought us to the verdant island of Fatu Hiva. Here, you can take a ten mile hike into the stunning Bay of Virgins, the most majestic site of the voyage. Towering, storm-worn basalt rises from the ocean’s depth, forming a v-shaped buttress that’s illuminated by the sun’s yellow-green rays. In the distance, serrated ridges, cloud-piercing peaks and impassable gorges stand as a monument to the centuries of volcanic fires that formed this fantastic landscape. That sight is hard to forget.
I honestly didn’t spend much time at the Saratoga Race Course growing up in nearby Schenectady. My dad had a sailboat docked north of Bolton Landing on Lake George and that’s where we would spend much of the summer. But since I’ve been getting together with high school buddies annually these past 7 years, a day at the track has always been a day that I really look forward to. This year, I arrived around noon and parked behind the stables (free parking off Exit 14 on the Northway), a good parking area if you’re headed north to Lake George like we were. Then I strolled over to the front gate, purchased a pink sheet, which gives insider info on the horses and jockeys, and grabbed a burger and fries at Shake Shack. The first race is 1 pm and the track is a beauty, the oldest track in America and named by Sports Illustrated as one of the Top 10 Sports Venues of the 20th Century. My friend, Bob, usually finds us a table in the Clubhouse to watch the races, where we have great views of the horses rounding the track. I walk up to place my $2 and $5 bets and usually lose, with or without the pink sheet, but still have a blast rooting for my horses. This year, I left on a winning note, betting on Flowers to Lisa to win the 8th race. It easily cruised to victory at 5:1 odds, no doubt spurred on by my wife, Lisa, my lucky charm. 
One of the most memorable meals I’ve ever had as a travel writer was at the 
Big news from the world of active travel this week with the announcement that 
I’m a travel writer, so it’s my job to turn you on to places around the globe I think you should definitely check out. But after spending a glorious day in the Boston area, I’m just as happy to see you venture outdoors in your own neighborhood. I just visited my longtime oasis,