Goofing around by the Toronto Space needle. May 2007.
I recently ran across this old article from Black Enterprise Magazine. The first sentence reads:
"African American travelers, with an estimated $25 billion in travel spending power, are a rapidly growing market that is increasingly gaining the attention of the $440 billion U.S. travel industry."
I would love to see the updated statistics on how many Blacks are traveling each year and where they choose as their destinations. It's a 1997 article but, a decent one that worth the read. I wonder how much of that $25 billion is spent on international travel. If anyone runs across statistics on Black international travel, please post a link in comments.
Salty Mary:
After about 2 hours of sitting on wet grass watching a few musical acts we headed up to Kasia and Kelly's swank hotel room which had a panoramic view of all the events.
Our guide Jacob picked us up at the hotel and wisked us away to the historic communist district that was originally gifted to Krakow by Stalin himself. It later came to be one of the centers of revolution and resistance within Poland, leading to the eventual overthrow of the communist government.
Then just when you thought it couldn't get any better the four waiters revealed our dinner entrees by by lifting the sterling-silver plate dome thingies in one perfectly choreographed motion.
I love Krakow.
While considering the 30% of passport holding Americans I began to wonder, how many black Americans were a part of that percentage. It seems that when it comes to international travel, black travelers are few and far between. There are a number of factors, of course, that contribute to this reality. Social standing and income as well as the experiences of those around you—a legacy of travel experience—are some of the most obvious issues.
According to the U.S. Census Bureauthe median income of black households is a few thousand below that of the American average. And while many people who travel develop the habit in college the bureau also reports that less than 20% of black Americans hold a bachelor’s degree. However, the U.S. Census also reports that black Americans make up a large part of American entrepreneurship, and black investors are making waves in the financial market. It is important as we make strides forward that we also consider the wealth of experience.
According to Black Meetings and Tourism magazine, African-Americans are developing more of an interest in domestic travel. The magazine reports that there has recently been a boom in what they refer to as “heritage tourism.” It’s a step in the right direction.
International travel not only provides insight into the past and various communities but it is an equalizer of experience. Traveling internationally, familiarity with different cultures translates into varied understanding; a point of view that is valued not only in the work of philosophers and social reformists but from marketing and industry standpoints. No matter how “globalized” the world becomes, how readily available cultures are made from our own homes, it remains true that nothing beats a face to face.
-Ashleigh Rae
We landed in Caracas in January of 2005 and stayed for three weeks. I travel on business a few times a year, usually to Latin America, but this was my first trip to Venezuela and I was looking forward to it. Traveling on business presents me with a set of people to get to know and with whom I immediately have something in common: we have work to get done.
As anyone who travels knows, the natives of a place are usually ready and willing to show you their country. This group was no different, but I’ll get to that in a minute. I found the business culture in Venezuela really interesting.
We usually got started at 9 A.M. each morning and by 10:30 we were breaking for ‘un cafezito’. While my co-worker thought this a frivolous waste of time, I found it extremely civilized and a lot more effective than the moronic ‘team-building’ we regularly find ourselves subjected to at the home office.
Enjoying a "cafezito".
During these coffee breaks (there was another one between lunch and quitting time) therewas time to talk and exchange information about each other. Be prepared for what will seem very personal questions by North American standards. This is pretty common in Latin America and you are expected to ask the same questions of them.
Venezuelan people run the gamut of phenotypes. You have your natural blondes, but they are in the minority. This is a country of color. And since I insist there is more than just Black and White in the world I use this term. They are comfortable with people of colorand the immediate affinity they expressed toward me was not only because I am Latino and speak Spanish. It was also because of my brown skin and curly hair, something familiar. I was pleased to be in a place where everyone does not aspire to be blond (that gets really tiresome) and the standard of beauty is not taken from Vogue or Marie Claire.
Caracas is intensely urban and the ‘feel’ of the place reminded me of São Paulo or Miami. The malls, Centros Comerciales, are vertical skyscrapers, instead of the sprawling one story kind we’re accustomed to in the States. Sambil and San Ignacio are the two we became familiar with. When you enter a restaurant in one of these places you forget completely that you‘re in a mall. The elevation (more than 10 stories) is taken advantage of and there is al fresco terrace dining with incredible views over the city.
Caracas is also very cosmopolitan, so don’t expect to be stared at because you are a foreigner. There are world class Vietnamese, (European) Spanish, Italian and Portuguese restaurants here. Try the Paella, you won’t be disappointed! Venezuela has Italian and Portuguese populations numbering in the millions, so it is common to hear these languages spoken alongside Spanish.
I always chat up the cab drivers when I travel. They know everything there is to know about their city and they’re usually great ambassadors, wanting to show you the best of what it has to offer. Caraqueños are very friendly and if you speak even a little Spanish they will gladly spend time talking. If you are a native English speaker, trust me, once the word is out you will become everyone’s tutor. Nearly everyone seems to be in school studying English.
Nationality is an interesting subject in Venezuela. On any Sunday you can stroll through the Plaza Simon Bolivar and hear President Hugo Chavez haranguing for hours on end, courtesy of the loud speakers set up almost everywhere. He rails against the Colombians and the Americans and the list goes on.
On January 22nd there was a half day parade, complete with effigies of Condoleezza Rice and George Bush, slamming live salsa music and plenty of megaphone. This is the occasion of President Chavez’ coming to power and there was plenty of anti-American rhetoric to go around. Later that day people who realized we were Americans turned out to be very curious about the States. They plied us with questions and said how glad they were that we came to their beautiful country. If you are Colombian, now that is another matter. There is a lot of tension between these two countries and this is the subject of some pretty heated café talk on Sunday afternoons.
This is a beautiful country, despite the grinding poverty in the slums above and around Caracas. The northern limit of the city is defined by a mountain known as El Avila. Our hosts were anxious to show us the recreation facilities at the top and so we planned a trip up via Teleférico (cable car). Five of us easily fit into a car and we were off into the clouds. During the ride up (and down) there is a point at which you can’t see the city below or the peak you are rising toward. Clouds surround you and there are glimpses of the carpet of jungle below. It is a sight so sublime and beautiful and humbling these words fall far short of what I want to communicate.
At the top there is an extensive entertainment complex, with restaurants, gardens, even an ice skating rink. Go figure! La India, one of my favorite Salsa singers happened to be performing live that day. Venezuelans don’t miss an opportunity to dance and we all partied for a while with the rest of the crowd. The ride back down was just as hypnotic, especially when the car came out of the clouds into a brilliant tropical sun with Caracas waiting for us down below.
The same day we were driven to a colonial town east of Caracas called El Hatillo. I am NOT a shopper! But I couldn’t prove it that day when I saw all that El Hatillo has to offer. Woven grass baskets from the Amazon, pottery from Colombia, hammocks from Brazil, this place had it all. El Hatillo has been preserved from colonial times by ordinances that prohibit changing the exterior of the buildings, although every manner of business occupies the brightly painted shells. I strongly recommend getting to El Hatillo and El Avila if you do nothing else in Caracas. Believe it or not one of the biggest treats for me was running from one customer appointment to another, eating at outdoor stands on the way and moving around and among the people. This is the whole point of traveling for me.
Caracas is a big city, with all the problems of a big city, and third world to boot. But a healthy dose of common sense, an open mind and even a little Spanish will ensure a great time among these generous and big hearted people. ¡Viva Venezuela!
The agency must have booked me super-duper-economy, because my seat was almost the last one on the plane. I guess I’m lucky they don’t seat passengers on the wings yet! The flight was fairly empty, though, so I had the entire row to myself. The flight itself was totally uneventful, so I concentrated on tackling the Russian entry forms.
When we arrived at Sheremetyevo, I was glad to see that there has been some renovation done since the very first time I landed here in 1975! I can still remember my feeling of discomfort following my initial look up at the ceiling fixtures to see the dust and grime of the ages precariously dangling off them. I remember being afraid to actually touch the grungy banisters on the stairs as I went down the steps one at a time weighed down by baggage as part of the slow-moving queues at passport control. This time the queues were filled with lots of foreign tourists which moved just as quickly (or as slowly) as they would have in Philadelphia or London. If anything, the only leftover from former ‘soviet glory’ was that the people behind the counter acted as though simply smiling would be high treason!
There was a girl waiting with my name on a sign on the other side of the barrier, but she was only there to inform me that – due to heavy traffic – the taxi that had been ordered for me would be late. After wading through a crowd of taxi drivers eager for a fare, I got a seat in the waiting area. Why wait for a taxi when there are crowds of drivers waiting for a fare, you ask? Because it’s safer! At best, you may get stiffed by a driver (who may not even be an official taxi driver, but a family man trying to earn a few extra bucks to make ends meet) who takes you to your hotel in central Moscow the long way via Siberia. That’s why most Western companies either work with a specific taxi company on a regular basis or simply have one or more drivers on their company’s payroll.
Eventually I called Sean, my contact in Russia, to let him know I’d arrived safely. Of course when my driver finally arrived he spoke NO ENGLISH! With sign language he impatiently signalled for me to sit in the back. Although I usually prefer to sit in the front seat of a taxi, I quickly complied and we set off into the city at break-neck speed.
Driving in Moscow is certainly not for the faint-hearted. The Russians not only zip from lane to lane with little attention to signalling, they also have no problem sidling right up alongside another car who doesn’t make room for them to change into the lane they need quickly enough!
Eventually we reached central Moscow. It is an absolutely stunning, heaving metropolis. Where New York reaches for the sky, Moscow spreads itself along the ground. Where New York moves forward in squares and rectangles, Moscow circles around and around itself. The architecture is mind-boggling, and much of it is fortunately being restored. There are also many of the ‘amenities’ of modern Western life, of course, like new advertising billboards and expensive Western shops.
When I unlocked my room I realized it made a double at your local motel 6 look like a complete suite in the Plaza Athenèe on the Riviera. Last time I was in Moscow I was travelling for a client, and was booked into a suite at the très ritzy ‘Baltshug Kempinski’ right across the bridge at over $400/night. However my present room was quite clean, the water pressure was good, and the bed had fresh sheets on it. There was also a café of sorts at the end of the floor, so having a snack or light meal would still not be a problem. And from the huge picture windows I had an absolutely stunning view of the Moskva river, one corner of the Kremlin.
A couple hours after I arrived, the general director from our media agency arrived to take me to dinner. Gavin took me to a Georgian restaurant not too far from the center of the city: “at Pirosmani’s”. It was really quite quaint and cosy, and I was happy to hear that people like Bill Clinton and Gerhard Schroeder had already wandered in to test the food for me. Gavin and I had a big plate of fresh parsley, purple sage, tomatoes, cucumbers, scallions and radishes along with our entrees and some assorted Georgian cheeses. We had Georgian bottled water (heavy on the sulfer) and a cool Russian ‘baltika’ beer to wash it all down.
Although I found the normal Russian-on-the-street about as aloof and brusque as most people consider New Yorkers to be, the colleagues I met at both offices were anything but! They were eager to work with me, had lots of questions, and were genuinely friendly and helpful. The first two workshops were held in a beautiful outdoor location – a kind of café-restaurant in the middle of a huge park near the center of the city. There are concerts held in the park in the summer, and part of the park is flooded for ice skating in the winter. The food was good, too, though I didn’t know what all of it was and some of it was unusual. For example, one day we had a kind of Russian soup specialty that was served with a small bowl of sour cream on the side. But at least there was no ‘mystery meat’ included in the recipe. Even as far back in the mid-90’s I can remember coming to Moscow and being served something that didn’t look quite like it could have been made from any animal naturally created by God!
Because we were having 3-course lunches during the workshops, I limited my dinner the first few nights to a small bag of chips and beer from the little café on this floor. Finally I got adventurous, though, and decided to grab a book and actually have a sit-down meal there. The whole place looks like it was preserved from the early 1970’s, right down to the dull plastic plants, dusty upholstery on the chairs and vinyl tablecloths. The young ladies working there were an anomaly for the hotel. Both ladies were modest and friendly, and surprisingly unafraid to smile. Although on the same floor as my room, even the view from the cafe was astonishingly retro. With very few and exceptions, the huge picture windows afforded a view over the rooftops of Moscow virtually without advertising. If it hadn’t been for the obvious warmth of the waitresses, I could have sworn I’d been sucked back into a pre-glasnost time warp!
Sunday was my only day off on this trip, so after catching up on my sleep I got dressed and headed off to Red Square. I was again overwhelmed at just how much had changed – not only since 1975, but even since the late 90’s! Again I felt the same sense of wonder and awe as I looked at the exotic, brightly colored façade of St. Basil’s, and my personal favourite, the seemingly snow-capped edifice right behind it.
Although I stopped to take a few quick photos, I knew exactly where I was headed: ‘GUM’! ‘Gum’ (pronounced: ‘goom’) is the old Soviet shopping complex. I first went there in 1975 and wandered around both perplexed and fascinated. There were stalls full of deep-piled fur hats and ankle-length fur coats. Anyone who’s ever braved a Russian winter knows exactly why these are so popular, and the main reason isn’t fashion! Of course there were also the endless rows of ‘matruschkas’, along with enamelled boxes and pins. Other shops had caviar and sparkling wine and Russian vodka.
My most tangible memory of ‘gum’ from 1975? Wandering through the main aisle from ice cream stand to ice cream stand. It was an unseasonably warm April, so ice cream was just what the doctor ordered! But coming from the land of Baskin-Robbins, how was I to fathom a country where you could only buy one flavor of ice cream?
Needless to say, my latest excursion was a totally different affair! ‘Gum’ is now a honeycomb of fashionable and very expensive) Western shops bursting with almost everything capitalism has to offer. Oh, the stackable ‘matrushka’ dolls are still there, as are the enamelled boxes as well as other handcrafted articles by entrepreneurial ‘new’ Russians. There were even the infamous cow sculptures painted brightly by local artists and posed all through the mall to look at and pose beside.
In the end, I sat at a table in a little alcove overlooking a fountain in a central and wrote some postcards while I mused about what all has happened, both in my own life as well as in the life of this historic city, since I was first here.
We finally made it! Against all odds: a teacher-led strike, coupled with missed flights, political unrest, and family and friends against us. It did not forecast a positive experience. Nonetheless, the trip was full of silly moments, and life-changing experiences, which have better equipped me as a world-traveler in the years to come.
