All by Carolyn Handler Miller
Join Carolyn Handler Miller on an adventure through Cambodia's vibrant culture, where ancient traditions meet modern-day wonder. Amid the grandeur of Angkor Wat, an unexpected invitation leads to a mesmerizing Apsara dancing performance. But it's not just about the graceful movements—it's about the magic of a humble red yarn and the blessings it carries.
Embark on an unexpected journey with Carolyn Handler Miller through Vietnam and Cambodia, where an accidental injury confines her to a wheelchair. From VIP treatment at the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum to forming bonds in the 'wheelchair women's club,' this is a tale of resilience, camaraderie, and unexpected discoveries amid unforeseen challenges.
Digging into deep connections between people and their stuff, Carolyn Handler Miller compares John Steinbeck's Western Flyer to her Subaru Impreza. Reflecting on shared journeys, breakdowns, and revivals, the article culminates in the poignant homecoming of the Western Flyer to Monterey, CA.
Manzanar War Relocation Center was not on anyone's travel itinerary in 1942 when the United States government ordered 11,000 Japanese-Americans to leave their homes to be detained in internment camps. These days, visitors like writer Carolyn Handler Miller come to Manzanar National Historic Site to learn the stories of the people who were important to this place and experience a challenging mix of both injustice and beauty.
As a child, Carolyn Handler Miller’s favorite Disneyland ride was Pirates of the Caribbean. In her imagination, she saw the audacious and defiant characters as make-believe. Decades later a trip to New Orleans brought the characters to life as she explored Pirate’s Alley, the storied French Quarter passageway once used for smuggling and contraband by the “gentleman pirate” Jean Lafitte.
A visit to Calakmul Biosphere Reserve, a cultural and natural UNESCO World Heritage Site in Mexico’s Yucatán Peninsula, takes Carolyn Handler Miller deep into the Maya jungle where she discovers a vibrant ancient culture living intimately with their environment.
Thomas Wolfe once said: “You can’t go home again.” Was he right? Carolyn Handler-Miller wouldn’t know until she tried. She was determined to find out.
Compelled by necessity, Carolyn Handler Miller and her husband, Terry, set off for California from Santa Fe, New Mexico, with the coronavirus still gripping the country. Finding themselves in an unpredictable new world, they returned home safely and wiser, but would they do it again?
During a tour of India, Carolyn Handler Miller discovers that she'd accidentally left behind an important purchase. Disappointment is soon transformed to surprise and delight when a feisty stranger steps up to save the day.
In the weeks leading up to a trip to India, Carolyn Handler Miller imagined all she'd see and experience: elephants, camels, monumental architecture, gorgeous saris and mysterious rituals at the Ganges. What she didn’t envision, however, was an unexpected aspect of the culture that left her questioning her ideas of privacy.
It's not always easy to age. But here's the thing. It happens to everyone. In this story, discover how writer Carolyn Handler Miller faces the physical and emotional challenges of aging during a hike at Kasha-Katuwe Tent Rocks National Monument in northern New Mexico.
by Carolyn Handler Miller
One day a slender brochure arrived in the mail and my husband Terry and I scanned it with growing excitement. It was from the Archeological Conservancy, an American organization dedicated to the acquisition and preservation of archeological sites. The Conservancy was offering a unique, archeologist-led tour of eight Maya sites in Belize and Guatemala, most of which are rarely visited by anyone besides serious Mayanists.
As my husband and I jetted off to Portugal recently, I anticipated a trip that would be filled with Fado and gorgeous scenery, plenty of good wine, beautiful old tiles and medieval churches. We did find and luxuriate in all of these things. But it never occurred to me that Portugal would bring us closer to the heart and soul of love. We stumbled across three powerful love stories that caused me to somewhat shamefully compare these tales to my own almost-20-year marriage. Was our love as good as theirs, I wondered?
We encountered the physical remnants of the first love story at the magnificent Quinta das Lagrimas hotel in Coimbra, which is an old university town located in the middle of the country. The hotel had once been a palace, and the handsome rooms and gardens were permeated by romantic vibes. As we explored the garden, the poetic tragedy of the lovers Dom Pedro and Ines unfolded.
words + photos by Carolyn Handler Miller
Jews and Egypt. Two words that rarely meet in the same sentence. Unless you happen to be talking Bible talk and are retelling the story of Exodus, as we Jews do every spring during Passover. Or unless you are talking politics, and are discussing Egypt’s relationship with Israel. Or unless you possess a torn old photo like the one I have, plus a burning curiosity and the chance to travel to Egypt.
You see, the relationship between Jews and Egypt is a highly personal one for me, and one that the revolution in Egypt brought into sharp focus.
A large branch of my family once lived and thrived in Egypt until the 1950’s, when another Egyptian revolution, one barely remembered today, ultimately pushed Egyptian Jews into exile. In 1952, during that earlier revolution, King Farouk was forced to abdicate and soon after, Gamal Nasser took over the reins of government. Unlike the laid-back playboy king, Nasser was unfriendly to Jews. During the 1956 Suez Crisis, he declared them enemies of the state and Jews were no longer welcome in the country.
So the entire Egyptian branch of family fled to Paris. At that point, we, the American branch of the family, lost track of them. As far as we all knew, the story ended there.
And we might have forgotten all about them, except for this old black and white photo set in a broken wooden frame. It had been passed down from family member to family member and had finally fallen into my hands when none of my cousins showed any interest in it. Though they mocked the old-fashioned looking group, I found them fascinating. I longed to know more about them and their exotic life in Egypt.
The photo captures my Great Grandmother at a family reunion in Alexandria.
The sign went up about two weeks ago. It was probably a good thing I wasn’t in Los Angeles to witness the event. I might have started to cry. But a few days later, one of the realtors sent me a photo of it. There it was, firmly planted in the ivy by the stairs leading up to the house: the sign proclaiming that my house was up for sale.
Because of a silver-colored horse named Concho and a notorious outlaw named Billy the Kid, my tether to the digital world got snapped. And, as it turned out, I was grateful. I’ll explain.
It all started about a year ago, when I heard about an intriguing trail riding vacation called the Tunstall Ride. It had a Billy the Kid theme and was based in southern New Mexico, major Kid territory. According to Beth MacQuigg, the ride manager, there would be three days of trail riding and we’d be traveling over some of the same rangeland that the Kid would have ridden over.
Riders would be housed in guest rooms on a private ranch adjacent to the property where the Kid once worked as a ranch hand. Known as the Tunstall Ranch, it was owned by his boss, Englishman John Henry Tunstall. Billy was riding with him one day when Tunstall was gunned down, was the first person to be murdered during the infamous Lincoln County War.
That bloody conflict aside, the land we’d be riding over was reputed to be some of the Kid’s favorite country. Beth told me that most people would be bringing their own horses, but for those of us who were horseless, like me, rental horses could be provided. As someone who loves horses, trail riding, and Western lore, the Tunstall Ride sounded immensely appealing, and I signed up. I signed my husband up, too. Though Terry doesn’t ride, he could hang out at the ranch and join us for meals and explore the historic sites with us that we’d be visiting without the horses.
Arroyo. The word doesn’t exactly conjure up magic. In the Southwest, where arroyos exist in some abundance, they are usually just scruffy riverbeds without water. Sometimes these dry channels are brightened by a few brave weeds, but more often they are littered with garbage – everything from plastic water bottles to old car parts and rusty shopping carts. Arroyos also tend to be the kind of place where dead bodies are found. Murdered dead bodies.
So I wasn’t at all impressed when the condo sales agent I was trailing around pointed enthusiastically out a window and said: “And right over there is the arroyo!” She obviously thought this was a worthwhile selling point. “There’s a trail along it that goes for miles,” she went on. “Nice for walks!”
But I was far more interested in things like closet space and the size of the rooms. My husband and I needed a part-time residence in Santa Fe for our work, and I was concerned the condo would be too tiny for us.
As it turned out, we bought it anyway, though the arroyo certainly didn’t factor into our decision. But after some weeks there, I started to feel itchy to get outdoors and remembered the sales agent’s words: “Nice for walks!”
