Start with three key ingredients: Detroit, a bag of urine, and the TSA.

Add an agressive pat-down at security and what do you get? A disgruntled man on a plane, soaked in his own warm pee and a national news headline!

On Nov. 7th, a male passenger flying from DTW to Orlando, Florida was selected for additional security screening. A bladder cancer survivor, the passenger carried an urostomy bag under his clothes--a plastic bag attached to his abdomen for collecting urine. Despite repeated requests to exercise caution in their search, the agents broke the seal on the bag, spilling the passenger's urine all over him.

Adding insult to injury of the American psyche, the poor guy's name was Tom Sawyer (not making this up), a Michigan special education teacher who is currently learning the true power of the internet. Obviously, this guy is pissed--he's already taken the issue to the White House and the Department of Homeland Security.

An official response is still unknown, but the current threat advisory level is yellow.

To travel is to trade.

From the 15th century Portuguese explorers to the overconfident 18-year old who crosses the ocean with a loaded iPod, travelers are always in the business of exchanging things: ideas, food, fashion, genes and diseases. Music is right up there, and with the ease of the MP3, we freely unload playlists to one another like apples in a market.

When I look over some of the best music I own, I realize that I only discovered these bands/musicians from traveling away from home, well outside my own musical comfort zone. Certain bands are universal, others still quite local (or were, once upon a time), but despite iTunes attempts to drench us all in far-reaching world tastes, some music is still homegrown. Here's a quick (and personal) top ten of my own discoveries accompanied by a slew of cheesy YouTube clips for your listening pleasure.

Trentemøller (Denmark) Something about dark, electronic music and the Nordic countries go hand in hand. Trentemøller has become a legendary DJ who plays across the globe, but had I never gone to Denmark, I would have waited five years for his music to work its way across the Atlantic.


Zero Degree Atoll (Maldives) I met the lead singer of this band in his home country of The Maldives, right after he performed a chilling cover or R.E.M's "Losing My Religion". Though he masters Led Zeppelin and his favorite band is Jethro Tull, his own music is sung in the Dhivehi languages and combines the local blend of Arabic and Indian influences.


Cheb Hasni (Algeria) You can't visit North Africa and not hear the signature sounds of Algerian Raï music blaring in the chaotic streets of the medina, day and night. Cheb Hasni is king of the genre--an Algerian man, who with his band, cultivated a global following before he was murdered by Islamic fundamentalists in 1994. I caught on to Cheb Hasni in Morocco and despite regular online research, have yet to listen to every one of his songs that make up his prolific discography.

"Where did you get so tan?" they ask, and I tell them: "Greenland."

"But how?" they exclaim, laughing in sheer disbelief, because let's face it: the nameless friends we invent for the sake of trite opening dialogue are inherently dumb. Mostly, their minds are muddled with storybook imagery like scary snowstorms and Eskimo cliché, a random mix of Alaska, Siberia, and the opening sequence in Empire Strikes Back. They still think Greenland is like, cold.

This is my chance to correct them. Besides my sheepskin rug, my enviable neck tanline is my best souvenir from a blissful week on the sunny Greenlandic Riviera. What, you don't know it--the Greenlandic Riviera? What rock do you live under? What travel magazines are you not reading? The Greenlandic Riviera is exploding right now-it's already this whole thing and the real estate war is right around the corner.

Alright, I totally made that up. If you Google "Greenlandic Riviera" you get zilch--until now. See, that's the magic of the internet--once you say it, it becomes real. Greenlandic Riviera, Greenlandic Riviera, Greenlandic Riviera. If you build it, they will come.

The real Riviera was (and still is) in Liguria, the region that spans the northwest coast of Italy. Despite its 700-year old status as an iconic vacation spot, the original Riviera can be a little disappointing. For one, the coastline is all rocky and the towns comprised of overpriced boutiques selling pink sweater vests for men. There is nary a beach to stand on, and the ones that are any good are ultra-private. But no matter--history, tradition, and Hollywood have made "Riviera" mean everything we long for in a chic travel destination: escapism, romance, sunshine and sea.

Today, there are other countless Rivieras to choose from: on our planet today, actual people will non-jokingly refer to the English, Mexican, Russian, Chinese, African, and Australian Rivieras (also, French). Did you know that there's even a self-proclaimed Redneck Riviera along the American Gulf Coast where instead of seashells, earnest Alabama children collect shiny black tarballs to take home for "show-and-tell"?

Greenland's beaches come sans tarballs, (although the country's drive for oil exploration could change this, wink, wink). In fact, Greenland has the cleanest beaches I have ever seen: a mile-wide half-moon stretch of vanilla sand bordering clear turquoise shallows that are so clear, you can follow the gently waving seaweed below. There are no cigarette butts and no blowing trash. Also, there are no people, which is the recipe for a perfect beach. And who knows what you'll find as you stroll along the shore? A reindeer skull, a salmon-colored piece of wave-polished granite or a jumble of blue, microwave-sized ice chunks. What the real Riviera offers in fashion, culture, and high-life, Greenland makes up for with its elegant arctic beaches.

Did you know the Pentagon collects art? The United States military began taking an interest back in 1840 and today, the total collection counts more than 15,000 pieces produced by some 1,300 actual American soldiers. Most of these artists are self-taught, enlisted military personnel and depict the sights and scenes of life in the armed forces--often at war and often in other countries.

I got a sneak preview of the exhibit a while back and was amazed by the talent and emotion depicted in the collection. From Vietnam to the Gulf War to Iraq and Afghanistan--these paintings explore an insider's view of war, sometimes tender and sometimes horrific yet utterly lacking in propaganda or modern media. One artist even painted on canvas torn from combat tents because that's what was available in Iraq.

Interested travelers can get a taste of our nation's long-hidden art reserve in Philadelphia, where 300 pieces have been chosen for a special exhibit, Art of the American Soldier at National Constitution Center. The show opens today, September 24, 2010 and runs until January 10, 2011, after which it will begin a national tour.

(Attack at Twilight; Roger Blum, Vietnam 1966)

Don't hate me but I ate whale meat. More than once and from more than one species (cringe).

I didn't do it for the sake of boasting--I've eaten whale before in other countries. I did it because when you get invited over for dinner at somebody's house in Greenland and they serve you whale, you just eat it and smile and say, "Qujanaq"(thank you).

As a guest in Greenland, I was first served a tender whale steak smothered in caramelized onions, and honestly-it was good. I still felt uneasy about eating it, though--I was indoctrinated by the Save the Whales campaigns of the 1980s and still believe that commercial whaling is fundamentally unnecessary.

Perhaps more disturbing was seeing humpback whale on a plate, which I also tasted and felt guilty about. Hunting humpbacks is banned by the International Whaling Commission (IWC), and the species is still listed as endangered under the United States' Endangered Species Act. However, the IWC does include an "aboriginal subsistence whaling" clause that recognizes tradition and allows indigenous hunting communities to take enough for their own consumption, as long as its done "sustainably", meaning within the limits of internationally-recognized quotas.

The Inuit of Greenland have been whaling for a few thousand years and that won't change any time soon. While visiting the southern town of Qaqortoq, a minke whale was hunted and butchered right down in the harbor. What followed was an odd blend of ancient tradition and 21st century technology: cell phones buzzed around town to spread the news, and all the old folks gathered around to chat and linger. It was a big event--whole families walked in to look over the meat, people brought their own bags and carefully picked out the morsel they wanted. For a few minutes, I was able to suspend judgment and just witness the way life is lived in Greenland.

Unexpectedly, I ended up in Seattle.

My bags were packed for a nice New York City summer weekend (shorts, t-shirts, flip flops) but instead I took off for Seattle. Wrong clothes, wrong place, though last-minute travel still carries a thrill of spontaneity, even when you're flying cross-country for a funeral.

Everybody has at least one friend in Seattle. It's that kind of city where you're bound to find that personal connection. And yet I never realized so many people lived out there--enough to fill up every cubicle on every floor of every earthquake-proof skyscraper. Back on the East Coast we like to think we invented all of America's big cities, but no . . .

I come from the other Washington--DC--where it gets unbearably hot and sticky in the summer; where men sweat through three-piece suits and women wear impractical shoes; where any day you might pick up the Post and know somebody who's in it and everyday there's some kind of vigilant protest brewing on the Mall.

West coast Washington is a little less uptight but a whole lot damper. The stereotype about Seattle's drizzled, overcast skies held true for me and in spite of summer, the day's "high" was a shoulder-shaking 52 degrees. Dark, unorganized clouds greeted me in the morning and I started to understand the whole coffee thing--how this one city had unleashed Starbucks on the rest of us like a misunderstood gift of the heart.

The day after the funeral, another friend I was crashing with whipped out a yellow legal pad and began making a list of things to see and do in Seattle. Mostly, he suggested I do a lot eating. We made plans to meet up for lunch at a popular Russian café; my friend slipped me the address as we walked downtown. I had no map and no idea how I would find him.

"Hey, batter, batter, batter . . . saa-weeeeng!" doesn't translate directly, but the Greenlandic word for it is Anaasilluni, meaning to swing or to hit.

When I saw these kids batting around in the schoolyard, I smiled and thought, "Hey, isn't that cool? They're playing baseball!"--but actually no, it's not baseball. The game is called Anaalerooq, or "hit ball" and it's played all across Greenland. It might look and feel like baseball-here they're using an aluminum bat and a yellow tennis ball-but the rules are a little different. For one, there are only two bases, or "points".

I happened upon this outdoor gym class right at the start of the school season in a village so remote it took me three flights, two helicopters and a two-hour boat ride to get there.

When you arrive, Tasiusaq feels like it's the last village in the world. In fact, it's not even a village, but rather a "settlement" at the edge of Tasermuit ("small fjord"). A single dirt path runs between two lines of compact wooden homes, all brightly colored and with steep roofs. There were fish drying out on the clotheslines next to the clothes, and a few perky dogs tied up. Beyond that, the world was just bright blue sea and the grey granite pinnacles of a million unnamed mountains. In the far distance, there was a hint of white and the coolness sweeping off the ice cap.

I was told that only 67 people live in Tasiusaq and that 13 of them were students in this bright red schoolhouse. It's impossible for me to fathom what life is like in such an isolated place, but I do know that the inhabitants of Tasiusaq can't ever complain about the view.

Gallery: Tasiusaq, Greenland

When it comes to travel, Greenland has its own rules-which are nature's rules really. In fact, nature rules so completely that the weather report determines your itinerary, as do the tricky logistics of Greenland's giant glacial geography.

For starters, Greenland is the least densely populated country in the world: for every human being who lives on the coastal fringe, there are 15 square miles of silent, empty ice rising up in the middle of the country. More than 80% of the land is covered by permanent ice cap, which can only be crossed by air or by skis.

Also, did I mention? There are no roads between any two towns. Getting from A to B in Greenland is very much an adventure in its own right.

What is most shocking about traveling in Greenland is how remarkably empty a place it is. Most of us have never confronted such vast, undisturbed landscapes--no matter how well-traveled we pretend to be. The feeling of being this tiny singular person up against such gargantuan nature is odd and overwhelming. Our intellects tend to panic a little--where are the highways, streetlights, the telephone wires, the ambient glowing dome of the suburbs at night? After you've arrived in some town, your mind ponders the landscape and begins to realize that the only way out is to hike--and then to where? On foot, most villages are a good 4 to 5 days apart--and that's in the summer when the weather is nice.

If you're the kind of traveler who enjoys wandering in their rent-a-car or hopping from one place to the next in some tightly-packed trip, please skip Greenland. For the others out there--those of who sit all week at desks with computers and crave the open outdoors, then Greenland is the pinnacle of our big hiking dream. Back at home, you might drive a few hours to reach the closest state park that's overrun with hot-dog roasters living in RVs with blasting rap music. In Greenland, a two-minute helicopter hop puts you into true and utter wilderness where if you don't know what you're doing, you'll die.

Is Greenland Green? The question and oft-given answer are cliché--even you've heard it before: that Iceland is really green whereas Greenland is covered with ice and snow.

Well, I'm about to set the record straight, right here, right now, because after spending more than a week in Greenland, I can tell you that Greenland is in fact, very, very GREEN.

Yes, it's true that a Europe-sized piece of mile-thick ice covers a good 85% of the country. However, the peripheral parts of Greenland are quite open and even lush, especially in the long sun of late summer. Imposing mountains and immense sloping valleys bleed with bright green, a stunning color that is made even brighter by the dry air and utter lack of pollution.

Viking explorer and cunning marketer Eric the Red named Grønland ("green land") in 982 AD because it was in fact green but also because he was trying to lull colonists from the warmer shores of Iceland. It worked back then, and a thousand years later, the colorful name of earth's least-known country still provokes a strange wonderment.

The following photo essay shows the true green of Greenland, unedited and unplugged. Whether or not it's intentional, the country shows a constant theme of the color for which it is named.

Gallery: Green things in Greenland