fact or fiction
Is it a fact or merely fiction? Fact or Fiction explores travel myths to help you avoid making that wrong turn.
The Hanging Gardens of Bullshit. Formerly known as, Babylon. đ
âââââ (1/5) For years we wanted to visit the beautiful gardens. For years to come, we'll be haunted by the memory. Don't waste your time or blood on this hell hole. The only âwonderâ to experience is how to get your money back. And the cureâŠBe warned, the surrounding waters are cesspools of filth! Undrinkable! Un-swimmable! Putrid! They completely reek of cholera and dysentery! And I swear I saw a severed hand float by. *If you really want to see for yourself, make sure and take an extra suitcase filled with bottled water. Youâll thank me later...The landscape and structure were okay. That's Until you get close enough to see all the âCautionâ and âForbidden Entryâ signs. The gardens themselves are fake as shit! Straight up plastic! Supposedly, recycled plastic. Like that makes any difference...The only food venue â a hotdog stand. I mean, it was tolerable if you consider lizard-on-a stick and chocolate covered scorpions gourmet. They didn't even sell hotdogs even though the sign clearly said, 'Hot Dog Stand'! Oh, and beware of the attendant who served us. Although courteous, that man has gotta be possessed or something. His eyes kept rolling into the back of his head.The only thing this ghost-town-of-a wonder really attracts (or maybe, creates) are mutant mosquitoes. I actually thought they were weird hummingbirds until you see what you think is a beak, is actually a 2-inch syringe coming right at ya. Iâm pretty sure we all contracted malaria. Except for Thomas, our teenage son. His under-arm odor apparently radiates a natural repellant. They left him alone. I gave the gardens one star. Although a waste of money, it got us out the house for a few days. And for some weird reason my wife now wants to breed lizards. I told her only if she doesn't make them for dinner. They were delicious, though and really do taste like chicken.But still, I'm sticking with one star.
By Lamar Wiggins6 months ago in Wander
Temple of Artemis at Euphesus Review
âââââ (3/5) â âImpressive scale, gaping lack of technical clarity.â Last week, visited the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus with the explicit goal of studying construction methods and structural logic. Also, as a rising senior in an architectural school, hoped to land an internship. Left with admiration, a notebook full of unanswered questions, and no internship.
By Lana V Lynx6 months ago in Wander
The Lighthouse of Alexandria Review
âââââ (3/5) â âExcellent visibility, questionable wayfinding.â I arrived in Alexandria yesterday, guided by the famed Lighthouse of Alexandria, which, I must admit and give credit where it's due, is impossible to miss. The beam is visible from miles out, the structure itself an undeniable marvel. If your sole goal is not to crash your ship, five stars.
By Lana V Lynx6 months ago in Wander
âââââ (1/5) â âDidn't See No Hanging Gardens, Just Rude Babyloniansâ
We arrived at the Vaulted Building of the Royal Palace of King Nebuchadnezzar only to be informed there were no Hanging Gardens. The Babylonians then laughed at us for a solid five minutes before offering a palace tour for 50 shekels of silver.
By Paul Stewart6 months ago in Wander
The ethical rethinking of travel
I am a follower of all things Travel and Adventure, my eyes light up at the discovery of a new flight route to Armenia, A camel trek in the Western Sahara or a Windsurfing trip in Naxos. The thought of the unknown is what drives my spirit of adventure, I leave scribbles and notes in diaries about trips and ideas far into the future, even if they are not viable or I never embark on them, but each idea is what inspires and motivates me to keep taking steps to find what is over the horizon.
By Malachai Hough7 months ago in Wander
The Haunted Mountain: The Unsolvable Riddle of the Dyatlov Pass Incident
The greatest fear is not the fear of what we know. It is the fear of what we cannot understand. Most stories about the wilderness are about survival, or about the simple, brutal power of nature. They are about avalanches, hypothermia, or predatory animals. They have clear beginnings, terrifying middles, and logical ends. We look at the data, we reconstruct the timeline, and we can say with certainty: *This is why they died.*
By Frank Massey 7 months ago in Wander
Back In The Poison Garden. Content Warning.
Introduction Earlier this year I visited The Poison Garden in Alnwick and shocked and surprised a lot of my friends across the water with the fatal capabilities of everyday plants that most people have around their homes. You can check that piece out with the comments here.
By Mike Singleton đ Mikeydred 7 months ago in Wander
Where the Journey Begins
The journey didnât begin with a packed suitcase or a carefully drawn map. It began, as most meaningful things do, with a restlessness that refused to be ignored. Clara felt it first on an ordinary Tuesday morning, sitting by her apartment window as the city moved in predictable rhythms below. Cars passed, people hurried, the same cafĂ© across the street filled and emptied like clockwork. Everything was exactly as it had been yesterdayâand somehow that sameness felt heavier than ever. She didnât plan it. Not really. She just opened her laptop, searched for train tickets, and chose a destination she had never heard of before. A small seaside town tucked away along a quiet stretch of coast. The name meant nothing to her, which made it perfect. Three days later, she stepped off a train into a place that felt like it had been waiting for her. The town was smaller than she imagined. Narrow streets wound lazily between whitewashed houses, their walls weathered by salt and time. Bougainvillea spilled over balconies, bright and unbothered. The air smelled like the seaâclean, endless, promising something just out of reach. Clara walked without a plan. That, she decided, would be her only rule: no plans. She passed an old man repairing fishing nets outside a small shop. He nodded as she walked by, as if he recognized something in herâa familiar kind of wandering. A little further, she found a cafĂ© with only three tables and no menu. The woman inside simply asked, âCoffee?â Clara nodded. It was the best coffee sheâd ever had, though she couldnât explain why. Days in the town unfolded like slow pages of a book she didnât want to finish. She woke early, drawn by the sound of waves brushing against the shore. She walked along the beach where no footprints lasted long enough to matter. She watched fishermen return at dusk, their boats cutting through golden light. It was there, sitting on a weathered wooden dock, that she met Daniel. Daniel had the kind of presence that made silence feel comfortable. He was leaning against a post, sketching something in a notebook, when Clara sat a few feet away. âYouâre not from here,â he said, not looking up. âIs it that obvious?â He smiled slightly. âOnly because youâre looking at everything like it might disappear.â Clara considered that. âMaybe Iâm just noticing it.â âSame thing,â he said. They talked for hours that evening. About places theyâd been, and places they hadnât. About leaving and staying. About the strange way travel changes youânot by turning you into someone new, but by revealing parts of you that had been quiet for too long. Daniel had been traveling for years, never settling for long. âThereâs always another place,â he said. âBut sometimes the real reason to go somewhere isnât the place itself.â âWhat is it, then?â Clara asked. âTo find the version of yourself that only exists there.â A week passed, then two. Clara stopped counting days. She began to feel something shift inside herânot dramatically, not all at once, but gently, like the tide reshaping the shore. The urgency she carried from the city softened. The questions that once felt overwhelming seemed less important here. One evening, Daniel showed her a path that led up a steep hillside overlooking the town. They climbed in near darkness, guided only by a narrow trail and the distant sound of the sea. At the top, the world opened. Below them, the town glowed softly, scattered lights flickering like constellations fallen to earth. The ocean stretched beyond, vast and unknowable, reflecting the faint shimmer of stars. âThis is why I travel,â Daniel said quietly. Clara didnât respond right away. She was thinking about how small everything looked from up thereâand how freeing that felt. âI think I understand,â she said finally. When Clara left the town, it wasnât with sadness. Not exactly. It was something quieter, more certain. She knew she wasnât leaving it behind; she was carrying it with her. The next part of her journey wasnât planned either. She rented a carâsomething sheâd never done beforeâand started driving inland. No destination, no timeline. Just roads stretching endlessly ahead. Highways have a different kind of magic than seaside towns. Where the town invited her to slow down, the road invited her to keep moving. Landscapes shifted rapidlyâcoastlines gave way to rolling hills, then to vast open fields where the horizon seemed impossibly far away. She stopped in places that werenât marked on any guidebook. A roadside diner where the waitress called everyone âhon.â A gas station where a stray dog followed her around until she shared her sandwich. A quiet stretch of desert where the silence felt almost sacred. Each place left its mark, small but undeniable. Somewhere along a long, empty highway, Clara realized something she hadnât expected. She no longer felt like she was searching for something. At the beginning, the journey had been about escapeâleaving behind the monotony, the predictability, the version of herself that felt too confined. But now, miles away from where she started, she understood that the journey wasnât about running from anything. It was about arriving. Not at a place, but at a feeling. A way of being. She pulled over to the side of the road and stepped out of the car. The wind moved freely across the open land, carrying with it the scent of earth and distance. The sky stretched endlessly above her, unbroken and vast. For the first time in a long while, she felt completely present. Months later, Clara would struggle to explain the journey to others. They would ask about the places she visited, the things she saw, the distance she covered. She would tell them about the seaside town with no name that mattered. About the man who believed travel reveals who you are. About the highways that seemed to lead nowhere and everywhere at once. But what she wouldnât be able to fully explain was how it changed her. How she learned that beginnings arenât always loud or obvious. Sometimes they arrive quietly, disguised as a simple decisionâto go somewhere new, to take a different road, to step into the unknown. And how, in those hidden towns and open highways, she discovered something she hadnât realized she was missing. Herself. Because in the end, the journey doesnât begin when you leave a place. It begins the moment you decide youâre ready to find whatâs been waiting for you all along.
By Sahir E Shafqat7 months ago in Wander
The Christmas Truce They Tried to Erase
On Christmas Eve 1914, something extraordinary happened along the Western Front that high command on both sides immediately tried to suppress because it threatened the entire war effort: thousands of British and German soldiers spontaneously stopped fighting, climbed out of their trenches, met in No Man's Land to exchange gifts and cigarettes, play football, and bury their dead together, proving that the men doing the dying had more in common with each other than with the generals ordering them to slaughter one another, and when word reached headquarters, officers were horrified and issued strict orders that such fraternization must never happen again because soldiers who saw their enemies as human beings might refuse to kill them.
By The Curious Writer7 months ago in Wander
Medeaâs Quick Divorce
Dear Jason, Please use this letter as a quick divorce approval you requested, you poor gelded ram. Did you really think I'd give you my best golden fleece? The problem with you lost travelers is that you never know the highest quality of either the sheep or the gold-gathering fleece. Since your departure, I've put a dozen of new fleece in my quarters, both on the walls and the floor for rugs. I literally walk and sleep on gold.
By Lana V Lynx7 months ago in Wander
