George Clooney Slept Here

Really, CBS? I used to feel sympathy for the cast of Survivor, having to battle the elements, construct shelter and scrounge for food. But after visiting the motu ( a South Pacific word for little island) where the 13th season, Survivor: Cook Islands, was filmed, I’m thinking about applying.

Surviving? Seriously? This idyllic motu, one of 15 in Aitutaki, is truly one of the prettiest places I’ve ever seen. And I’ve been around the globe a few times. Even Tony Wheeler, founder of Lonely Planet, calls it “the world’s most beautiful island.”

Aitutaki’s 8 by 10-mile coral lagoon is stunning with literally hundreds of shades of blue. Sure, it hasn’t succumbed yet to mass tourism and it takes a while to get there. From L.A., ten hours on Air New Zealand and then an hour hop from Rarotonga. But neither is much of a chore. Applicants for Air New Zealand flight attendants must come from Super Nice People Academy and the 48-minute, nearly-always-on-time flight from Rarotonga to Aitutaki is reminiscent of air travel before 9/11. No one asks you to take off your shoes or get there hours early or submit yourself to embarrassing pat-downs. In fact, the flight into the miniscule Aitutaki airport is nearly as gorgeous as a Monet water lily and certainly a lot less expensive.

I supposed the fact that Aitutaki’s golf course is only nine holes, doesn’t have a phone and that stray balls sometimes land in either the lagoon or the airport runway could be considered a hardship, but any one of Aitutaki’s hotels or guesthouses can arrange rentals and tee times.

I’m not sure where the Cook Island “Survivors” bunked before starting their outdoor challenges, but Aitutaki has a fine selection of five-star resorts including Pacific Resort and Aitutaki Escape where I had one of the best massages of my life, outdoors, next to crashing waves while a chef prepared an amazing three-course meal.

While in Aitutaki, I visited several motus: Honeymoon Motu, Heaven (it’s aptly named), One-Foot Island and, yes, Survivor Island, although it’s officially called Motu Rakau. . Bishop’s Cruises (nearly half the people in Aitutaki have the surname Bishop) even took us to Motu Akaiami with a small museum (very, very small) with exhibits from the old Coral Route.

Operated by TEAL (the forerunner of Air New Zealand), these Coral Route flying boats famously hopped from one South Pacific paradise to another in the 1950′s, back when flying was an elite, wealthy-man’s only sport. John Wayne, Cary Grant and Queen Elizabeth II, to name just a few of the Coral Route “Survivors,” enjoyed chefs, white linens, full silver service and, in Aitutaki, Polynesian dancers and cocktails served on the white sand, palm-fringed beach where the museum now sits.

My favorite Aitutaki motu was probably Tapuaetai (AKA One-Foot Island), the world’s only “deserted island” with its own post office. Lagoon cruises often stop there for lunch so passengers can mail letters and get their passports stamped with a giant foot that now dwarfs all the other “countries” in my passport. Depending on the tide, you can walk so far out on a sandbar (in pictures from One Foot, I resemble Jesus when he got out of the boat) that your party could easily mistake you for an errant sea bird or an insignificant dot.

Two years after “Survivor: Cook Islands,” One Foot Island’s beach was even chosen as “Australasia’s Leading Beach,” not exactly a resume builder for “roughing it.”

So, call it what you will, but “surviving” in Aitutaki with its crystal clear lagoon, archetypical tropical islands and New Zealand savoir faire is something I’d volunteer for any day.

Last August, when Hillary Clinton visited the Cook Islands on official state business, its population of 11,000 islanders got a good chuckle at the bullet-proof car flown in to drive her around Rarotonga, the biggest of the Cooks’ 15 tropical isles.

Truth be told, Madame Secretary, there are but two potential hazards on a drive around Rarotonga, a 45-minute undertaking that would take only 30 minutes if it weren’t for the motor scooters driving 20 miles per hour: chickens that run loose and smoke that belches from one of two buses that circumvent the island. There’s the clockwise bus and the anti-clockwise bus, the latter named because the 16 letters in counterclockwise didn’t quite fit on the front.

Our former Secretary of State may have been more prudent to seek protection from curse-spouting tribesmen who have managed (knock on wood) to keep out corporate hotel chains. It’s a long and involved story, but when the Sheraton tried to build a hotel a dozen or so ago, a curse was allegedly placed on the land. The skeleton for that project, abandoned before it was ever opened, still sits off to the side of the beach road near Vaiimaanga like a seventh grade boy at his first dance. Hilton bought it a few years ago, made another valiant attempt, and well, just saying, nothing has became of that either.

Which is one of the Cooks great appeals. All the hotels, shops and restaurants are locally-owned. That’s not to say they’re not upscale or savvy to the needs of Westerners. Quite contrary. The Little Polynesian, where Hillary was GOING to stay (except her people didn’t give the boutique hotel enough notice and all 14 bungalows were booked for a wedding) is exquisite with local woods and accents of wild hibiscus. Pacific Resort in Aitutaki, the other island I visited, is a member of the Small Luxury Hotels of the World, not to mention that manager Jason Strickland offers to eat a table if visitors in July through October don’t see humpback whales migrating through the lagoon outside their luxury suites.

It’s just that Cook Island’s five-star hotels don’t have “Ritz” or “Marriott” on their welcome signs. I loved the unpretentious luxury and found it refreshing to visit a place that still refers to low season as “cyclone season.” Most savvy tourist destinations have banned such inconvenient realities from their marketing vocabulary.

The cuisine that replaced headhunting of yore (I’m relieved to report that once-practiced ritual was abandoned decades ago) is beyond spectacular. In fact, last week I wrote an article for www.thedailymeal.com nominating the Cook Islands as a top foodie destination. Seriously, the ika mata, fresh seafood, bush beer clubs and iced coffee (it comes with a dollop of ice cream) have made me contemplate relocation.

The giant smiles of the locals and their unending hospitality makes this South Pacific getaway worth putting on the “before you die” list. The Cook Islanders love to tell you “We don’t live to be served. We live to serve.” They even have a saying, “Kiriti maro tai.” It means there’s no such thing as a stranger. And once you step on Aitutaki’s ceremonial black rock, everything on the island becomes yours. You’re part of the family. Except in my case, the dancing gene that enables Cook Islanders to gracefully wow and win most South Pacific dance competitions is still taking root.

It goes without saying that Cook Island beaches are magnificent. They’re smack dab in the South Pacific, after all, and have miles and miles of white sand, snorkeling, diving, fishing and boating. The many lagoons surrounding the islands contain every single shade of blue in a hardware store paint palette.

But I was rather partial to Rarotonga’s jungle. On the second day, my compadres and I took individual ATV’s into the mountainous center. We crossed more than 21 streams, plucked ginger (who knew it sudsed up) for washing our hair and got up close and personal with free range pigs, goats and farmers, who amicably waved even though we were driving right through their homesteads.

Later in the trip, after returning from a spectacular stay in Aitutaki, we took a jungle trek with Pa, a 70-something medicine man with waist-length dreads and tea leaves tied around his knees. He plucked bananas, guava and graviola from trees and regaled us with amazing stories about 64 generations of ancestors, his 12 kids, his swim from the Cooks to Tahiti and the healing powers of various herbs and stones.

So no, I didn’t merit an armored vehicle while visiting the Cook Islands, but I did feel completely loved by the locals and protected by the magical stone that Pa gathered from a jungle stream, instructing me to take it home and place it in the left-hand corner of my living room, where it remains to this day along with all my memories of this unique Pacific paradise.

With the four Fashion Weeks and the obligatory celebrity entrances behind them, the stars can get back to what they do best-—finding OTT vacay opportunities.

To help in their search are five ideas from the March issue of Conde Nast Traveler:

1. Escape to a private island:

The Beckhams (yes, those Beckhams) rang in their 10th anniversary at Fregate Island, a private island in the Seychelles. Price tag? $200,000. But that’s only because they wanted the restaurant, the library, the museum and the seven dream beaches to themselves.

2. Get down on your own private yacht:

Rihanna was a tad more inviting when she chartered the 170-foot, five-deck yacht, Latitude, for a Mediterranean get-away off St. Tropez and Cannes. She invited Magic Johnson (among others) to enjoy the glass elevator, sundeck gym and DJ booth. Price tag? $300,000 per week.

3. Repair to a beach house:

The normal accoutrements at a South American beach bungalow (make that mansion) didn’t cut the muster for Mark Zuckerberg at last year’s “Get-ready-to-take-Facebook-public” party for his wife and 13 of their closest friends. Not only did he bring his own chef, cook, maids and bodyguards to the exclusive house he rented in Punta del Este, Uruguay, but he insisted on brand new furniture.

4. Get your adrenaline on:

In 2011, Russian billionaire and Nets owner Mikhail Prokhorov took six helicopters full of friends to Courchevel to ski otherwise inaccessible slopes in the French Alps. Afterwards, of course, they warmed up at his $30 million chalet.

5. Celebrate with friends:

For Oprah’s 55th birthday, she took 1700 friends and family to northeast Spain and a ten-day cruise on the Norwegian Gem to Italy, Turkey, Greece and Malta.

Just don’t try to write it off as a business expense as Tyco CEO Dennis Kozlowski did with a $2 million, 75-guest party in Sardinia. Let’s just say, the IRS didn’t look too kindly on the eight-foot ice sculpture of David that urinated vodka.

In Belize, I fell down a cliff into Tiger Creek, 20 yards from an 800-foot waterfall, ruined my new camera, nearly lost my lucky hat and endured pounding rain and roads as bumpy as political budget talks. Yet, I can’t wait to go back.

I’ve had a long and enduring love affair with Latin America. To each new country, I give my whole heart. But there have been problems. I can’t understand a single word anyone says.

I have tried to learn Spanish, have even mastered a few questions that, to my ear, sound pretty authentic. But the minute someone answers back, I panic and end up looking like the idiot gringo I am.

In Belize, because the official language is English, I could actually converse with locals. Instead of just exchanging smiles, I could share jokes, learn about their families and move the relationship beyond my normal ceiling of “Hola! Como Estas! Muy bien. Y tu?” It was magical, leading me to wonder, “Why in the heck haven’t I been to Belize before?”

This little country wedged between Mexico and Guatemala has everything a tourist destination could ever need: miles and miles of beaches, the second largest barrier reef in the world, 450 islands and Mayan ruins that are still being discovered.

Caracol, where I had intended to bring in the end of the Mayan calendar (long story, don’t ask), covers more than 30 square miles, much of which is still being excavated. At one time, this now jungle-covered city had more people than Belize City has today.

Majestic Caana (Sky Palace), one of 35,000 structures at Caracol, is still the largest building in the country, although the only residents today are a few security guards, some itinerant archaeologists and two troops of howler monkeys whose hoots are the spitting image of the soundtrack to Jurassic Park. Only a few feet from one of the troops, I captured their ongoing argument on video and would have added it to the bottom of this story except, as I said, the camera ended up submerged in Tiger Creek.

For years, no one even knew Caracol existed. Many of Belize’s Mayan ruins had been discovered by 1937 when a logger looking for mahogany stumbled upon this city, one of the largest in Maya civilization. It’s just that this mighty city was covered with vines and trees and other flora of the rainforests that make up nearly 60 percent of this Central American country.

When not monitoring feuds with howler monkeys, I stayed in one of 12 cottages at Hidden Valley Inn, a 7,290-acre private nature reserve, not far from Caracol. This intimate lodge in Mountain Pine Ridge has 90 miles of hiking trails, 12 waterfalls, 81 species of wild orchids, four species of jungle cats (although they’re nearly as hard to spot as Caracol was for so many years) and rare raptors. One night at dinner, I had the privilege of dining with a volunteer studying a rare nest of solitary eagles, one of many (Hidden Valley also supports the Peregrine Fund) on-site research projects. Another perk is Hidden Valley’s small coffee plantation. Not only was my morning java Fair Trade, but also locally-grown.

And it’s not just diversity of flora and fauna that makes Belize so enchanting. It’s a veritable fondue pot of cultures from Kriol, Maya and Mestizo to Amish and Mennonite, all of whom work amiably together to keep this little country humming. I saw giant truckloads of oranges, most of which would end up in Florida to make juice. I saw a barefoot Mennonite girl run, two steps at a time, to the top of the 140-foot Sky Palace. I saw lemon sharks, barracuda and a monstrous school of blue tang. I swam three-feet above a three-foot loggerhead turtle.

But, most importantly, I met dozens of friendly, warm, English-speaking Belizeans. One night, in fact, the owner of my Placencia hotel invited me to a party with his friends, opening the curtain to a precious part of Belizean culture most travelers miss. That Friday night, underdog Belize had miraculously made it to the semifinals of the Copa Centroamericana soccer tournament against Honduras, the first time the tiny nation qualified to play for the CONCACAF gold cup.

Evan Hall, the owner of Nirvana Inn, invited me to cheer on the home team by the light of a TV hooked up outside under a coconut tree. Whenever I needed another drink, he and his buddies reached up, plucked a coconut off the tree and mixed a little coconut water with Jack Daniels. The grill was piled high with fresh shrimp and lobster they’d caught earlier that morning.

So, yeah, Belize claimed my camera and my pride (luckily, no one saw my plummet down the cliff after the rain-soaked railing gave way), but it’s biggest claim is undoubtedly my completely-smitten heart.

There are dozens of reason to visit the Double Eagle in La Mesilla, New Mexico. It serves killer steaks (aged up to 80 days in a special aging room), boasts the world’s largest green chili cheeseburger (the bun alone is a foot wide) and whips up margaritas that would make even stone-faced John Boehner do the cha-cha. Just walking around this 1840’s adobe mansion with its 18- and 24-karat gold ceilings, baccarat chandeliers, 30-foot oak and walnut bar and Billy the Kid artifacts is a history lesson.

But the reason I can’t wait to go back to this national historic site near the Mexican border is I finally got requited proof that ghosts exist. I love hearing spooky stories, have always known there’s a lot more than this 70, 80-year span we call life. But I’m a skeptic. When it comes to believing the crazy episodes of Ghost Hunters or Most Haunted or whatever new ghost-busting show is out there, my response resembles a seventh grade girl reacting to her mother’s advice: “Whatever.”

But on a recent Saturday night, dining at the Double Eagle, I was thoroughly loving the stories about Armando and Inez, the star-crossed lovers who purportedly haunt the place, and decided to take the bait. Jerry Harrell, the manager, told us how Armando’s mother, a wealthy socialite, fired the enchanting Inez (she was their maid) after learning about their affair. But since teenage boys heed mom’s meddling in much the same way as teenage girls, Armando failed to break it off. One unfortunate day, the high and mighty senora found the sneaky teenagers in Armando’s bedroom, flew into a rage and murdered them both with a pair of sewing shears. To be fair, she didn’t intend to murder her son, but he was in love and gallant and well, he stepped in the way.

That’s the back story. More than 100 years later, after their sprawling home was turned into a restaurant, mysterious, unexplained things started happening: lavender perfume wafted down the halls, knives were stacked on the bedroom floor, chairs overturned and tables mysteriously moved overnight.

One of the employees, in fact, got so spooked that he insisted on a waiver in his contract promising he’d never be left in the restaurant alone. A short-lived assistant manager, who pooh-poohed the stories, jokingly left a bottle of wine and a couple glasses for the couple. He came back the next day, unhooked the security system and found an empty wine bottle and the glasses broken in the fire place. He threw the keys at the chef and said, “I quit. Mail my paycheck.”

Before starting desert, Jerry pointed us to the room, now called the Carlotta Salon, where the murder took place.

“Just don’t sit on their chairs,” he warned, explaining that “their chairs,” even after being newly-reupholstered, have indentations where the teenager lovers sit. “Inez and Armando are harmless, just normal teenage pranksters. Unless, you make them mad by sitting in their chairs.”

Even though I don’t hold a lot of stock in such stories, I figured I might as well, out of ghostful respect, steer clear. But Lindsey, my co-conspirator, plopped right down in Inez’s chair. (You can tell which is which because dresses make different indentations than pants). Far be it from me to wimp out, I gingerly crept towards Armando’s chair and quickly edged into his seat.

Not three seconds later, the nearby lamp’s hand-cut glass crystals began shaking violently. And, no, I didn’t touch it. The table on which it sat was a good three feet from me and even though I’m tall, further away than my arm span. I wasted no time. I jumped up, ran for the door and pulled Lindsey with me. She was busy snapping pictures with her I-Phone.

“You did see that, right?” I said.

“Oh, yeah!” she assured me, adding that the air around her turned ice cold the moment she sat down.

We rushed back to the dining room to inform our party about the weird phenomenon. Most of them laughed and parroted my old response.

“No really,” we insisted. “Look. Lindsey took pictures.”

She held out her I-phone and all 58 of her photos (I can verify. I heard her phone going click, click, click) were gone, completely wiped out.

“I told you,” Jerry said. “You shouldn’t have pissed them off.”

I’m on rutted, dirt roads in the Jornada del Muerto desert of southern New Mexico headed to Spaceport America, the world’s first purpose-built commercial spaceport. It’s adjacent to White Sands Missile Range where, for 70 some years, assorted rockets, nuclear bombs and other WMDs have been tested.

My useless GPS reports this 3,200 square miles of restricted air space as one monstrous black hole. I’d have never found Spaceport Operations Center (SOC, for short) or Virgin Galactic’s Gateway to Space if it wasn’t for Aaron Prescott, the rocket scientist whose college friends can’t help but break the tenth commandment: “Thou Shall Not Covet.”

They’re insanely jealous, he says, of his position as Business Operations Manager for New Mexico’s $209 million entry into global commercial spaceflight. He works with madcap entrepreneur Sir Richard Branson — whose left eye is on the security badge required to get into the New Mexico Space Authority (NMSA) — and other aerospace firms contracted to fly from this remote high desert location. Prescott calls it the Kitty Hawk of space travel.

Since 2006, 17 rockets have been launched here — “Unmanned, so far,” Prescott says. “We want to make sure people are buying roundtrip tickets.” — and 551 have slapped down $200,000 for Virgin Galactic’s three days of astronaut training and two hours in space. ‘Course, that’s chump change for the likes of Ashton Kutcher, Justin Bieber and Kate Winslett, to name a few of the already-paids who probably make that in, say 10 minutes of “Two and a Half Men.”

Mixing it up with celebrities is just one of the perks. Here are five more:

1. Free Drinks at the Astronauts Lounge. When you’re Katy Perry, another who forked over $200 grand, you tend to travel with an entourage. Minions are more than welcome to hang out at the Spaceport, clap when you blast off, even follow your every G-force on giant monitors — “We could probably configure the flights with an iPhone app,” Prescott says, “But you gotta put on a show.” — but the spacesuit dressing room and third-floor lounge with the free champagne? That’s for Bransonauts only.

2. Five minutes of being weightless. Much of the two-hour flight involves getting to the other side of the Karman Line, the line that divides earth’s atmosphere from outer space. But at 60 miles up, you can see 1,500 to 2,000 miles in all directions or, to put it in perspective, that’s a view of the Pacific Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico at the same time.

3. No need to be a perfect specimen of humanity. Qualifying for NASA requires brains like Einstein, 1,000 hours of in-command flight time and the ability to pass a rigorous physical. Only an elite few make it in. As a Bransonaut, you don’t even need a pressure suit. “At three and a half to six Gs, it’s like a really awesome roller coaster,” Prescott says, adding that at nine Gs, you’d black out.

4. Bragging rights. Being the first to get your Boy Scout “Space Badge” is nothing compared to the VIP invitations to Branson’s private Caribbean island home or his South African game reserve. Last year, for example, he held an Astronaut Forum, a tour of the LEED Gold 110,000-square-foot Virgin Galactic terminal and dinner at Mesilla’s historic Double Eagle steakhouse.

5. 360-degree skies. I’d pit the sunset in southern New Mexico to any painting in any art museum anywhere.

For the rest of us, Follow the Sun offers a three-hour, $59 bus tour.

Pam Grout is the author of E-Squared, 9 Do-it-Yourself Energy Experiments that Prove Your Thoughts Create Your Reality. Find out more at www.pamgrout.com.

Francis Ford Coppola makes insanely brilliant movies. He’s done wonders for the economy of his adopted country of Belize, building two five-star resorts that are every bit as wonderful as The Godfather and Apocalypse Now. But here’s why, when traveling to Placencia, the 16-mile strip of beautiful off the southern coast, the Belizean Nirvana (the envelope, please) deserves the Oscar:

1.Location, location, location. Both Turtle Inn and Nirvana are “pan da beach,” as they say in Belize, a gorgeous beach with white sand, diving pelicans and gentle lapping waves. But Nirvana, that just opened September 2011, is also within strolling distance of the quaint and colorful fishing village where Evan and Barbara Hall, the Belizean owners, personally introduce their guests to Tiziana and Lorenzo, the Italian transplants who own Tutti Frutti and serve gelato some rave is better than its counterpart on the other side of the Atlantic, and to John and Pamela Solomon, Americans who honeymooned there five years ago and never left, instead opening the amazing Rumfish..y vino that serves my nomination for the world’s best cerviche.
2. Hand’s on owners. Sure, it’s fun to think you’re sleeping near Hollywood greatness, but your chances of hobnobbing with Coppola are about as good as your chances of spotting one of the 200 jaguars in the nearby Cockscomb Jaguar Preserve which is to say “it ain’t likely to happen.” The Halls and their friend, Carolyn, greet each of their guests upon arrival, drink coffee with them each morning (one morning, Evan even cracked open a bottle of champagne for delightful breakfast mimosas) on the rooftop deck and treat them like one of the family.
3. It’s who you know. Coppola may knows DeNiro, Pacino and Reese Witherspoon who honeymooned at Turtle Inn in 2011 with her new hubby and kids. But Hall knows Tuca and Karen, Steve and Sherel and other locals and he’ll gladly introduce you, opening the curtain to a precious part of Belizean culture that most travelers miss. Belizeans are warm, friendly and throw parties that put Martha Stewart to shame. Hall’s mother was the first nurse in the Belizean Health Service and even though he spent much of his life in New Jersey, he summered in Belize and knows everybody in town.
4. Improptu fun. The Friday night I was there, underdog Belize miraculously made it to the semifinals of the Copa Centroamericana soccer tournament against Honduras, the first time the tiny nation qualified to play for the CONCACAF gold cup. Hall invited me to watch the game with the above forementioned locals who were cheering the home team by the light of a TV hooked up outside under a coconut tree. Whenever I needed another drink, they’d reach up, pluck a coconut off the tree and mix a little coconut water with Jack Daniels (American bartenders, take heed). The grill was piled high with fresh shrimp and lobster that Tuca had caught earlier that morning. Suffice it to say, the food made by that outdoor cheering squad far surpassed anything listed on the menu at Turtle Inn’s three restaurants.
5. Classy appointments. Like the Coppolas who built their 25 thatched cottages on reclaimed land from Hurricane Iris, the Halls built their five-suite B&B from scratch. It has beautiful wood floors, spacious verandas, gorgeous furnishings, local artwork (again, Evan might even introduce you to some of the artists), comfy beds and unlike Coppola’s place, air-conditioning that comes in mighty handy in the humid climate and free phone calls to the U.S. and Canada.
6.The real deal. Far be it from me to dis Turtle Inn. I’m sure it’s spectacular in every way. But for travelers who want an authentic Belizean experience and new friends to add to the Christmas card list, book one of the beautiful suites at Belizean Nirvana Inn.