In the Spanish language, and in most romance languages actually, the activity of going to the beach is not referred to as “going swimming,” even if you plan to get into the water. Rather, they call it bathing. When on a beach in Spain, it can sometimes be a tad disconcerting when a local asks if you’re going to “take a bath,” because for Americans, that obviously has a different meaning, and we draw a pretty hard line between the two.

So, Yelapa … it’s a small fishing village located a very uncomfortable, 45-55-minute boat ride from Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. I wish I could tell you what hides within its jungles, behind the trees. I wish I could tell you about the beautiful waterfall that waits patiently for intrepid travelers to discover it. I even wish I could explain the joy and relaxation that come from reclining on a chair, just soaking in the sun and the endless, turquoise and sapphire blue waters of the Pacific Ocean as the waves lazily and rhythmically lap the white sand of the beach at Yelapa.

Having grown up in Flint, it has always been easy for me to take Chicago for granted. Next to Detroit, Chicago was the nearest “big city,” so it didn’t seem like anything very special or exciting. I accepted it as indeed large, and home to many worthwhile museums and attractions; but then, I cast my sights farther afield.

There’s a side to vacationing that isn’t all that much fun. Or relaxing. There are aspects of planning a trip that are frustrating, stressful, and sometimes, downright infuriating. They include picking the vacation spot, and coordinating the transportation.

Chantilly Castle brings to my mind images of lace and thick whipped cream. A gorgeous castle complex on the outskirts of Paris, it’s a Beauty and the Beast kind of castle, with stables filled with thoroughbred horses, tiny little ponies and a myriad of sad looking donkeys. But don’t worry; even amongst the luxury, splendor and rich history of a European castle – I still kept my eyes peeled for whipped cream.

Some of the best pasta I have ever eaten was not prepared in Italy, (though I’ve had my share of life-altering meals there); but instead, in Budapest. I had thought that Budapest fare was all goulash and paprika and sweet Tokay wine. But, I was to find that my pre-conceived notions of Hungary were dead wrong.

I blame the American fascination with castles. I think because we don’t have any bonafide royal palaces in the States, we’ve developed an extreme obsession with them when touring countries abroad.

I live in Houston, Texas, so I usually take air conditioning for granted. Everywhere I go – from the car to the grocery store, back to my little townhouse – is excessively air-conditioned to the point of necessitating socks and a sweater in summertime. It’s always hot here, even in the “winter,” when we might only see three days when one can non-ironically wear a jacket.

When one ventures to Budapest, one really must visit the spa; which should be simple, as there are 18 of them, not to mention the various smaller, private baths lurking around the city. In all, there are 118 springs churning out 70 million liters of thermal water each day, at temperatures ranging from a cool 68°F to a broiling 172°F (ouch).

In the course of my world travels, I have run into a lot of advice from other explorers. It mostly boils down to this: travel like a local.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions, but I think the same can be said about the road to second language mastery.

Let it be known that I do not condone stereotypes. Not negative ones, certainly, or even positive sounding ones. But, alas, they do exist, and if you think Europeans don’t stereotype Americans, you’re dead wrong. Believe it or not, we’re not known internationally as “The Greatest Nation on Earth.”