Ride the Wave

Ride the Wave
A Journey in Central America

So there I was. I had traveled three thousand miles to get there. It had been a dream once and, just like that, the limitless skies and tall palms were a reality. The world once again morphing into its bewitching playground form. It was a journey, starting so sweetly, gently, soothingly, treating me as an infant lolled to peace by the waves. There would be adventure ahead - broken bones, loss and sorrow, theft, and natural disasters peppered against a backdrop of infinite green. The green would entice and seduce, pulling me into its lush dark depths. But for the moment, I was just lying on a quiet beach.

This is a story of adventure, a story of romance and love, a story of passion, and, of course, a story of the ancient longing to explore and the need to know of and be imprinted upon by unfathomable and unforgettable cultures both near and far. This is a good story. The story begins here, in the sand, on the beaches, of Panama.

More accurately, I suppose, the story started five years ago when I first landed in the thick tropical air. I had been in these part before - Panama, Belize, Brazil, Argentina, Paraguay. I lived at a biology station on this island in the Caribbean Sea off the coast of Panama. I studied rain forest ecology and conservation. A few years back, I zigzagged my way through Brazil, sipping caipriñas in the cosmopolitan cities of Rio de Janeiro and Sao Paulo, photographing the architecture and symmetrical city planning of Brasilia, and swimming in rivers deep in the Amazon, testing fate, piranhas, and anacondas.

This adventure was half a decade in the making, maybe longer, maybe a lifetime. This journey was to be a more thorough exploration of a region I had grown to love, focusing on the Latin American countries of Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, El Salvador, Guatemala, and Belize. Together with my companion, Chad, a tall, muscular man of twenty-five with disheveled blonde locks and an easy going spirit and creative soul, we would travel from Panama onward.
We carried only the most necessary of necessities, including knives, rain gear, a pot for boiling water, harmonicas, mosquito net, snorkeling gear, and the barest of clothing. At moments, our sensuality would lift us to enlightened states of pure poetry. At times, our bodies would ache and we would yearn for a warm meal and a soft pillow on which to rest our heads. We would test ourselves and each other, push, but always come back to rest within the story of our romance. These two free spirited wanderers were in love.

I had a family back home of three dogs, Eugene, Toro, and Roman, and two cats, Gargoyle and Skye. My mother and sister were affectionately caring for all of them while I roamed about. It was difficult for me to leave them. It always is, but it is in my nature to explore. So with a little money in the bank, things settled at home, and hands held tight, off we went.

We spent the first night of our trip in the Atlanta airport. I curled up in my sleeping bag on a loveseat in the atrium. Chad pulled up two chairs and contorted his long body to sleep next to me. Surprisingly, we slept relatively well despite the cold air conditioning constantly on the max, the loud noises of the cleaning crews, and the bright lights. Trips always start this way for me. I seem to always be exhausted before I even start an adventure.

We had a 7:00am flight with American Airlines from Atlanta, Georgia to Miami, Florida. From Miami, we flew into Panama City. The heat blasted us right out of the airport and drivers bombarded us with “taxi? taxi!” calls. We took a taxi out of Panama City proper into Albrook, where the domestic airport is located. We were feeling groggy and sweaty, but excited, holding hands and ready to experience.

At the airport, we booked a flight to the island of Isla Colon near the border with Costa Rica. This is where I did my studies already five years ago. We found a market and ate a fresh fruit dinner. The only hotel located in proximity to the airport was expensive. We decided to sleep outside. Our flight was scheduled for 6:00am the following morning.

As the sun began to set, we walked around the area searching for a place to sleep. The area was busy with pedestrians and traffic. It was difficult to tell if there would be a discreet spot to lay down. We went into a cafe.

I usually carry my cell phone with me during international travels simply to use as an alarm clock for early buses, trains, and planes. We had decided to pack Chad’s cell phone instead of mine and quickly discovered that it wasn’t working. The signal was too weak to establish the time. He offered to stay up all night and wake me in the morning when it was time to check in for our flight.

After he drank three or four big cups of coffee, Chad was prepped to pull an all-nighter. We walked away from the cafe in the direction of the airport. It was 11:00pm before we arrived at a large empty field. We headed towards one of the larger trees and set up camp underneath it. The ground was wet from an earlier rain, so we laid out the tent as a tarp. We put down our backpacks and made ourselves as comfortable as possible. The mosquitoes swarmed around us and we doused ourselves with an organic bug spray I had purchased from an all natural grocery store in the States. It seemed to help, a little, and it smelled like flowers. I lay my head in Chad’s lap and he sweetly rubbed my back and ran his fingers through my hair. After awhile, I dozed off.

The next day, Chad told me that after I fell asleep, the full effect of the coffee took siege. He was totally amped up and restricted to only minute movements. We were in a busy area of town and didn’t want to be discovered. His mind jerked around with nothing to grasp his attention. He began to rock slightly and the ghastly song, “La Cucaracha” played incessantly in his mind. At the hint of daybreak, he checked the watch and woke me. We marched on to the airport and checked in for our flight. Chad was delirious and exhausted.

We boarded a plane at the small airport. We were chilled in the plane and quickly fell asleep. We woke to eat sandwiches and drink pear nectar. We pepped up as the plane began to descend after an hour. We were elated to see the green growing larger beneath us until the lush jungles and white beaches became discernible. We landed on a tiny airstrip surrounded by overgrown vegetation. Children played soccer in the grass that met the tarmac. Dogs ran alongside the plane as we reached the ground. We had arrived in another world.

I was eager to see what this town had become after the five years since my last visit. At that time, Bocas del Toro had been a small town with only a few places to stay- one hotel and the guest rooms offered in family homes. It was off the beaten track. We walked from the airport towards the main street in town with the central square. All Latin American towns have a central square with a park and green space. It is always a popular meeting place for locals.

Bocas del Toro had definitely grown in popularity. The main street was now lined with several colorful hostels. Scruffy faced backpackers stood on the hostel steps stretching in the early morning sun and smoking the day’s first cigarettes. We went to a new restaurant, probably owned by an ex-patriot from the States, for breakfast.

After checking in at the internet cafe, we hopped on a bus heading to Boca del Drago, a beach on the other side of the island. The residential areas surrounding Bocas town seemed to have grown as well. There were small houses and villas offered for rent for tourists. Further from the town, all seemed much the same. The beach was still stunning. Boca del Drago was the same. There were some locals living along the beach, the biology station, and one restaurant.

We set up our tent in the sand around the biology station. We were allowed use of the toilets, showers, and fresh drinking water supply. The only electricity on this side of the island is powered by a generator. The biology station was not offering any courses at that time, so we had the whole area to ourselves. Only the biology station manager, his wife, and their year and half old daughter were in residence. The little girl visited us in our tent and frequently followed us around on wobbly legs.

Our tent had a front door view of the Caribbean. The warm breeze, drifting off the Sea, blew into our tent and filled our lungs. Our days invariably began early with the sun. We woke and swam in the clear blue water. We hiked and tried to venture into the rain forest. There were no maintained trails. Without a machete we had difficulty going too far into the tangled mass of green. We heard the howler monkeys’ resonating calls each day at sunset and before the rain. The howler monkeys resided in the saturated swamp forests of palms directly behind the biology station towards the interior of the island.

We became quite stranded on this beach. There was a strike in town, a protest, something to do with safe drinking water. No buses were running. We were somewhat appeased knowing that we had nowhere to go and nothing to do.

We ate some meals at the little restaurant down the beach. It is owned by a local woman. The food consists of traditional Caribbean seafood dishes and Latin American staples. For most meals we chose coconuts. They were an inexhaustible source of nourishment. It took me nearly an hour to knock down my first coconut with a long bamboo pole. Chad was more successful and easily seized dozens each day. We husked them, drank the milk, and ate the sweet flesh.

It was the rainy season, invierno. It rained nearly every day, sometimes just a shower for an hour or less, sometimes in torrents all night long. Our tent mostly held out the rain. One day after the rain had been pouring for a full night it continued for a full morning. The station manager played his guitar, though we could barely hear it over the drumming of the rain. Chad played a sad song on his harmonica.

In the early afternoon, it began to clear. It was cloudy for the rest of the day but the threat of rain was gone. We went for a walk down the beach. We walked along palm fringed jungle. A family in a dugout canoe paddled past us. We came to a special place, I remember it from my last visit. It is a pristine beach, far from the little community of Boca del Drago, isolated. There were starfish, thousands of them, of all sizes and in shades of colors ranging from light yellows to dark oranges. They were everywhere we could see in the clear, calm water.

The colors were so vivid. I remember the bright green of the palms against the overcast sky, a warm coral colored sand, blue turquoise water, and the bright orange starfish. It was surreal, dreamlike. There were a couple sailboats off in the distance, anchored in the deeper waters to the west. I see one of those in my future. The scene was idyllic. After snorkeling, Chad and I held each other. We admired the life we’ve made for ourselves. We kissed and made love there in the crystal clear, turquoise water. It was perfect. Just seconds after, small black dolphins bounded into the air behind us. They leaped and played. The moment is etched into my mind forever. It was beautiful.

On many days and on one in particular, I lay in the sunshine with my mind on love, depth, and the pursuit of an authentic life. I was in a beautiful world, with the turquoise waters beside me and the green darkness of the jungles nearby. I savored the moment and let words play in my mind and on my tongue dropping down onto the pages of my journal. There is poetry in simple moments. Hours passed and I was enchanted. Chad spent his time swimming in the waves, enjoying his first snorkeling experiences, and stretching on the sand. Watching him, I felt like a lucky woman. I knew that he, too, took care to notice the subtle romance in life; how the light radiates through the palm fronds and dances on our skin; how the birds fly in synchrony; the designs in the clouds. He hears music in the modest sounds of nature and in the creek of the hammock as we rock it softly and snuggle. His touch is filled with tenderness, loyalty, desire, and love. It is a sweet companionship and a reality that tastes of dreams.

We found ourselves in the evenings, sitting on a wooden deck just a few feet from the crashing waves or in a hammock under the tall iconic coconut palms, watching the sky, a cinematic spectacle of godly proportions. The day’s tranquil blue sky suddenly alight and ablaze with the sunset’s yellows and oranges. Then as the sun meets the sea, it’s slowly illuminated and flames in the dazzling reds. The sun visibly sinks deeper under the horizon and the colors in the sky are subdued with violet and crimson. The end of dusk introduces the coming of night and a blackness interrupted only by the unrivaled light of a million brilliant, sparkling stars and a smiling moon.

Just off the beach from our tent was a sprawling coral reef ecosystem. We spent many days toiling around with mask, fins, and snorkel observing the colorful undersea life. We felt as though we had the whole sea to ourselves, the only mermaids in a world of living rock and scaled and slimy tenants. We were always surprised with our view into the sea. We would be meandering around, face down in the water, and unexpectedly some natural wonder would catch us off guard - a nursery of a million small fish fry would appear in the cove of two large coral mountains or a shark, a tiburon, would stealthily swim past us or a ray would shake off the sand and soar out into the water. Once a bright yellow and black remora shadowed me, holding close to my belly, thighs, and chest in an embrace as if dancing with me while we swam. We watched the schools of black and blue damselfish, blue and green parrotfish, and silvery scaled grunts at dusk as they fed. We dove deep and peered into small nooks in the live rock for octopus and langosta. The waltzing butterfly fish, tangs, and surgeonfish delighted us. The wrasse fish defended the entrance to their dens like guard dogs. Rockfish lay in perfect camouflage. We saw wide eyed squirrel fish, flounders, and puffer fish; sea cucumber, conchs, and crabs. We propelled water softly with our hands over fan worms and watched them retract into their tube like stalks. There were different species of urchins, small and black with long pins or large with white stubble. We gently stroked the anemones and their tentacles grasped at our fingers.

At night, in total darkness, other than the stars, there was little to do. We usually went into the tent early. We heard the bell like sounds of bats hunting with echo-location. We cheered them on. In retrospect, the mosquitoes, sand gnats, and ants that covertly made their way into our tent were of small consequence despite the bumps and bites that riddled my legs and torso. Although, I became a master at putting on my makeup with one hand and holding the mirror and swatting away the gnats with my other hand, while simultaneously shaking the bugs off my legs. Once, we witnessed small ants coming in through the mesh holes of our tent. Instead of biting us, they each took hold of a gnat and carried it out of the tent. We were grateful. On a full moon night Chad found several toads. We had heard about their hallucinogenic properties. He licked them and in his daze followed the highways of ants around the beach, into the sand brush, to the bases of trees.

The pace was slow. We were on island time. Hours would roll by, like the waves, while we would just sit in the hammock or on the beach, contemplating or maybe just meditating.

We revisited starfish beach on several occasions. It was our paradise; a stunning, sunny stretch of privacy. When we hiked further on, we reached the harbor where the sailboats docked. The beach met a headland of mangrove swamp. The water was cooler and murkier here from the tannins draining off the land after a rain.

It seemed that there was always a natural spectacle drawn to our energy after making love- the dolphins, a shark, a stingray, for example. We always stopped at the spot on the beach where we first made love by the starfish. It was nostalgic. We often ended up falling into each other’s embrace and making love again. Once, we heard soft reggae music playing far away on an anchored sailboat. We swam and kissed and loved each other. The water rippled around us in rhythm with our movement. It was beautiful, orgasmic, and uniting. We looked around for a natural wonder. We giggled and mentioned a narwhal, but only a blue crab scuttled past us and the ever present starfish sat in apathetic repose.

We were informed that the bus strike was over in Bocas. We reluctantly made the decision to move on from Bocas del Toro and discover new frontiers. We left early one morning and made our way to town.

I had not had access to the internet since the first day we arrived on Isla Colon. I always think of my dogs and cats, my kids. Once we reached town, I headed straight for the internet cafe. I had no idea then that I would be crushed by the most horrific news imaginable. I opened the email from my mother. Her email started by saying how my babies have been so good, that she had been wanting to write me to tell me how wonderful they are, but then everything went wrong. Roman, my partner, love of my life, my right hand, had been in an accident. He had died the day of the most gloomy rain, the day of the sad harmonica song. He was playing with one of her dogs and was strangled by his collar. My mother was there, but it happened so quickly that nothing could have been done.

I threw a dollar onto the cashier’s desk, ran from the cafe, sobbing, to find Chad. He was walking towards me. He was smiling at first until he saw my face. I told him and we cried together. I was in shock. I could not believe that this could happen, that I would never see him again. I doubted that I could cope with such a loss. The year before I had been hitchhiking through western Europe and received another dreadful email from my mother about my cat, Masai, who had passed away. I was a mess and decided to end my trip early then. I wondered now if I should go home. All I wanted to do was be with my other kids, hold my Eugene, Toro, Gargoyle, and Skye, and never let anything happen to them. I sat in the central square for hours, at a loss. I couldn’t fathom what had happened. I was in denial. I couldn’t believe it was real. I could no longer see myself prancing through Central America. I saw my pursuit of adventure as selfish and shallow and I longed to be home with my babies.

After speaking with my mother and talking it over with Chad, I decided to push forward and continue with the trip. I knew that I would only be a shell of what I once had been. Roman was such a light, such a good person, so pure. He brought joy to everyone who met him. We went everywhere together. He was so much a part of me.

We took a boat from Isla Colon to the mainland. I was disinterested and followed Chad, letting him call the shots. Once we docked in the town of Almirante, Chad arranged for a ride to the border with Costa Rica.

I was so distraught that I only remember vaguely the dirty border town, exhaust fumes, and trash. A sadness settled over me and everything I saw. The border crossing, at any other time, would have thrilled me. We had our passports stamped and walked across an old railroad bridge over a river into Costa Rica. The bridge had rotting and missing planks. With the weight of my backpack and my little frame, I felt I could just barely reach my legs over some of the gaps.
The dim Costa Rican border town, bus station, and cloudy sky are also a blur. I remember passing infinite amounts of banana fields on the way to San Jose. I wept and tried to sleep off the pain.

San Jose is a big city, dangerous at night, with bustling red light districts and heavy crime. We arrived in San Jose around 10pm. We began walking towards the center of town, looking for a cheap hostel. A group of people around our age stopped to help us when we began looking a little lost. They advised us to call a taxi, that it was very dangerous to be out at night, that even they always choose to walk in large groups. One of the men offered to walk us to a hotel. We were very grateful and followed him into the maze of unmarked streets.

We stayed in a great room with a queen sized bed with a colorful red and pink vertically striped bed spread, matching curtains over the large windows, two bedside tables with lamps, hardwood floors, a sitting room with a white couch and glass coffee table, and large bathroom with a full size mirror and hot water. It was luxury after the weeks we spent camping in Panama. I needed the comfort.

The next day I felt as if I had had a nightmare. I relived the shock and pain as I tried to swallow what had happened. Always there in the forefront of my mind, I thought about Roman. I thought about my kids at home all the time. The thoughts just kept swirling around in my brain, fruitlessly, dismally. I was like this for weeks. I could not fully appreciate my surroundings. I alternated thoughts on Roman, on home, and on what I was doing and what was around me.

In spite of this pain, I was able to enjoy San Jose in daylight. It is a bustling city, full of life and color. I was fond of the produce stalls and the people hawking their multicolored fruits and vegetables. I enjoyed the sodas, the small eateries, where local people come to eat good, cheap food. We tried a seafood soup at one soda. Everyone’s eyes were on the gringos, the tall one with the crazy blonde hair and the tiny one with the red eyes and the red dress.

We booked passage on a bus that afternoon from the city to the Nicoyan peninsula. We had to take a ferry across the Gulf of Nicoya. We caught the sunset cruise and the subtle colors of a saintly sky.

Once we arrived in the Nicoyan Peninsula, the air of the Latin America I love changed. Instead of the charismatic friendliness that I had grown accustomed to, we were assaulted by the indifference of people used to tourists, the same bedside manner as a rancher herding cattle. Boarding the bus in Pacquera, I had my backpack snatched off of me with only a “Disculpe” as warning. We went to a restaurant when we arrived in Montezuma that evening. The menu was in English. That’s a sign. We ordered a pizza and a calzone. The menu stated that for just 800 colones (US $1.50) more a calzone of the same toppings could be added along with the pizza. After some time only the calzone was served. It was large so we ignored the discrepancy on the menu. We ate hungrily. Chad began complaining that he was chewing on sand. I told him he must be imagining things. I began eating another piece of the calzone and crunched into a small rock! Chad got very upset and complained. He did not want to pay for this meal. The waitress and the owner got angry and threatened to call the police if we did not pay. We were exhausted and paid them the $10 for the awful meal. We went to bed distraught. Costa Rica was not making a fine impression.

The hostel we were staying in was right on the beach. Our room was small and filled by the bed and fan. In the morning, as I walked to the shared bathrooms, I saw a blinding light coming up the hall from the beach. I put on my bikini and headed out for my first view of the dazzling sun reflecting of the grand Pacific Ocean.

We took refuge from the manufactured backpacker Disney World that is Montezuma by staying on the beach and away from the town itself. Surprisingly all the tourists stayed in one localized area.

We walked up the beach, over the hot sands and jagged rocks, to a waterfall. On the way up, we met a sweet, tan female puppy. She couldn’t have been older than six or seven months. She was so thin. At this point we had not seen the skin and bone versions of animals in the more impoverished countries of Nicaragua, Honduras, El Salvador, and Guatemala. She was thin enough. We left the waterfall and headed back to the hostel. We gave her the rest of the cereal we had eaten for breakfast. She followed us everywhere during our stay in Montezuma. She would only leave when we would go into our room for the night. But no matter how long we were apart or where we went, she would find us when we left our room. She brightened my days after the loss of my Roman.

About an hours walk past the waterfall, there was a natural reserve and thick jungle, supposedly filled with monkeys, jaguars, sloths, and other creatures. We sometimes heard the calls of distant monkeys, but did not see anything when we headed up and down the trails. The jungle faced a beach and the huge, crashing waves of the Pacific. We had this distant beach mostly to ourselves. Occasionally someone on horseback would trod past, but otherwise we were once again alone to enjoy nature. I lay topless in the black sands and on the tall rocks. Chad went skinny dipping in the ocean. The waves were so strong that he could barely get past the breaks before getting shoved closer to shore. All along, the sweet puppy stayed beside us.

On some stretches of beach or jungle paths, there was insurmountable amounts of trash. I think some of it may have been washed up from the ocean, but most of it I think was dumped. For a country famous for its ecological conservation, I was very disappointed. This was typical of all Central America. Here, however, where the town was spotless for the tourists and the jungle was labeled a reserve, I found it inappropriate and unacceptable. It is difficult to get into Costa Rica’s protected jungles and reserves without paying an entrance fee of $20 or more. I wonder how much of their environmental dedication is for show.

Even though I found the natural beauty of Costa Rica breathtaking, other than the trash, I was not one hundred percent present. I still fell into moments of despair and could cry at the drop of a dime. Perhaps my perception of Costa Rica was tainted by my sadness. But my opinions are in accordance with those of other serious travelers. Costa Rica’s hustling, tourist trapping, manufactured paradises repel me. Many towns are only created for tourists. It takes away from the genuine charm and peculiarities that enchant me in this region of the world.

We left Montezuma eagerly, ready to get out of Costa Rica entirely. We took a bus from town to Pacquera. In Pacquera we rode the ferry over the Gulf of Nicoya to Puntarenas. We had a little difficulty finding the bus station in town. By the time we found it, we had just missed the last bus west to take us towards the Nicaraguan border.

Puntarenas is a small port town set on a peninsula and surrounded by water on three sides. Like most port towns, it’s a little dingy and gets sketchy at night. At the bus station, moments after we realized that we had missed the last bus, we heard an American voice boom at us and ask us if we need any help. I turned to see an older man, unshaven with sores all over his body, wearing loosely hanging clothes. He was obviously homeless and likely drunk. He said he had been living in Costa Rica for the last sixteen years. He also said he could help us find a cheap room for 1700 colones, that’s about US $3.50. In Costa Rica, that was highly unlikely. I would have liked to ignore the guy, but Chad is a green traveler and I like for him to take charge and learn things as he goes. So we end up following the guy around town. He takes us to a hotel that seems clean and simple at the entrance. I know that he will get a cut if we choose to stay here. I don’t so much mind that, but I don’t like being scammed. The homeless man tells the woman in strained Spanish with a sarcastic intonation that “Los gringos necessitan uno cuarto barato.” The woman at the front desk tells us the cheapest room is 8,000 colones, US $16. Predictably, it was more than what the bloke had quoted us. I tell Chad that we should see the room before making a decision. It is a joke. The woman brings us to a room facing the outdoors. It has two rotten mattresses on the dank wood plank floor. There are no windows and no ventilation or security. It was clearly a cheap place to bed a hooker, but we saw better rooms in brothels for less than half the price in other cities. I told the woman “No”. She expected it. The bloke looked vexed and offered to show us another hotel. Chad nearly said OK, but I kindly sent the man on his way with a coin for his trouble.

On our own, we were able to locate a lovely hotel with excellent security. We had a bright clean room with a powerful ceiling fan and barred window covered with a white curtain. The shared bathrooms were some of the cleanest we would see. We even had a TV with cable in our room. All of this for the same price, US $16. After showering, we snuggled close and watched American programs, such as Law & Order, House, & Scrubs. I fell asleep in Chad’s arms and dreamt of my babies.

The following morning we rose early and headed for the bus station. We planned on catching a bus to Liberia. While I waited at the bus station, writing in my journal, Chad left to find a panaderia and breakfast. The bus station was positioned along a beach. I wrote about the lucky dogs playing in the surf with a man friend behind me and the pretty ladies I saw on the ferry the day before. A vendor was setting up shop by the bus station, selling watches and refrescas. We chatted for a little while. He asked me if I am Italian. That’s not far from the truth. I have a lot of Italian blood in my veins. I would believe that I do not look American, although my boy toy is definitely all American. Chad soon returned with pastries. For me, he had chosen a delicious cream filled, soft pastry coated with sugar. He knows just what I like.

We caught the 8am bus to Liberia. We spent the better part of the day on the crowded bus. We liked to sit in the very back of buses, so we could get a view of all the activity going on. There were always people talking loudly and friendly, vendors walking up and down the aisle at each stop selling sweets and snacks and the most random merchandise.

Liberia was the first city in which we had to completely rely on our Spanish speaking skills. Although we had been speaking Spanish consistently for quite a while already, we were always able to find English speaking people and could ask for assistance if absolutely necessary. Here and beyond through Nicaragua and El Salvador, we rarely found anyone who could speak English. Gone were the days of translated menus, thankfully. In Guatemala, only people who worked in tourism related fields spoke English. After leaving the tourist world, we would speak only Spanish unless speaking to each other until reaching Belize, where English is the official language.

From Liberia, we took another crowded bus to the border of Nicaragua. After having our passports stamped on the Costa Rican side, we passed into Nicaragua and had our passports stamped again. Then we quickly caught a packed chicken bus as it was departing towards Rivas.
Riding into Nicaragua, I felt a change within myself. We were discovering something authentic, something beautiful. We passed the Lago de Nicaragua on our right with the Isla de Ometepe and its two volcanic peaks rising up in its center. It was breathtaking.

I was intrigued by the city of Rivas, its narrow pot-holed streets and Sandinista spirit. From the bus, we saw hundreds of people walking around, bicycle rickshaws, horse-pulled buggies. There was so much energy in the town. We arrived at sunset to the end of a busy Saturday market. The bus route ended at the epicenter of the open air market with stalls and vendors lining the streets. We were the only white people in town. Everyone watched us as we wandered around. We were a novelty. Men and boys reached for me, blew kisses, and winked. I wasn’t flattered, but I was happy to be somewhere seemingly untainted by tourism. We were mesmerized by the color and the sounds.

We checked into a hospedaje in the home of an older woman named Hilda. The building was shabby and run down, but the woman was warm and friendly and gave the place a homey feeling. When I recorded my name and passport number in her guestbook, I saw that all the other entries were made by Nicaraguans, uncorrupted. Our room had three rickety beds, a fan, and a private bath. It was unfinished and at ground level. The darkness of the space made me feel as though we were in a basement. The hospedaje had a 9pm curfew and Hilda had to let us in and out of the building each time with her key.

In the evening, we walked around in search of somewhere to have a bite to eat. Vegetative waste covered the streets from the market. The last rays of the sun peaked over the tops of buildings and cast shadows on the street. There were skinny dogs searching for a morsel of food. The horses were also skinny with exposed rib and hip bones. They were overworked and overheated.
For dinner we found a small restaurant. I ate a delicious lightly breaded fish dinner with rice, green salad, and papas fritas. We decided to stick around town for awhile. We were really enjoying the change of pace. It rained that night, a heavy, cleansing rain. The pitter patter lulled me to sleep.

Rivas is an interesting town. Our days were rambling, lazy. It was an event to do laundry and have our clean clothes swaying in the breeze. We mostly spent our time wandering around, sampling food from the vendors on the streets, or lounging in the central square. It delighted us to see this loud and different culture. Chad still talks about the time we saw a man standing on the street by a huge block of queso advertising it on a microphone to everyone walking by.

Locked in after 9pm, there was nothing to do but talk and tell stories, read, write, or make love. Sometimes, tired from the day with disjointed thoughts, I felt not really into to making love. Chad would kiss me, sweet, soft kisses. Always but especially this once, I let myself surrender completely, no resistance. I lay in observance of his touch, at first soft, his breath in my ears as he kissed my lobes, the feel of his hair and scruff as he kissed my face, neck, and chest. A moment uncharged by sexuality for me quickly became erotic. Soon his touch had more force and I became aroused. We kissed passionately. Writhing, panting, and moaning, I lay letting him pleasure me. To allow myself no resistance, not even in thought, objection, or expectation, left me there only to observe and be open, which led to me being very turned on. I watched him and touched him and admired him like a god. By the time he placed his perfect body on top of mine, I was primed to climax. He moved his hips in delicious circles. I held back the orgasm and the feeling intensified. When I shifted on top of him and my hips moved forward and back, up and down, it was a mere moment before I came. “Enjoy it” he said, “Just enjoy it, baby” as I moved purposely over him, twisting my hips slowly. He got behind me and soon his moans echoed in the small room. It was some of our most passionate and erotic sex.

Nicaragua was already reviving me. I was finally able to look around, take in my surroundings, and be present. I still thought of Roman constantly. I often thought about mortality and what a sad game it all is. I often thought about my own mortality and about the kind of life I want to live. These are not new thoughts for me. I remember thinking in Boca del Drago about this need to feel alive. I wished that I could live forever like the sea. I was looking at the waves and thinking about my mortality and life and death in general; how all the people, animals, bugs, trees around me would all die and their elements would return to the elements.

In Rivas, one morning, we woke to find that there was no running water. The owner gave us a bucket of water to flush the toilet. We weren’t able to brush our teeth or shower. We decided that it was time to move on. We took our time and ritualistically packed our few things back into our packs.

As we checked out of the hospedaje, Hilda told us that she had a villa in San Juan del Sur that we could have at a discounted rate. She wrote us a note to give to the hotel staff saying that we should have the room with the view for a specified price. We said our goodbyes and went on our way.

The bus ride from Rivas to San Juan del Sur was characteristic of the region. The old school bus, retired from the States, was filled with people, three to a bench seat. The rear of the bus held large bags of rice and flour and other bundles. Our backpacks were thrown on top of the pile. The aisle quickly became full of people standing closely together. Chad gave a young girl his seat. He enjoyed being packed in with the locals, holding on as the bus changed direction, jerked around corners, and weaved through traffic. Everyone leaned with the turns of the vehicle. At times it seemed that we were only driving on two wheels. We developed our “bus legs” over time and improved our balance. The bus slowly emptied stop by stop as we approached San Juan del Sur. We got off at the last stop in the center of town.

We wandered in search of Hilda’s hospedaje, Villa del Sol, with the vague directions she gave us in mind. We were lost and nearly aimless for a surprisingly short period of time before we saw the sign up on the hill. We walked up the hill and checked into the hotel. After being shown the room and the amazing view, we decided to stay here and make this our home for awhile.

The room was small with two twin beds, similar to those in Rivas. They had foam mattresses set atop feeble metal frames. There was a private bathroom with a basic shower, sink, and toilet. There was a window with a vent over it and another vent in the bathroom that allowed for air flow. There was a great breeze high there on the hill. The best part of the villa, however, was the view. The room was positioned at the roof level of the hotel. We sat on the concrete deck and had the whole town of San Juan del Sur at our toes. The beach and the harbor with the dozens of anchored boats were off to the south, perfectly visible to our right. The town was made up of tin roofed homes and shops built side by side with brightly painted fronts, a colorful collage.

We spent hours every day watching the town from our bird’s eye point of view. We could see the grid work of streets and squares and the pedestrians, cyclists, and cars that meandered through it. I came to know the proprietor of a boutique from above. She had two dogs, one small cocker spaniel and a black lab. I watched each morning as she opened the shop and each evening as she sat outside with the dogs surveying the commotion on the streets. It was nice to see healthy and happy dogs that were clearly someone’s family. One day, I went down to meet the dogs and the lady. I had imagined a gently spirited woman with depth and a big heart and her two equally matched companions. The dogs didn’t disappoint my fantasy. The woman, on the other hand, was not at all to my expectations. She was sour and disaffected by my tenderness towards her dogs and tales of my loved ones at home. I did not revisit, but I kept a close eye on her treasured hounds from my stoop at the sky.

Some days I left my post only to wander myself in the grid of streets, to gobble up a rich meal of locally caught fish or gallo pinto, or to savor a cooling ice cream in the hot sun on the beach. The town of San Juan del Sur squats in a valley between a gathering of mountains. The harbor is bordered on both sides by mountains and their accompanying canyons and cliff-faces.

On the east side of the harbor, the fishermen gather on the rocks and fish with hand lines. Some fishermen spearfish off the coast. We watched their tan, sculpted bodies as they unraveled the twine and cast it into the sea. I am the daughter of a fisherman. The smells of the sea intoxicate me.

We came to watch their work at sunset. The sun dipped down from the sky towards the ocean in a molten sphere of brilliance. As it reached the horizon, it glowed in deeper oranges and reds. The fishermen’s dark silhouettes were framed by the celestial fire. Nature and man seemed in harmony.

Each morning, I began my day in a small soda with a mug of cafe, a plate of granola, yogurt, and local fruits, bananas, watermelon, and piña. We felt healthy and fit. Our skin had the sun-kissed radiance of those accustomed to an easy life in the tropics.

We hiked regularly. We trekked up each mountain surrounding the town. We hiked to the west up a mountain with a large statue of Jesus, a hand held out in blessing. We hiked to distant and deserted beaches. We hiked through rain, dripping down our backs, and midday sun, baking our shoulders.

I am a flatlander at heart, born at sea level in the uninterrupted flatness of the southeast coast of Georgia. Chad, on the other hand, is a highlander, raised in the snowy mountains of Maine. On one intense hike, we both were pushing ourselves onward through the intensity and the unrelenting heat. We hiked up and around four mountains. We found ourselves without cover on a nearly vertical incline in the noontime sun. Sweat drenched us, blood pulsed in our veins, and we just nearly burst into flames. The dirt was red and arid. The dust settled behind us in the breezeless air. It was a relief to reach the edge of the mountains. The cliffs dropped off with a view of the deep blue Pacific Ocean. We saw a small stretch of sand off in the distance and hiked along the ocean towards it. When we got closer, we slid down the mountainside through the vegetation. The beach had a small band of white sand curtained by a kaleidoscope of smooth stones tinted in colors of blue, green, red. We undressed and dove into the water together. The waves refreshed and invigorated us. The current dragged us over the submerged rocks and tried to pull us out to sea. After our swim, we lay under an overhang in the cliff face and took a siesta. The sand stuck to our damp skin. Chad wrapped his arms around me and I drifted to sleep with my head on his chest. We woke feeling rested and headed in the direction of home. It was cooler in the late afternoon. The hike back seemed much less demanding.

One evening we returned to our room to discover that we had been robbed. Our bags were unzipped and had been rummaged through. Chad was missing some cordobas and a bit of American cash. We went to the police station to file a report. They came to do an investigation and speak with the chicos who staffed the hotel. We were suspicious that it was they who came into our room with a key and stole from us. Not much was settled that night, but several days later Hilda came into town. We were on our way downhill and bumped into her at the foot of the mountain. She was excited to see us and said “Es bonita aqui, no? You like it here? It is nice, no?” I assured her that yes it was lovely. “Solo una problema...”

Chad explained to her what had happened. She was visibly upset and called the staff to attention. She pulled record books and scraps of paper from drawers in the lobby and proceeded to scold them intensely. She ushered us out of the hotel and instructed us to follow her into town. She hailed a cab and the next thing we knew we were back at the police station. The police filed a second report and said they would return to the hotel later that afternoon. They never showed. All was resolved, however, when Hilda offered us a free stay equal to the thieved amount. On the walk to the hotel, we saw a man carrying a large silvery fish by the tail. She flagged down the guy and bought the mackerel for our lunch. She ordered the thieves to cook for us and clean up after us. We were quite content with the resolution. The fish was delectable, breaded and served with pickled carrots. We ate together, the three of us, as Latin talk shows and soap operas played in the background.

We had a favorite spot in San Juan del Sur. We would walk down to the beach and to the east past the fishermen. We headed towards the ocean along the cliffs that curved towards the horizon. It was stunning. The sheer vastness of the ocean met with the austerity of the cliffs was breathtaking. We were on our own to explore. In seclusion, we were able to prance around naked and take it all in.

We also hiked up the westward mountains, starting with the mountain crowned with Jesus. From there, off in the distance, we could see another small white beach. We liked the idea of finding personalized beaches created just for us. We set off one day towards this westward beach. We hiked for a few hours. We took a couple wrong turns, but finally found it. From the main red dirt road we passed between the posts of two adjacent barbed wire fenced properties. There, we found a small trail. At the very end of that trail was a hint of turquoise water. We sped for the beach and it did not fall short of our expectations. The beach was stunning. Blue, turquoise water, gently rolling waves, canyons and cliffs on the extremities, and a soft curve of smooth pebbled beach. We saw a few black tarps set up like small tents on the beach immediately in front of the trail and other than the man asleep at the base of a tree, the beach was empty and all ours. We couldn’t believe how lucky we were to find such seclusion. We walked to the left and began making ourselves at home on the boulders that met the ocean. We undressed and dipped our toes in the water. Just as we’re about to wade in, a man in uniform with a shotgun comes out of nowhere and approaches me. He explains that the beach is not open to the public on this day and we are prohibited from being there. The “strong arm of the Nicaraguan Army” is training here, shooting practice, he says, among other things. He escorts us back to the trail and tells us that the beach will not be open for another month. We walked away with our tails between our legs and laughed thinking about the soldiers, with their shotguns and us in their sights, scoffing “gringos”.

At night, we pulled the foam mattresses out of the room and onto the deck. Our late night love was usually supplemented by the reggae rhythms of below. It was heavenly to sleep under the stars in the cool breeze. In the early morning, roosters would begin to crow. At first they would each utter a sporadic cry. The dawn brought a chorus of “cock-a-doodle-doos” and the howls and barks of dogs. The sun would slowly begin to peak above the mountain to the east and slowly rise, filling the gray town with a shaft of light. The people of the town woke much more slowly than the sun or the animals. We lay in an early morning trance, aware of the town and the first melodies of the song birds yet not fully awake. Little by little, the stillness of the sleepy town was replaced by hints of movement until the town vibrated with music and madness.

Parrots in San Juan del Sur were as numerous as pigeons in New York City. Painted green with a rainbow under their wings, they were always around and always welcome. Another benefit of our crows nest home was our proximity to their flocks in flight. We could almost reach out and touch them as they glided, squawking and talking, past us to one tree or another. I wondered what they were talking about as they chattered away.

I met a hero one early morning. We rose too early for breakfast, so we went down to the beach. I saw a gray haired woman jogging towards me with four dogs leashed beside her. The five of them ran in unison. When she was closer, I saw that she also had a large white parrot on her shoulder. The woman must have been sixty or seventy years old. She radiated a goodness. Her dogs were healthy, happy, and well behaved. I watched them as they ran towards the water. She went into the waves with them. They were full of glee. I strolled to the water side and watched in awe of the love that was evident between them. I missed my kids, I nearly cried. After some time, the woman headed out of the water and up the beach. She picked up some trash from the beach and carried it with her. I intercepted her as she walked towards the sidewalk. She was American, from California, and had been living in Nicaragua for eight years. She was warm and friendly. She told me that her dogs were rescues. She had the four of them on leads and a fifth following close behind. She also had two others at home - one born blind and another with only three legs. A woman after my own heart. I was moved and happy to talk with her. I told Chad that she was my “superhero”. He mirrored my thoughts before I voiced mine saying “That’s you when you’re eighty, baby.”

We were amazed to see in the waves of San Juan del Sur, stingrays. They were surfing in the waves. It was astounding. They would ride on the crest of the wave and splash around in the wake. I am not sure if they were feeding or playing, but this was a phenomenon I had not previously seen and I felt honored.

We had fallen in love with San Juan del Sur and the conviviality of the Nicaraguans. We loved our little house on the hill and the way our life had taken a simple shape, but we knew it was getting to be time to move on. On the last night, we lay in each other’s arms under the stars. It was so beautiful. We made love. Chad’s face and torso above me were framed by the misty clouds and the many bright stars that peaked around them. It was romantic. It is gratifying to know that we not only have a sweet sensuality between us but also have the luxury of making love in such impressive, idyllic settings. We kissed amorously as the mist fell on our warm skin.

Soon it began raining heavily and we were forced indoors. The rain dripped through the ceiling and pooled on the floor. In the morning, we packed our things slowly. There is always an energy about on the days when we head towards new frontiers, a quiet excitement. We draped our bags and ourselves with rain gear and headed out into the storm for the bus station.

We took a crowded chicken bus back to Rivas and from there headed northwest on another bus to Grenada. I watched the jungles and cattle pastures go by. Chad rested his head against me and fell asleep.

The bus jerked into a jammed parking lot and we arrived in Grenada. It was not what we were expecting. We were immediately consumed by a large market once disembarking the bus. Like most Latin American markets, stalls were packed closely aside one another and sold everything from produce to panties, live animals to DVDs. It was still raining and the market took cover under plastic tarps that hung lowly over the stalls. Chad hunched down to pass through the market. We weaved through a small city of commerce, a loud and fetid labyrinth of persistent hawkers, desperate livestock, colorful produce, and haphazard goods. I led the way and Chad followed close behind. The market seemed to go on forever. Then all of a sudden, the black roofed slum market abruptly ended and we were out under the sky.

The rain fell on us and we walked towards the city center. There we found the old fashioned European colonial style buildings we had been expecting. The central square was bordered by bright yellow buildings and a distinguished cathedral. Past the cathedral there was a tourist promenade with quaint shop fronts, cafes, and out door eateries. Further in this direction, the Lago de Nicaragua could be found.

We checked into a hostel, dropped our bags, and went out to further explore the city. We had read that there was a nearby church bell tower with a fantastic view of the city. It is said to have the best vantage point in town with views of the surrounding volcanoes, the lake, and on some days one could even see as far as El Salvador. We went to check it out. It turns out that the doorman charges an entrance fee and the bell tower is barely three stories tall. We passed on the deal and continued walking about.

We purchased helados and headed towards the Lago de Nicaragua. There were many homeless men laying in the shade of trees or on benches, dirty and dazed. Some of them were hobbling around aimlessly with the gait of zombies. In the lake itself another homeless man held onto a makeshift raft and stood in the water. An old ice cream vendor followed me around with his cart. He rang his bells and laughed saying “beep beep”. He had no teeth and his wrinkled skin sagged around his neck. He followed me as far as the sidewalk permitted, all the while laughing and jingling away. Around a curve in the lakefront, we found a popular area where people were playing futbol, basketball, and baseball. There were cows grazing and dogs barking at the cows. There were people horseback riding. A father and son on horseback galloped in front of the quickly setting sun. It was a slightly bizarre and picturesque scene.

The Lago de Nicaragua is a huge fresh water lake dotted with hundreds of islands, including Isla de Ometepe rising largely with one dormant and one active volcano. I find it interesting that thousands of years ago, the lake was part of the Pacific Ocean. When the Earth shifted and the lake became separated from the ocean, it gradually lost its salinity. All the creatures that were once a part of the sea evolved and adapted to the lake. Most unusually, there are even fresh water sharks.

Our hostel offered free internet, free tea and coffee, and a common area TV and hammocks. We spent just a few days in Grenada mostly wasting time and enjoying the amenities. It was nice to have no great quests or any risky ventures, no jungles or reefs, no treks or discoveries. I plugged myself into the internet and chatted with family and friends. It was a brief period to reconnect with a world that felt very far away. Soon those technological indulgences became unfulfilling and edgeless. We woke early, packed our gear, and boarded a bus out of town.

I was interested to see the artisan town of Masaya. I had hoped to purchase locally made crafts and dip into a more creative world. After hopping off the bus, the only phrase that came to mind was “sensory overload”. We were dumped off in the center of a market, busy and loud. It was full of pushy people shoving their way ahead and small stalls selling the typical collection of useful and strange wares. It was claustrophobic. I immediately heard the panicked screams of a pig, a terrified pig. With a human-like voice, this pig was screaming and fighting for his life. My stomach lurched and my heart started racing. I nearly had a panic attack as my blood pounded through my veins. I had to get away from the screams. I plowed past hawkers and gawkers, but it was five minutes or more before I was far enough not to hear his voice over the sounds of the market. No one else raised their heads, batted an eye, or even seemed to notice. I had left Chad behind in my rush. I felt such heartache and the chaos of the market did not distract me. I looked around to see pigs on short ropes, waiting for slaughter, and chickens, tied six or seven together by their feet, writhing in a tight mass of feathers. They were baking in the heat and panting next to a table of their brethren’s corpses being chopped into pieces. Beyond, dead fish and that pervasive smell of the sea drew in the flies and parasites. Under the stall tables and around every bend, the scarred, matted, and mangy dogs roamed nose down searching for a nibble of food, just trying to survive. It was a heartbreaking scene. I couldn’t handle it. How could I ever eat meat? All these pained lives and the struggle to live and be happy, just to end up on someone’s plate, on my plate? I have been a vegetarian most of my life, inconsistently however, since I was twelve. I promised never to eat meat again. How could I? A Rasta man once said, “If you eat meat, you make your body a graveyard instead of a temple”. Never again.

I forgot all about the local crafts and the artisans that I came there to see. I wanted out. Chad was with me. I was disgusted, repulsed by all the trash, the smell, the noise. I kept thinking to myself that humans are the most filthy, selfish animals that ever existed. I know that the livestock and factory farmed animals in the US have it much worse. Seeing it again, in such brutal light, in person, I could not accept the path it took for a piece of meat to make it to someone’s plate. I had been deeply affected. I was permanently changed. I wanted to be different. We relocated the bus station and boarded the earliest departing bus.

We headed towards Managua. There we made our way from the southbound bus station to the northbound bus station and boarded a bus to Maltagalpa. Four hours later, we got off that bus and mounted another when we heard the call for Jinotega.

The pace in my mind slowed as we boarded that full bus. We rose higher into the mountains and the cool air swept through the bus. The bus was so full that we couldn’t move our limbs. The old American school bus rode at a slant and inched up into the elevations. It struggled with the weight of its passengers. I imagined the engine’s mantra as “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can”. We were up in the misty clouds. The forests were lush and emerald as at sea level, but incorporated the evergreens, spruce, and firs. Pressed against the window, I breathed in the sweet air and praised the moss hanging from the trees and the lichen that covered the stones. When we saw the marker for Selva Negra, we jumped ship and headed into the green.
Selva Negra was named by the Germans for their native Black Forest, which these woods strangely resemble. The jungles are protected here and sanctioned an ecological reserve.

Decades ago, the Germans came here and began growing organic coffee in the hills. There is a full plantation and the gourmet coffee is exported to countries all over the world. There is a farm with livestock naturally raised and crops of organically produced fruits and vegetables. Flowers of all colors vibrantly dot the landscape. There is only one place to stay in La Selva Negra. We booked a room and felt that we were resting in the lap of luxury.

Our room had large windows and faced the pond filled with lily pads, duckweed, and white geese. Our bed was large and soft and covered in quilts and blankets. The shower was spacious and the water was hot and sent steam clinging to the windows.

We arrived in the early evening and dressed in long pants, long sleeves, and a scarf for me. We went into the virgin rain forest for a peak around. Moments into our hike, we heard the sounds. The trees vibrated with the haunting echo of howler monkey cries. We heard a rustle in the leaves and saw a small movement in the tree tops. Looking up, we saw directly above us, a large troop of howler monkeys. They were bedding down for the night. The larger males made protective calls and established their territory for the night. Their voices resonated in our bodies as we watched in awe. We were exhilarated. I have seen howler monkeys on my previous visits to this region, but I could never tire of their adorable faces and their powerful calls. This was the first time Chad had ever seen wild monkeys. He was delighted and had a big grin on his mouth. We stayed with our faces gazing upward until our necks ached and it became nearly too dark to find our way back. “Wow.”

The plantation and the accompanying hotel and restaurant were completely self sufficient and environmentally sound. The staff really cared about the mission and had a passion for nature and wildlife. The plantation was surrounded by blue, misty mountains on all sides. It felt cool and spring-like. We ate all of our meals in the restaurant. We savored homemade spaghetti with onions and tomatoes, rich European-style cheeses made on the farm, sweet desserts of ice cream, milk pudding and prunes in nectar and drank hot manzanilla tea- and that was just the first dinner. The food was delicious, rich, and healthy. The menu said “you can take pride in drinking coffee that hasn’t traveled more than just uphill” and it was true, not only for the coffee, but all the food. There were a few other guests, older couples from Germany, France, and the UK. After dinner, we walked arm and arm back to our lovely room. It was actually cold for a change. We curled up and took refuge in the warmth of each other’s bodies and the wool blankets and quilts.

During the day, we spent our time hiking in the jungle. In the rainforest and all over Selva Negra, epiphytes covered the trees. Bromeliads and glorious orchids grew out of tree trunks and branches. Ferns, vines, and small palms filled the understory beneath the taller trees, like the banyan, the cedar, and the ceiba, that form the canopy and the roof of the rain forest. The higher elevation kept away the mosquitoes and other biting insects. Moss outfitted the trunks and roots of trees and the stones, boulders, and fallen branches that lined the forest floor. This cloud forest is home to two hundred and eighty species of birds, including the resplendent and illusive quetzal, one hundred and thirty species of orchid, and over five hundred species of trees.

The hostess of Selva Negra told us about a difficult hike we could take uphill and high into the virgin rainforest. We jumped at the opportunity to hike deep into the reserve. It turned out to be an amazing full day hike. The temperature stayed cool and pleasant. The sun barely made it down to ground level through the thick tree cover. It was beautiful.

We hiked through the thick vegetation, dazzled by vibrant butterflies and charmed by the chirps, calls, and songs of the birds. We saw toucans and toucanets, hummingbirds and parrots, woodpeckers and motmots, magpies and wrens. The forest is also home to ocelots, margays, sloths, and mountain lions. As we were coming to find out for ourselves, it was the best place in the country to view exceptional wildlife in their own pristine environment. We could hear the bellows of the howler monkeys echoing through the jungle. We came across a troop of them a time or two. They were hanging out in the tree tops, eating and lounging around, calling out to announce the coming of a storm.

It was a great hike. Some expanses were nearly vertical. We groped at roots and vines to pull ourselves forward or help ourselves down. I slipped and fell several times.

The trees had enormous buttresses. This is a feature of many trees in rainforests around the world. Overall rainforest soil is shallow and nutrient poor. Shallow roots tap into the first fifteen to twenty centimeters of decaying leaves and plant matter. It is thought that buttresses, by increasing surface area, aid in the acquisition of nourishment from the top soil. Perhaps they also allow for air exchange in water-logged soils. They have other uses including aiding the short roots by increasing stability, capturing leaf litter and leading the debris to the roots for breakdown, and sheltering animals and therefore helping to gather nutrients from the animals’ waste. Buttresses can be as high as ten meters. It is fascinating.

I admired a gigantic tree, a strangler fig that had enveloped another tree to take its place at the canopy. It was raining lightly. I continued on down the muddy path. It was nearly straight down. I slipped downward and fell on my right side on a small stump. The impact knocked the wind right out of me. My side throbbed with pain. I didn’t realize until later that I had fractured a rib. I would be in pain for six weeks to come. For the moment, I collected myself, took a deep breath, and kept moving. I was aching but I pushed the thought out of my mind and hiked for the rest of the day, gaping at the beauty and reveling in the cool lushness.

Once again, we had fallen in love with our surroundings. We didn’t want to leave, but we knew we had to. There was much more adventure ahead of us. Our journey was less than half over. We dined in luxury that evening and the morning after, savoring the organic goodness and full flavors of the foods. Then we prepared to leave the cool highlands for steamy lowlands and beaches.

I wanted to explore Honduras. I had heard very good things about diving in the Bay Islands. I also wanted to go into the vastly unexplored swamps and jungles of La Mosquitia. I had plans to hire a guide and a pipante, a pole-propelled canoe, in order to go deep into the forbidding jungle via small waterways. These ideas became more and more unrealistic as the conflict in Honduras intensified. The Honduran president, Jose Manuel Zelaya, was overthrown. He went into exile in Argentina but was still recognized by the United States. We began hearing about land mines at the border, assassinations of citizens who supported Zelaya, kidnappings, assaults on tourists, increased looting and aggressive crimes, increased gang activity, violent protests, strict curfews, and general chaos. The United States declared that American citizens should avoid all unnecessary travel in the country. As the advisories for Honduras began to be more alarming, we decided to quickly travel straight through into El Salvador.

We booked a direct passage on a bus from Managua to San Salvador. In Managua, we stayed in a small hospedaje just next to the Tica bus station. It was a sketchy area of town. Street punks tried to sell us drugs at every turn and drivers followed us saying “taxi, taxi”. When we ignored them, they would say “sook mi deek”. The room was dirty and had gaping holes in the ceiling and walls and around the windows and doors. It wasn’t secure. I got the feeling that the street creeps outside could see us through the cracks. We had a bathroom inside the room, but it wasn’t separated by a door. It was grungy and we slept in our sleeping bags. The good thing is that there was a TV. We had to catch a 5am bus the following morning. We requested a wake up call, but didn’t expect to get it. We took shifts sleeping and staying up watching American movies.
The bus ride from Managua to San Salvador was approximately twelve hours. The passage through Honduras was only about five hours. There were many military check points and policemen were posted all along the highway and in front of every business. We had heard that the country was in the control of the military. It was unsettling to see so many automatic weapons. The border crossings were smooth and uneventful and soon the worrisome section of our journey was over.

We decided to head for Belize. In San Salvador, we arranged to take another direct bus to Guatemala City and then onward on another bus to Puerto Barrios. We were in transit for several exhausting days.

We went by boat from Guatemala to Belize, arriving in Punta Gorda. We went through customs and boarded a chicken bus to Independencia. There, we took a water taxi to Placencia.
In Placencia, we were able to relax and settle in for a short while. It was a pleasure not to be on the move. I had visited Belize a couple years before and had a particular affinity for Placencia. It was the slow season and the little town was a dead zone.

We set up our tent in the shade of a tree a short distance from the beach. Once again the sweet Caribbean Sea was at our door step. We spent a few days in the sun, swimming and snorkeling, rocking in the hammock, reading, or wandering around. We languidly watched the green iguanas sinuously move along the sand. We drank refreshing seaweed shakes and listened to reggae music. We enjoyed speaking in English with locals and were enchanted by the cadence in the Creole accent.

From the south of Belize, we headed north through Dangriga and Belmopan. We arrived in San Ignacio late into the evening. We set up our tent in the soft, grassy fields of Mana Kai. We showered, made love, and watched the moon and the bright stars in the night sky. San Ignacio was only a stopover on our journey back into Guatemala. We left the following morning for the border.

When we arrived at the border, it began storming. We had our passports stamped and exchanged the last of our Belizean dollars. We planned on walking the two kilometers or so to the bus station, but were held up by the rain.

A persistent taxi driver kept approaching us and tried to negotiate a fare to Tikal. After a couple hours of waiting for the rain to clear, his price dropped to only $25. Most of the other drivers were offering $60 fares for the two hour ride. This driver was desperate. The young guy was so broke that we had to pay him in advance because his gas tank was empty and he didn’t have any cash. It turned out to be a hell of a ride. He was determined to make the cash in the shortest amount of time. He sped at seventy or eighty miles per hour the whole way. His car sounded as if it would fall apart. The car was shaking and rattling. He bottomed out in the deep potholes and the outsized speed bumps a dozen times during the ride. The first third of the road was unpaved. It was a dusty, cratered, rock-covered road. He never slowed down. A few miles of paved street way interrupted the dirt road. We passed through some small towns. All the way, we passed animals in and alongside the road. We swerved to miss them- horses, cows, pigs, dogs, cats, goats, turkeys- and the people, even toddler aged children. I gripped at my seat as we neared potential victims, but we always missed. It was madness. When it started raining, it just upped the ante on the danger factor. Perilous, but it made for a fun and wild ride.

We arrived in the National Reserve of Tikal at dusk. We positioned our tent and relaxed, hanging out together as the darkness set in. We found dinner at a food stall, then went back to the tent to cuddle in our sleeping bags. We read until we could hardly keep our eyes open.

The ground under the tent was hard, but the temperature outside was comfortable. One of the inns nearby to the park entrance offered hot showers. It was such a luxury after the damp nights. It rained most of the first night and all the nights in Tikal thereafter. Our tent began to leak. The rain dripped through the ceiling and came in around the screened windows.
Because of the rain, we planned to wait for the perfect clear and sunny day to visit the Mayan ruins. Our first exploration however was unexpected. We were wandering in and around the museum. There were a few ponds filled with lazy crocodiles and turtles lounging on muddy islands. The Maya dug these reservoirs to hold their fresh water. We walked around the ponds to get a good view of the crocs and take pictures. We found a small trail into the woods and followed it. It took us right into the ruins. It was still raining. There was no one in the jungle and it was beginning to get dark. We rarely saw people when we were in the midst of the ruins. At dusk and in darkness quickly became our favorite way to view the ruins. It was a primal place and the darkness did it justice.

We climbed to the tops of the temples. Other temples protruded through the canopy. There was lush, impenetrable jungle in all directions as far as the eye could see. It was breathtaking. Bats flew out of dark, cavernous rooms in the ruins. We became very still and took the moment in fully. The Mayan empire was a flourishing civilization. It is believed to have been founded around 200 BC. It thrived through 750 AD and collapsed in 900 AD. They were incredibly advanced and the temples act as witness to their skill and creativity. We hiked back in darkness. The jungle was quiet. There were no more screaming spider monkeys. All was stillness and the rain made its way from the top of the canopy to the forest floor, one leaf at a time. After telling stories about monsters and jaguars picking off the prey in the rear of the pack and arguing over who should be in front, we emerged from the jungle a little relieved.

That night, after the ground got completely saturated, we found ourselves sleeping on a water bed. The bottom of the tent rippled over a puddle of water. Luckily, there wasn’t any leakage from the bottom. The rain dampened our sleeping bags from above. I slept in a damp chill and woke to wet panties and a buttocks shriveled like raisons.

It rained so often while we were in Tikal, that we often just sat rocking and reading in the hammocks. When we ventured out into the park to explore, there were coatis, small mammals with long ringed tails, and resplendent oscillated turkeys that shimmered in the sunlight. They were wonderful to watch.

On Halloween, we headed into the rainforest to the ruins. It was raining slightly and the sun was starting to go down. We hiked to the far west temple and climbed to the top, high above the canopy. The view was enthralling. Temples peaked into the clouds. The air was misty and the fog wrapped around the treetops like a scarf. Our minds were on the ancient civilization that called this magical place home. We imagined them sitting where we sat and gazing where we gazed. The old souls who roam here have more resonance than any ghosts I have ever known. We made the walk back in pitch blackness in the lair of the jaguar. The only sounds were the night creatures stirring and the pitter patter of rain drops on leaves.

The hiking in Tikal was great. We could hike into the jungle and come across unexcavated mounds of Mayan ruins and artifacts. The wildlife was rich. There were always groups of coatis digging in the dirt for food or hanging around in the trees. We saw the great, black curassows, a strange looking bird with a bright orange beak and the stance and gait of an ostrich, but smaller and adapted to a jungle environment. The first time we saw a spider monkey, we were thrilled! We were just roaming around with our noses down, checking out the insects and admiring the colorful turkeys, when we heard a huge crash in the trees. We look up to see an energetic monkey leaping from tree top to tree top. He was picking off fruits and taking sample bites and then throwing the mostly uneaten fruits down to the ground. He hung from his tail and made faces at us as we smiled at him, in awe and happy. On hikes, we were usually accompanied by the calls of the howler monkeys or the screams of the spider monkeys. Their vocalizations commended us and we marched on talking about the environment, the benefits of getting outdoors, and singing Jack Johnson songs. We dodged spider webs, poked at termite mounds, and walked on.

Once, in the jungle, we saw a spectacular, wild monkey performance. Fifteen or twenty spider monkeys were in the trees directly above us. A few of the larger males began rushing and taunting the females and their babies. The mothers and the babies screamed and cried out and escaped to other trees. The males were in hot pursuit and jumped, leaping from branch to branch to catch up. It was impressive. In the end, no harm was done and the troop went back to lackadaisically lounging on limbs and munching on leaves.

We went on to admire the ruins. The scale and the atmosphere is really indescribable. It was quite amazing that at a historical site like this, we rarely saw any other people except sometimes a few in the Grand Plaza, the most central ruins, a square of four temples. We were all on our own to explore and take in the sights and sounds of the temples and the forest. The buildings were huge, solid structures, tall and steep. It was amazing to turn a corner in the thick jungle and see a temple sprouting up or walk and come across a mound or hill with an untouched ruin. It felt very intimate being there in silence and calmly taking it all in, picturing it as a vibrant society and a thriving empire.

We discovered a “secret” spot, a place that felt dreamlike and peaceful and full of life. It naturally became our favorite place and we melted into the ambience every day. We perched at the rear of one of the temples. The ledge overlooked a valley filled with lively jungle. A family of spider monkeys made their home there. We had a bird’s eye view from our lookout and watched the troop as they swung in the treetops and slept on beds of leaves. Toucanets, woodpeckers, parrots, hummingbirds all danced across the sky and landed on the branches at our toes. We saw an abundance of these and other birds flying from tree to tree. We sat and watched the scene, sitting on a two thousand year old ruin, looking out to more ruins, lush tropical jungle, and the monkeys. Across from us, across the valley, was a gigantic temple. At sunset one afternoon, we decided to climb the beast.

After a trek through the jungle on a small root-riddled path, we arrived at a clearing in the forest. The massive pyramid ruin came into view. It was astounding. The Mayans had used the now crumbling steep stone steps to the front. I was standing in awe. Chad walked to the side of the building and found our route up. He laughed and said “Oh, baby! Wait until you see this! I don‘t think you‘re going to like it.“ I strut over and the air is snatched from my lungs. I am deathly afraid of heights. A narrow wooden ladder leaned against the ruin and traveled straight up, seemingly never to end, to the top of the ruin! Just looking at it made my heart jump. I was scared of the falling, scared to be so scared that I would freeze on the ladder, scared to be too scared to come back down. I clutched my pride and the ladder. I was not going to pass this up. This what I came here for. My heart jerked around in my chest. I started my ascent.
I stopped climbing after what seemed like hours or days, not sure. I made the mistake of looking down behind me. “Holy fuck!“ It was a long way down and still much further up. I was scared to panic, but even more scared to slip. Chad boogied up without fear. Earlier that day I had backed out halfway up a mirador, a high vantage point that overlooked the jungle. I couldn’t go up the mirador because the fear was not worth the risk. The wood blocks were nailed to a tree and climbed sixty or seventy feet into the sky. This was different. It was a much more intense fear and a more intense risk, but the experience was worth it. Chad came down to climb closer to me. It was straight up and straight down behind me.

My journal entry says “I kept going up the little wood ladder about -- I was about to say 120 ft, because that was a guess and a large one, but I just looked at my official Tikal map and Temple guide- and I went up that temple- a whopping 180 feet high! Brave girl, I say.“

At the top, I crouched low and held on for dear life, leaning against the building. The smaller temples have ramps, railings, and supports. Here, no railings, no joke, just a straight clear view down to the ground and to your death. At the summit of the ladder, I immediately threw myself up onto the stone temple. My feet could still reach and touch the ladder, but it was so steep of a descent that I couldn’t even see the ladder from where I sat, not even the first step.

After a few moments, I calmed down and could absorb the view. It was breathtaking, a whole panoramic view of the tropical jungle dotted with the peaks of temples, all set in the glow of a late afternoon sun. It was stunning. I don’t think my words could give you perspective on the scope. It was fantastic. We watched the sky change colors and the sun set.

Soon after, we made a slow descent with the last bit of light in the sky. We walked around some other ruins as the sky got dark. We walked back in total darkness, holding hands and admiring our lives.

We were in love with the ambiance and the vibes of the ruins. When wandering around one day an extraordinary moment happened for me. We were dipping in and out of the jungle on a small path. When we emerged onto an excavated building around Temple VI, we met a gentleman tending to the grounds. He told us that just before we came out of the forest, he saw a jaguar stealthily moving along the trail. The man had a gentle manner, soft alert eyes, and a sweet smile lingering under a subtle moustache. His shirt was unbuttoned and a necklace with a stone pendant was exposed leaning against his smooth chest. He put down his machete and walked closer to us. He complimented the turquoise stone set in silver and tied around my neck by a length of black shoelace. He asked if he could touch the stone. I told him “yes”. He took it in his hands and felt its coolness. He said it was a good stone, a stone with calm, peaceful energy, “tranquilo”. He pulled a green stone, about the size of a golf ball, from his pocket. He said it was his lucky stone. He explained to us that he is a Mayan shaman. He asked me if I am spiritual. I said “yes”. He asked me if I do yoga, “yes”. He continued in Spanish, explaining the similarities between the yoga way of thought- yogic energy and breathing, meditation, and pranic healing- and Mayan cosmology. He explained about his spirituality and openness. He looked at me and said I have strength.

He brought us to a chamber in the ruins that was used by the Mayans for meditation. A door on the left led to a small, dark room in which the women would meditate and a door on the right for t he men. He comes here to meditate himself. He lights a small, white candle and “sits in stillness, opening his mind to the heavens”. I am a skeptic, but I really felt this man. He was real. He is a spiritual person. He meant what he said about the importance of spirituality and connecting with a higher power. He looked deep into my eyes and told me that he could see into my mind and soul. He said he could see deep into the past, into the ancestors, in my eyes. I am an old soul. He studied me and said that I think a lot and my mind is always going. He pulled a black feather out in front of me and gave it to me as a gift. It happened so quickly that I’m not sure where it came from. He said that the Maya believe that the birds are the living form of our ancestors.
He took my hand and placed it between his two palms, close but without touching. I could feel the heat radiating from my hand, around it, and reaching up my forearm. The shaman said that he could feel my energy, that it is positive. My good energy is stable and radiates around me but does not scatter and instead stays with me. He mentioned slyly to me that Chad does not have a stable energy and that his energy gets scattered and leaves him. He encouraged us to have more stability in our relationship, emphasizing that the Maya believe in lifelong commitments, marriage.

He went on to tell me that I have an open heart. He put his arms around me, touched my head, and told me to exhale forcefully to cleanse myself of blockages or negative energy. He did this twice. He looked at the lines on my palm and felt my energy for several minutes, telling me that I am strong and have compassion and a big heart. He invited us to visit him at his house. We were planning on staying in the ruins all day and leaving the jungle the following morning. We had to decline, but I was touched and honored. He asked me if I had a question in my mind. I couldn’t think of a specific question. He said that he knew I had questions and I was free to ask. I wanted to ask him more about Mayan beliefs and his own spirituality, to learn from him, to feel more of his spiritual presence. He had tapped into my aura. Hesitantly, I told him I did not know my question. The language barrier was increasingly difficult in the intensity of this conversation and it stopped me from going further. In the end, he held my hand, smiled at me softly, looked into my eyes, and told Chad to take care of me. I was blessed. I had met a healer. I left feeling light and centered and very lucky.

The following morning we left Tikal to Santa Elena. There we purchased bus tickets to take us to San Salvador. We took a tuk tuk, similar to the auto-rickshaws of India, to Flores. Flores is set on a small peninsula, nearly an island, in the lake. It is a colonial town. We liked it so much, we decided to spend a couple days there, walking up and down the cobbled streets, eating pizza and chocobananos, frozen chocolate covered bananas, and talking with the locals . Little children, maybe five or six years old, approached us with home made desserts. They were such hard workers, we couldn’t resist buying some donuts, filled with cream and covered in sugar. We ate our sweets, watching the fishermen casting their nets in the lake in front of the setting sun and colorful sky, and talked about how far we felt from home and the reality of other people’s lives.

On the last day in Flores, we caught a tuk tuk in the darkness of the early morning to the bus station in Santa Elena. It took us a full day by bus to drive from Santa Elena to San Salvador. When we arrived we had to take a local bus to the center of town. The bus had a hip young driver, glowing blue lights along the ceiling and pictures and stickers of surfboards, surf logos, and brands. It was packed. We were jammed, with our backpacks on, standing in the aisle near the front of the bus. Everyone getting on had to shove their way past us. Slow jams from the 70’s and reggae played loudly from the speakers. I couldn’t even imagine one more person getting on, but more people always boarded. Outside, we passed a busy weekend market with stalls and people yelling and bargaining for goods.

We found a cheap hotel. It was so cheap in fact, that it was missing a toilet seat, the windows were barred, there were no sheets on the foam mattress, and there were smudges and footprints coming down the wall from the vent where someone broke in before. It was in the heart of the city, near the bus that would take us to the coast, and probably the cheapest deal in town.

Walking in the city that evening, we were assaulted by the smog, diesel fumes, the pollution. We explored and stopped for dinner at a pupuseria. This is the local dish of El Salvador and it was our first time trying the fare. We ordered frijoles y queso pupusas, three for a dollar is the price nationwide, always a delicious and cheap choice. They are similar to tortillas, but they have cheese, beans, vegetables, or meats cooked into them. The ladies cook them on a big flat stove top in the front of the restaurant. The smells travel up and down the streets.

There were loud festivities and a bar just next door to our hotel room. In our sleeping bags, on top of the dirty mattress, it was as if we were laying inside the pool hall itself. Eventually we grew accustomed to the noise and fell asleep. In the morning we were ready to escape San Salvador and ran through the rain to catch a couple buses to La Libertad and Playa Sunzal.

We made Playa Sunzal our home for the remainder of the trip. We chose a small room by the beach with a private bathroom and hammocks on our porch. We ate pupusas each night at the restaurant down the street. There, we were lucky enough to have met an ex-patriot from Canada named Ian who had a couple surfboards to rent to us. We were considering buying our own boards, but jumped at the opportunity to rent instead. Both boards were Olea long boards. Chad’s was 8’ and mine was 7’2.

Our days fell into a comfortable routine. In the morning, we would rise early with the sun and head into the surf. We would take a break for breakfast and walk down to the restaurant. Every morning we got a portion of eggs, beans, bread, sometimes an avocado, coffee, and juice. Then we would head back into the waves for another few hours. We would call it quits in the early afternoon, have a lunch of fresh fish or vegetables and rice, bananas, and ice cream. Surfing really works your body. We usually would siesta for an hour or so and spend the afternoon lounging in the hammocks and reading books discovered at a book exchange. In the evenings, invariably, we would walk down the street for pupusas and hang out with Ian.

We lived in a bubble of the beach, the surf, and the hammocks. Ian was our contact to the outside world, filling us in on the news. For instance, when we arrived in Sunzal it was storming. We had received a lot of rain in Guatemala so we did not pay it much mind. We took the boards to the beach for the first time and it was deserted. The waves were crashing and the sky was black. We got in and surfed anyway. The ocean slammed us down, jerked us around, catapulted us into the air, threw us off our boards, crushed us, and held us under. We were panting and exhausted as the ocean churned and sloshed around. Come to find out, it was a hurricane, Hurricane Ida. It was a hurricane that left over forty people dead within ten miles of where we lived, one hundred and twenty four dead in the country. Winds were recorded at ninety miles per hour. Ian told us of power outages, roads wiped off the map, land slides, and flash floods. A dead human body and a dead cow washed up on the beach down from where we were surfing that day. The last news we had before leaving the country reported that over five hundred people were still missing. We survived.

We were eagerly learning how to surf. Gradually we saw our improvement from laying on the board, to sitting on the board, to standing, riding the foam, and finally riding the waves. It took all our energy and was the focus of our time in El Salvador. It worked our whole bodies to paddle out to the swells, catch the wave, stand and ride it, and paddle back out. It was intense.

After the hurricane, the water at low tide was full of debris that was taken from the land, trees, trash, tires, lots of leaves and branches. As time wore on, this cleared out. The water went from dark and murky to clear and green. We could see down to the rocks at the bottom. Initially when we arrived, the beach was piled high with rocks, large stones and pebbles. By the time we left, most of the stones were gone and all that was left on the beach was black volcanic sand. It was explained to us that the rocks are seasonal. During invierno, the rain slowly sends all the rocks down from the mountains and highlands to the coast. Week by week the levels rise in the water and on the beach. Once the rainy season ends, the ocean takes the stones out to sea, slowly slowly until all the stones are gone from the beach. Incredible. I found this fascinating. We arrived to a beach with hardly no visible sand and stones a story high and by the time we left, the only stones we could see were those in the ocean.

Playa Sunzal is known worldwide for its surfing. On the weekends the waves were dotted with dozens of surfers. Many of the surfers were very good and we enjoyed watching them and tried to learn from their skill.

On Thanksgiving, when all our friends and family in the States were carving our turkeys and sitting with their families, we were surfing. It wasn’t until afterwards that we learned that El Salvador had suffered an earthquake measuring 5.9 on the richter scale. The epicenter was 47 miles west of San Salvador at the Pacific Ocean. The effects of the tremors were felt as far away as Guatemala. We must have been riding on some really sweet waves and didn’t even notice.
Aside from a virus that swept through the small community and left us weak and bonded to the john and the day my surfboard and I collided with the rocks, the rest of our days were calm and revolved around the ocean, the moon, and the tides.

Being on the ocean is a nearly spiritual experience. The sky is blue. The sun is warming your skin and kissing your face. The water is cool and you interact with each wave, waiting to see if this is the one, noticing how it moves, gathers speed, and carries you away. One gorgeous day, I hung back a little to the east of the larger waves. I was taking it all in when a sea turtle came up for air right next to me and my board. She was covered in dark green algae and had large, thoughtful eyes. She swam beside me and we watched each other for a little while. Maybe she was trying to figure me out. Maybe it was a blessing. It was a beautiful and memorable moment for me. When she dipped under the surface and glided away, I felt happy and lucky. I went on to ride the wave.
We left El Salvador with tears in our eyes and a pep in our step. It was difficult to say goodbye to the friends we had made during our time there. Despite this, we were ready to get home to the States. I couldn’t wait to see my kids, squeeze them, snuggle them, and tell them how much I missed them. We were already thinking of our next adventure, one where they would all join us. We spent our last night in Central America sleeping on the cold tile floors of an empty airport in Guatemala City. We had experienced a lot, had come a long way, and we were better for it. We were met in cold Atlanta by the smiling face of a good friend and the warm embrace of family. The feeling of home blossomed in me when I was again surrounded by my sons.

Blistered Feet, Bubbly Toes, and Beating Hearts

Blistered Feet, Bubbly Toes, and Beating Hearts
A European Adventure
October 2008


I've just returned from an extraordinary adventure. I spent the last month on quite the expedition- hitchhiking through Western Europe. I'm sure you've read my mentions of the wanderer. The wanderer is the man that suddenly and romantically stepped into my life this summer. He's the man who left me smitten; open, desperate, and eager for more. He's the man that made my heart melt and my desires run wild. Well, the wanderer's name is Eric. Eric propositioned me with this idea, this invitation, to follow his favorite band through Western Europe on the cheap. Of course, I couldn't resist. What better than my two favorite things, romance and travel, all rolled up in one? So, with just a month of preparation, we decided to take the dive and "see what kind of crazy" we could get ourselves into. The tentative plan was to tramp from Germany to as many countries as we could reach on less than five Euros a day, by foot and hitching, eating leftovers on people's plates freegan-style, seeing as many Caspian shows as possible, and reveling in each other's company. And with this crazy notion, we set out on our adventure!


Day 1, October 1, 2008

We arrived on October 1st in Frankfurt, Germany after a long and luxurious Lufthansa flight.

Our amazing luck began immediately. While partying in Savannah, days before our trip, we met a sweet older couple from Germany who were touring around Savannah. Ironically, they were flying out of Atlanta to Frankfurt on the same day as us and on the same flight! Even more serendipitous, they were driving in the same direction we were headed. They offered us a ride and that was that.

We drove south for two hours to Heidelberg. There, we met up with my friend, Martin, a couch surfer who had previously stayed with me in Savannah. Martin had also just flown from Atlanta to Frankfurt that day and had just arrived home one hour before us. Nevertheless, he still offered to play tour guide. He took us on a wonderful walk around his beautiful city- to the castle, the bridge, the library- all the while telling us bits of history and interesting facts. After the tour, we went for a beer and then headed home for dinner with his girlfriend. She cooked a traditional South German dish- pasta with sautéed onions and cheese. Delicious! I had three helpings.

I drew a hot bath and Eric and I curled up with each other and glasses of whiskey. We enjoyed the warmth of the water and the closeness of our bodies. After our bath, Eric slipped outside in the cold to smoke a cigarette. A few minutes later, he came back in and carried me back out with him. He held me and kissed me as we listened to the rain and the German voices all around us. He looked into my eyes and kissed me again. He told me to "remember this". I always will.

We made a palate of mats and blankets on the floor of Martin's guestroom. We made love in the shadows cast by the incoming moonlight.


Day 2, October 2, 2008

The next morning we woke early, packed our backpacks, and put on our walking shoes. This was the first walking day of many to come. We walked through Heidelberg and two other subsequent towns until we found a suitable spot with access to the proper autobahn. We got three rides- one from a social worker, another from a coach, and another from a man who spoke no English and dropped us off directly on the highway. Ah! There's no speed limit on the autobahn. We walked for a moment and got spooked by a groundhog. We decided we needed to get off and find a safer plan. We made our way down the embankment, through blackberry bushes, all the while snacking on the berries.

I already have blisters on my feet. My pack is a heavy burden weighing in at roughly 45 pounds.

We walk for a while longer and find another suitable place to hitch with access to the autobahn. Our hands are stained dark purple from the berries. I roll some cigarettes for Eric, careful to make each one just right. We take a lunch break and enjoy our typical lunch- cheap bread with cheap cheese and cheap salami, always satisfying

The rain came, but thankfully was light and brief. We finally get picked up and end up at a rest
area on the side of the autobahn in Mannheim. This is the ideal place to hitchhike because gas stations and sometimes their accompanying cafes stay open 24 hours, providing shelter, warmth, toilets, food, plus a surplus of drivers passing through.

Eric noticed an 18 wheeler truck with French plates, as we were heading to Paris, we asked the driver for a ride. With a shrug, it was decided to be no problem. The driver was French, 28 years old, cute, with a gentle spirit and, thankfully, a patience for my halting French. This was the first instance I used my second language on the trip. It was difficult at first, but got better. It turned out to be quite a useful resource.

The driver was awesome- fun and curious. He had pictures of his wife and sons in the truck, which was spacious, immaculate, and very comfortable. Eric sat in the passenger seat and me just behind on the bed. We talked the whole way. Before he dropped us off, just outside of Reims, he gave us slices of ham and two chocolate puddings!

The rest area where we were deposited had a 24 hour café, an Autogrill. We decided to camp out here for the night. We hung out in the restaurant bumming leftovers, writing, reading, and talking. At about 1:00am, we decided to call it a night. Eric made a barrier against the cold ground with cardboard. We curled up together, tight as can be, in the one person sleeping bag.

After a fitful few hours of rest, we were visibly shaken by the cold and headed desperately back in the café to warm up. It was a difficult night. The first of many cold nights we would spend outside.


Day 3, October 3, 2008

The next day after three or four helpings of pain au chocolates and croissants a la free (i.e. otherwise wasted food), we decided to make an early start of hitching. We had to make it to Paris that day to catch our first planned Caspian show. We thumbed for four hours, with brief intervals indoors. The wind was bitterly cold. It was difficult for me to even uncover my face for a moment. I was bundled up from head to toe, with a scarf wrapped around my face, and I was still shivering. We finally gave in and went inside for lunch.

After some thought, we decided to make a sign "PARIS" and sit outside the café in the sun. Within five minutes, a pretty older French lady walked by and looked at me and asked "Well, do you want me to take you to Paris?" "Yes!" We jumped up and went to her car, where we spent the next 4½ hours with her and her cat driving to Paris and navigating our way into the city.
She was a lovely woman, a French teacher living in Germany, and visiting her brother and his cat in Paris. She helped me practice my French and ever patiently corrected my flawed grammar. She recommended that I start reading French children's books.

Once we arrived in Paris, she drove us to her brother's house. There, we were offered juice, maps, bus tickets, and specific instructions on how to reach Guillaume, my cousin, on the other side of town- one bus ride, one train ride, and then a metro ride.

Once we arrived at the proper metro station, the Bibliotheque Francois Mitterand, we bought a tomato and mozzarella sandwich on a baguette, borrowed a cell phone from a nice man on the street, and called the cousin. My other cousin, Jordane, picked us up at the metro and we walked together to their lovely flat. And, so begins our life Parisian…

We greeted my aunt, Martine, and uncle, Jean-Bernard. We were shown to our room and gratefully hopped in a warm shower together. After getting fresh and clean, it was time to get on our way to the Caspian concert, which began at 8:00pm. We were accompanied by Guillaume and his lovely girlfriend, whom he's totally in love with, Mara, and Jordane and her friend, Jessica.

We took a short metro ride and then walked the rest of the way- past a backdrop of monuments, such as Notre Dame and a distant Eiffel Tower- to the venue, Le Klub. Eric surprised his friends in the band and they were shocked to see him there- a happy reunion. The venue was down a small stairway into what seemed like an old basement or wine cellar. Dimly lit with red lights and low ceiling and quite small, the setting was intimate.

I had heard several of Caspian's songs on a CD Eric made for me and on myspace. I thought they were good, but I had no idea until I saw them live. I fell for the band immediately. The music is intense and spiritual. The band is immensely talented. My body moved to the rhythm and I couldn't take my eyes off the lead guitarist's, Phillip's, hands. It was magical.

After the show, I felt dazed and partly deaf. We then headed to a bar, again in a wine cellar like den, with Jordane and Jessica for shots of whiskey and conversation. We met up with the band briefly at a hopping pub gone nightclub. I would have liked to dance, but we were all tired. In the last five nights, Eric and I had managed only to sleep eight hours.

When we arrived home, we stayed up for a couple more hours with Guillaume and Aymerick, my oldest cousin, drinking wine and hearing stories of politics, family, and rivaling European countries. After a few glasses, we all retired.

Despite our exhaustion, Eric and I fell into an intensely passionate moment. We rolled around in bed together for hours. I can't tell you stories for each time we had sex, but know that the times I mention were breathtaking and memorable; moments worth the mentioning; special moments that I surely will cherish. Making love this night, we reached a blissful state of pure pleasure and an encapsulating romantic connection.

Finally, we collapsed in each other's arms and didn't stir for nearly 11 hours.


Day 4, October 4, 2008

We woke at 4:30pm the following afternoon. The family was relaxing about the house and casually waiting for us to wake up. We spent the next couple hours checking emails, doing
laundry, and being generally lazy with my family.

That evening, Martine cooked an awesome dinner that we all shared together. Wrapped around the dining room table, we talked and told stories. I translated to Eric as much as could be relayed with six people speaking. After dinner, Guillaume brought out my special treat. He had bought 9 or so distinct cheeses from all different regions of France for me and Eric to sample. I love cheese. Love, love, love. Guillaume knows this. He's my favorite cousin, "cooouusin" as we say between ourselves.

We and the cousins went out on the town for "Le Nuit Blanche", The White Night: a night in Paris when all the museums and theatres are open all night and art exhibitions line the streets. We smoked and drank whiskey and wandered about the city. We finished the night at a small pub with a group of their friends and a few pitchers of beer.


Day 5, October 5, 2008

It was time to hit the road again. After another hot shower together, we set about online collecting maps and directions and touching base with our contacts. We said goodbye to the family and went on our way adorning new fleece sweaters and big warm winter jackets given to us by my cousins.

We took the metro all the way out of Paris and walked to a ramp that would place us on the proper autoroute. We stood next to a large overpass with our thumbs out. We didn't have to wait very long. A nice man and his daughter picked us up and deposited us on the autoroute, on a concrete median between three diverging ramps and highways.

At this point we had been planning to go to Toulouse, but fearing a time crunch, Eric made the decision to try for Lyon instead which gave us an extra couple days to make it to the Caspian concert. We were quickly picked up again by a man who stopped in the flow of heavy traffic to speak with us. We had positioned ourselves on a ramp heading to Toulouse but asked instead for a ride to Lyon. The man made an exasperated face and gathered us from the street and deposited us near the correct autoroute.

Left at a gas station some distance from the actual autoroute, we were left with little options. We sat down and ate a little lunch. We ate a delicious home-packed lunch from Paris- Guillaume's fabulous cheese with thin slices of ham on soft baguettes. It hit the spot, needless to say.

I began approaching drivers in my now improving French, asking for rides in the direction of Lyon on the A6. The third driver I asked graciously offered to drive us. He didn't speak any English and was young, cute, and friendly and had been traveling in Canada for the last six months. He complimented my French and said I spoke very well. I was pleased. Communicating with him was fun and effortless. We ran an errand with him at a Best Buy/Auto Zone-like department store. Then, he drove us out of his way to a gas station off the A6 to Lyon.

We were walking on clouds. And, rolling with the energy, I decided to approach other drivers for rides. Miraculously, the second driver I asked invited us for a ride all the way to Lyon! He said we would leave in fifteen minutes. When the man went inside the gas station, Eric and I were giddy with the high of our amazing luck! We kissed and jumped around, ecstatically happy, amazed, and grateful.

The driver was a very sweet older man who spoke gently to us in French and played soft jams on his radio. He stopped midway to our destination and offered us hot coffee and sweet biscuits. In the car Eric and I each dozed off. Once in Lyon, he stopped to look at a bus map of the city with us to locate the address of our couch surfing hosts. Once we knew where we were and where we were headed, he gave us the rest of his cookies and went on his way.

It was around 8:00pm. As we started walking, it began to drizzle so we put on our rain gear- a protecting sheath for my backpack, a rain jacket for Eric, a poncho for me, and another for Eric's pack. We arrived shortly at Jean-Remi and Nathalie's street. The problem is that we had made amazing travel time and were three days ahead of schedule. We tried to page the flat from the door, but did not recognize any names. We were resigned to waiting outside.

We sat across the street in the doorway of a new construction. Protected from the rain, we had dinner together. We ate the last of our Parisian sandwiches and the cookies. Each time a man walked up to our hosts' building, Eric swore it was Jean-Remi. We watched people through the windows of their flats. Eric made commentary of what they were doing and saying to themselves. I couldn't contain my laughter. I was having a fit of giggles I couldn't resist. I almost peed my pants and my eyes were crying. It was wonderful.

After an hour or two, it was with me in this state, that Eric said again that he saw Jean-Remi. Full out laughter now, abs cramping, face hurting, it was the best. Eric ran up to the man who was carrying a large sack, much bigger than my pack, full of… apples? He was very surprised to see us, of course, but said it was no problem. He went upstairs with his load and came back down to let us in. I'm still laughing like a crazy person when we properly shake hands and introduce ourselves. Eric gives me a goofy eye and tells Jean-Remi that I have the giggles.

It was amazing. After all the Jean-Remis we saw, that we actually had found him. Each time Eric saying "That's him! I know that's him". And the last, "Seriously, that's Jean-Remi. I know it's him!" before jumping up to greet him. Oh, it was comical. I'm still laughing.

Upstairs, in the flat, we were greeted by Nathalie and her cousin. They were all very warm and sweet and talkative. Conscious of the fact that we'd just unexpectedly jumped in on them, we guiltily sat down and repeatedly made apologies. They brushed them aside and offered us hot tea.

After a couple hours of getting to know each other, it was time for bed. Everyone was fatigued- the cousin had had school all day, Nathalie rode her bicycle for an extraordinary amount of kilometers (60 km, I believe) for fun, Jean-Remi had just returned from his family's house in the country where he spoke with his old grandparents about the war and picked apples from the trees, and we had had a very full and successful day on the road.

Going to bed, we discussed the situation and realized we'd gotten here way too early, both for our hosts and for the Caspian show. We decided to leave early and try for Toulouse the next day.

Day 6, October 6, 2008

We woke and packed our sleeping bag away and put the futon in its place. We prepared ourselves and looked up routes online. Nathalie came in and offered us hot tea, which we gratefully accepted. We spoke for awhile then said our goodbyes. We planned on returning in a couple of days. Nathalie sent us on our way with apples in every nook of our backpacks. Apples would reappear later in our story, proving their invaluable sustenance time and time again.

We walked all the way out of Lyon. But first, we walked a solid 45 minutes in the wrong direction. It was a beautiful day, slightly chilly, but the sun was out and we were grateful, so we had no worries. We positioned ourselves at a light just before our ramp. We had a sign detailing which way we wanted to go and the cities we'd like to reach. We stood here for quite some time. Drivers were smiling and friendly. Often, men would flirt with me or give us the eye "Her, Ok. Him, Non." I was cheerful and would run from my post to jump in Eric's arms and smother him with kisses.

After some time, he began to get discouraged. The energy dropped a few notches. But on this trip, when hope began to flail, each time we were rescued and the light returned. This time we were picked up by a giggly young fellow who laughed and cheerily drove us to the next town and placed us by another ramp. We tried a few different spots on the different incoming lanes to the ramp and finally settled on a suitable place. Again, people drove past smiling and waving to us. Again, men chose to take me on board but denied my partner, all in jest. It was fun.

After a short time, we were picked up by a soft-spoken young man who deposited us in a beautiful spot. It may have been the most beautiful place we hitched. The hillside and the village on our right, the flowing river on our left, and a blue, blue sky above us. Gorgeous. Spirits up again, jackets off, we danced by the street.

We only enjoyed the vista briefly, however, because we were quickly picked up by two wonderful, friendly Arabs. This was one of my favorite rides in the whole trip. The men had just finished celebrating the Islamic observance of Ramadan, when Muslims spend a month fasting and then conclude with parties and large feasts. They offered us a plate loaded with beautiful Arabic pastries, all different shapes and colors. We each took one, smiling like children, and handed the plate back to them. "Non, non" they said. They wanted us to take the whole plate of delicious sweets! "MERCI! Thank you!" I love sweets and these were amazing and unique. I couldn't have been happier. Again, I felt lifted by people's unimaginable kindness and generosity. Always an unexpected surprise, this was a theme of our trip, "the kindness of strangers".
The moment in its entirety was amazing and memorable. The men wanted us to know about their struggle with racism in France, wanted us to pass on the word that we had been picked up by some nice Arabs. The driver told us that it is difficult for the Arabs. No matter how much they want to be accepted, they cannot integrate into French society. The French fear them. It's difficult for even the most educated Arabic man to find a successful career. They said that if they were hitchhiking, no one but a fellow Arab would pick them up. My heart went out to them.

The men drove us through curving back roads and small towns and left us just near another ramp to our autoroute.

Our next ride was offered by two women. Eric dozed while I looked at the passing villages. I never established that I speak French, so the women talked amongst themselves and I quietly reflected.

After being dropped off, we walked a little ways, stopping to take pictures with a random shoe (a croc, strange little man) and munch away on our supply of Arabic pastries. We propped ourselves up on the yellow barrier of the ramp. Flowers in my hair, I looked over at Eric. Sometimes, when I look at him, I find him completely irresistible; a fusion of Brad Pitt, Robert Redford, Chris McCandless, and British pop star, with an air all his own. In moments, I was totally in love.

Our next ride was also memorable. Both of us a little dazed with exhaustion, we look over and suddenly there's a little two door car pulled over before the tolls. I run to the car to speak with the man and Eric follows, toting all our belongings.

At first the black man was reluctant, stating that there wasn't enough space. His car was filled with an assortment of things, predominantly some speakers and… a washing machine? I insist, "Oh, we're both small people." "Ok, we can try", he says. But then, taking note of Eric, he adds "Not enough room for the backpacks." I insist again, "It's Ok. We'll put them on our laps." "Ok," he says, "We'll try".

I didn't understand why he would stop and then try to dissuade us, but come to find out, he didn't actually stop for us. When thinking about it later, I realized that he must have been gathering change or something for the toll. We grew on him, though. He spoke no English, but from the backseat, my ears drumming with the music, I translated for Eric. His mother is South African, living in Toulouse. He was on his way to visit her. He has lived in South Africa for five years. We both love to listen to stories about Africa, so we ask questions in order to hear more.
He works as a mechanic and a DJ and resells cars to Africa.

He stopped at a rest area and bought us cheeseburgers and cokes. We were amazed. At moments like this, we thought we were in the hands of a very giving god with an incredibly serendipitous plan. We told the driver that this morning when we left Lyon, we were walking and passed a car with Arabic cookies on the dash. We leaned in and drooled a little. Later, we were gifted with our own Arabic pastries. All afternoon, Eric had been saying how much he was craving a coke and we had been going back and forth describing a yummy burger. And just like that, almost as if we placed an order, we were given cheeseburgers and cokes. Amazing.

I'm reminded of a night in Panama where a group of us took a water taxi from Bocas to an adjacent island. The sky was dark and totally clear with millions of pinpoints of starlight and a large half moon shining. We were going out to dance at a local nightclub for Blue Monday, calypso music beating all over the island. After dancing for quite some time, we decided to go for a walk in the village. In the steaming heat, I found myself thinking of ice cream. I shared my craving with the others and we walked on knowing there were no stores and nowhere to find ice cream. Amazingly, out of the blue, a young boy steps out of a house and asks us if we would like to buy… some ice cream!! We walk up the stairs, past lounging, mangy pups, and into their home. To our great surprise, we see a cooler full of ice cream! It was heaven sent, a moment I will never forget. As I slowly savored my treat, I reflected on the moment. We were completely in awe.

After our dinner, the man drove on for another couple hours and dropped us off at a gas station. Before saying goodbye, we snapped pictures of us all with our camera and with his.

We didn't waste any time since it was beginning to get dark. I immediately asked a man in a work truck for a ride. He said the truck was full and there wasn't much space, but again, I insisted and said we don't mind squeezing in. He made some room by shifting tools and supplies and helped us and our packs into the truck. He was a very friendly man, gregarious and unpretentious. He is from Turkey and works all along the French coast doing construction, making Bezier his home.

The sun went down and we found ourselves at another café near the autoroute in Bezier. The weather was chilly and we sought refuge inside. We bummed a plate of fries from an empty table and munched on those while each reading, writing, reflecting, and smiling at each other. We were soon the last patrons- taking in the last warmth for the night. Finally, we ventured outside as the café locked its doors behind us.

We sat outside under the awning on picnic tables, drinking and laughing with each other. We kissed and cuddled and stayed close to keep warm. After a couple hours, we chose a more sheltered picnic table and found ourselves irresistibly drawn to each other. The kisses were intense. The longing was unbearable. We tore off layers of clothes and created a heat all our own. Passion. The moment was erotic. Our panting breaths hung in the air like steam and our every movement was in sync. Our hearts pounding, we eyed each other and reveled in our undeniable chemistry. It was a moment to remember.

Dazed and giddy, we decided to try to find somewhere to bed down for the night. Eric made a cardboard palate, covered it with the black plastic tarp, and we lied on a Lufthansa blanket and covered ourselves with the sleeping bag. I quickly drifted to sleep in his arms, my body still warm from the sex and my heart still warm from the connection.

The warmth didn't last, unfortunately. I woke shivering and we were forced to seek shelter. It couldn't have been later than 3 or 3:30am.


Day 7, October 7, 2008

We walked to the gas station adjacent to the café and went inside. We walked around eyeing the goods. Eric bought a hot chocolate and shared it with me. I sat down at an arcade-like driving game and dozed off. When I woke, I found Eric outside, sleeping on the curb in front of the gas station. I sat down beside him. The concrete stole all the warmth from our bodies and the hardness made my back, butt, knees, and legs ache. I dozed a little, but couldn't sleep. The sun seemed to take forever to rise.

Finally, after hours and hours, the world seemed to wake a little. We walked back to the café and tried to warm ourselves indoors. We were beat; tired, cold, and discouraged. We ate some leftover apple pastries from the tables, bananas we brought from Paris, and a pudding left over from the French truck driver. We were moody.

Eric mentioned that I would have to buy a sleeping bag if there was any hope for us to continue following Caspian. We had plans to head north to Poland, where it would be significantly colder. The thought sent a shiver through my body. I'm used to the sultry south. I'm not good at the cold. I became frustrated with Eric that he should expect me to buy a sleeping bag when it was me who thought to bring the one we have in the first place and I'd been carrying it this whole time. He then ventured to say that I had credit "basically spent already" that I could use to buy one. If it wasn't for my family's generous gifts of sweater and jackets, he would have been frozen out in the cold with only his hoodie. We both hadn't planned for weather this cold, but he was especially unprepared. We had our first argument. My nerves, and his as well, were frayed and we had little patience. After an hour or so of brooding separately, we decided it was time to smooth things over and get on with it. We needed to get to Toulouse.

We walked away from the café towards the on ramp for the autoroute. It was still miserably cold. We tried to smile at passing cars and put on a friendly face, but we were cold and ready to get out of Bezier. We tried to soothe each other and laugh. Eric rubbed my sore shoulders and we snacked on apples. Some hours passed and we were getting restless. In times like this, as if on cue, Eric begins his song "Come on, people, now. Smile on your brother. Everybody get together and try to love one another right now."

Finally, just before giving up, a man in BMW pulled up and offered us a ride all the way to Toulouse. Yee-ha! And, we were off. Thankfully, the man spoke English so I needed not feel responsible for translating. Reluctantly, I dozed off and woke just as we arrived in the city. The man, whom Eric had really enjoyed talking with, dropped us off in front of our next host's flat. Perfect.

We were staying for the next couple nights with my friend, Sylvain. Sylvain had visited Louisiana the previous year and stayed at my place for a few days. It was both of our first couch surfing experience and we really bonded. I've thought of him as a friend since.
Sylvain didn't get off work until 6:00pm, so we had a couple hours to spare. We decided to find a supermarket and buy some food. We were starving. We had seen a market not too far away so we started walking in that direction.

We crossed the river and saw a makeshift home- a tent with luggage and blankets erupting from within- by the water. Strange, we thought to ourselves, and also we thought that that would never be permitted in a city in the States. We walked on and were approached by two messy looking young men with a young dog who were apparently drunk. Through their slurred speech, I couldn't understand what they were telling me. Eric shushed them away. Moments later, a homeless man of the same colors of the street, long messy hair and beard and tattered clothes, screamed out something about a war and the end of the world. Toulouse was making quite the impression. We slipped into the supermarket. Immediately, Eric saw a man steal some food off a cart. He told me to be careful and keep my things close to me. We went on to buy our usual staples- bread, cheese, and salami. On the way back to Sylvain's, we broke off pieces of a baguette and ate as we walked.

Once we arrived, we sat outside the apartment building and made our sandwiches. The French camembert was perfect. We ate, kissed, and talked. A little girl and her grandmother walked passed. The little girl, with blonde hair and a big smile on her dimpled face, waved to us. Later, they passed again in the other direction. The little girl waved and waved and waved until she was out of sight. Then, she came around the corner again and waved some more. Adorable.
Shortly after, Sylvain pulled up. Hugs, kisses, and introductions and we were taken into his flat. Filthy from the road, we took hot baths while Sylvain went out to buy wine. We thought we were dirty then, but we had no idea just how disgusting, dirt-smeared, and stinky we could be. Time would tell.

Sylvain made veggies for dinner and we shared our bread, salami, and camembert. We drank wine and laughed. We told stories and talked of our dilemma. We were at a crossroads in our journey. The cold was pressing in on us and forcing us to choose. We could abandon Caspian and sun ourselves in the warm weather of the south- France, Italy, Spain, Portugal, Morocco- or we could forge ahead and brace ourselves for a miserable chill. We wanted to stay on track with Caspian- this was the original mission. All our contacts were along this route. We were still undecided. Fate would choose. I did know I would be forced to get my own sleeping bag. I needed warmth in the night, regardless of our direction.

After dinner, Sylvain took us to a busy square. We met a friend of his. We drank beer and smoked outside. The scene was classic, full of young people enjoying life in an old ville. Eventually, the chill and a light drizzle drove us inside a pub. We played darts and eyed interesting art on the walls. Some young men played music on their guitars in a corner of the pub. Music echoed from the bar itself and couples danced around, each vying for attention. Sylvain, Eric, and I cheerily observed everything. A dog strolled into the pub. Apparently, she's a regular.

Sylvain offered shots- flaming Belgian shots that require the patron to read some lines in German on the back of a gold spoon before partaking. We each had our turn before guzzling the minty liquor. It was a riot. I felt drunk immediately. We also sampled some smoky whiskey and sat at a table by ourselves.

At the end of the night, we walked home in the drizzle. Eric and I snuggled up on the comfy futon.


Day 8, October 8, 2008

We slept in the next morning. The balcony window completely covered, the room was dark. We needed the rest. When we woke, we made love.

We filled the day with restful lounging, cat naps, music, and internet. In the afternoon, we wandered to a department store for outdoor goods. I purchased a thick sleeping bag approved for 1°C/35°F for 60 €. I love my new sleeping bag. Along with Eric, my backpack, my Western Europe map, and my book, it's my new best friend for the trip.

We headed back to the supermarket and bought dinner- a couscous and veggie dish, more salami, bread, cheese, and cheap wine.

As soon as Sylvain returned from work, we feasted and drank. Then the three of us headed just outside the city for the Caspian show. The band was again surprised to see us. We were early for the show. The first band didn't play for an hour and Caspian not until 11:00pm. Sylvain had to leave us. He had already made plans with his friends. We arranged transportation with the band.
The music was awesome this night. The first was a young couple, a young woman, dressed in black with dark hair and dark eyes and an intense and beautiful voice, on the piano and her boyfriend, shirtless with wild unruly hair, on the drums. They captivated the crowd. As she sang, he made constant eye contact with her. It was sexy.

The next band was also good, young and entertaining. I was eager for Caspian to play. We drank beers (discounted with our entrance fee) and watched the stage.

Caspian came on next. They'd driven ten hours from Spain that day and were visibly tired. The crowd didn't seem to notice. They went wild with applause and whistles at each pause in the music. The energy was up and, again, I was mesmerized by their talent.

After the show, Eric helped the boys pack up the van. We all squeezed in and headed for their hotel. The local man, who helped direct them to the venue and their accommodations, offered to give us a ride home.

He seemed a little lost and deposited us somewhere in the vicinity of the river, pointing us towards the direction of the river. He was pointing in the wrong direction. We were lost in Toulouse. It was 4:00am. I replayed warnings to myself that every traveler knows- 1 Don't get lost. 2 Don't wander the streets late at night. Shit. I imagine my mother looking at me now and worrying. I began to worry myself. Eric, a little drunk and nonchalantly at ease as usual, couldn't understand my frustrations. As he wandered around a corner to pee on the street somewhere, leaving me alone, I found a map for buses and public bicycles. Thankfully, we found where we were and thought we knew the way home. I was still uncertain and uncomfortable. I was cold and I had to pee. Keep walking. Eric, all the while looking at trash and graffiti, is comfortable and oblivious to the warnings ringing in my head. Finally, things start looking familiar. We pass half a dozen prostitutes on corners and keep walking towards the flat.

On our arrival, we discovered that Sylvain had made heaps of crepes for us and left out jams and nutella (creamy hazelnut chocolate) for our sweet tooth. What a saint! I gorged myself on crepes, loving every minute of it.

Soon after, exhausted and with a full belly, I collapse, but do not sleep until I apologize to Eric for my paranoia.


Day 9, October 9, 2008

Sylvain woke us at 7:00am to tell us that he was leaving for work and could drive us out of the city. Still terribly tired, after barely a couple hours of sleep, we can't get ourselves up. We decide to sleep in, a moment that would badger Eric for days to come.

When we woke, we bathed and packed up. Sylvain called and offered to drive us out of the city on his lunch break thirty minutes later. Wonderful. We had made the decision to stick to the plan, go north, first heading to Lyon. The next Caspian show was there that night.
Sylvain drove us out of Toulouse and left us at the tolls. With big hugs, we said goodbye and thank you and he drove off.

We were picked up less than ten minutes later by a man in a work truck. He works in his family's business which repairs machines associated with making bread. He was sweet and curious about Eric's and my relationship. Asking if we are boyfriend and girlfriend, friends, or lovers, he makes the gesture of an embrace. I know what he's asking. Eric and I look at each other and smile. It's complicated. It's the only answer we have, even for ourselves.

The man continues to drive and decided to stop at a McDonalds for coffee. He insists on buying us breakfast- a coffee for Eric, an orange juice for me, and warm sweet pastries filled with chocolate. I am touched by his generosity and nearly cry. People shocked me all the time on our journey with their open hearts and total generosity. Eric tells me I should tell him how I've been touched. I try to translate my emotions and make a mess of it. Bashful and with a lump in my throat, I look away.

We had several more rides this day, but seemed to cover little ground. We were picked up once, at another toll station, by some poor workers in a work van. They worked in vineyards. Sweet and happy, they didn't speak any English. We were struck by the contrast between this and our next ride.

The following ride was given to us by a suave young professional in a top of the line Audi. He showed off and sped down the autoroute reaching speeds of 230 kilometers per hour, roughly 143 mph! Mission accomplished, we were impressed.

Our last ride of the day was from a creepy guy wearing a pink shirt and driving a small white car. Eric sat in the back and me up front. A plastic bottle with a handwritten label and hand drawn skull and crossbones sat on the dash. The man looked at me and babbled something about pretty girls through his wet lips. He reminded me of a pedophile. He leaned closer and said "Don't be afraid." Ah, goose bumps! I think he just wanted to talk to me because he dropped us off one minute down the road at another roundabout.

We sat on the railing, thumbs out, desperate. The sun was going down and a harmony of purples, blues, oranges, and reds filled the sky. It was clear to us now that we weren't going to make it to Lyon that night.

We left the ramp and walked in a seemingly random direction. We were in Montpellier. We needed a store, perhaps, a gas station, somewhere to sleep for the night. We walked through a Decathlon parking lot, past an empty bowling alley still under construction, and amazingly we stumbled onto a center. Like a Mecca rising out of ruins, there was a movie theatre, a casino, an aquarium, a museum, restaurants, bars, a McDonalds, and tons of people with glowing faces and entertainment on their minds. It was so weird that we should just randomly find ourselves here. We headed to the McDonalds like the predictable Americans we are not.

We found some fries on a table and set about eating dinner. Eric shared some of his portions even though I'd already inhaled mine. What a sweetheart. Food is love. No wonder he lost ten pounds on the trip. I'm such a beast.

We sat around for a couple hours reading and writing and watching the little melodramas unfold around us. Eventually, it was time to find a camp site.

The spot we found was probably my favorite outdoor sleeping space of the trip. We planted ourselves in high grass by an old vineyard. There was the Decathlon on one side and in the distance a road on the other. Eric was discouraged this night- a lot of pressure on him, too many thoughts, and a sinking feeling that we'd lost Caspian, the whole purpose of this trip, after everything we sacrificed to get here. There was nothing I could do or say to make him feel better. So, I planted a kiss on his cheek and drifted to sleep in my brand new sleeping bag.


Day 10, October 10, 2008

I woke to a camera in my face and Eric's cheery voice telling me I'm beautiful. Though I slept wonderfully and felt rested, I certainly didn't feel beautiful. My curly hair was wild and all over the place and my eyes were still struggling to adjust to the light. The day was beautiful, though, warm with a clear blue sky overhead. I snuck away to find a place to pee and then entertained myself, while Eric dozed off again, by taking pictures of the grasses and grapes on the vine. I came back to lay with Eric and felt cheerful and positive and happy to be near him and in the warm sunlight.

Soon enough it was time to hit the road. Hitting the road has its own accompaniment of songs like "Hit the Road, Jack" and "On the road again, just can't wait to get on the road again". These are classic moments we replayed amongst ourselves, little rituals in the making.
This day was again hard-going. It seems we were always being picked up for just a short distance at a time, forever at a toll station with our thumbs out. Eric was really starting to feel bad- coughing, sneezing, and snotty. I know his knees and back ached, too, and I felt for him.
We were standing at some indistinct toll station when a couple pulled up and embraced. The woman drove off in her own car. It seemed a secretive affair. The man came up to us and offered us a ride. I guess he was trying to balance his karma or something. He was a British ex-pat living and loving in France. A yoga teacher, we spoke briefly of practices, Buddhism, and India. Again, I tried to fight it, but found myself dozing off. Eric spoke with him about England and the ride was quickly over.

At another point in the day, at another toll, we were sitting in the warm sun, patiently waiting for that elusive kindness we count on, when a car pulled up. I run over to see if it's for us and the verdict is a no. But, I do see a smiling face in a big truck. I ask the man where he's going. "Espana", he says. "Perfecto!", I say, "Can we come?" And, that was that. We landed a ride to Spain! I was jumping and laughing and skipped over to Eric. "Good job!", he said, but he looked bad and felt worse.

We sat in the truck, quite a bit messier than the French truck, and tried to communicate with the driver. Through five black teeth he could speak just a few words of English, no French, and fast Spanish. Oh well, he was nice and we were headed to Spain!

Eric laid in the bed and immediately fell asleep. I took a picture of him in his restful, peaceful innocence. Kisses. I tried not to doze off. It was so hot in the truck. I wanted to stay awake so I could take a picture of us crossing the border into Spain. The driver child-locked the windows so I couldn't lower mine any more. I was getting restless. Eric woke just before we crossed the border. We drove into the Pyrenees Mountains. It was pretty.

At the end of the ride, the driver left us at the truck depot, where he leaves his truck, hoping that we would be able to catch another truck going south that night. No such luck.

We thumbed at the ramp for the last couple hours before dark. No one stopped. We headed to a gas station to recharge. We approached a few drivers, but there was very little interest in us. I went to the toilet and Eric came and got me. He needed me to speak to two men. I walk out to meet two black men at the pump. They speak French. Roughly, one man says "You speak French, or what?" I explain to them that we would like to head south towards Morocco. He asks me how much money we have. I shake my head, "No money. Autostop." I show him my thumb.
The men laugh and brush us off.

Inside, another man laughs and tells Eric that those men are mafia. Interesting. The man saying this looks like mafia himself. A big man with a straight back and a rough, arrogant way of speaking, he has his shirt unbuttoned halfway and gold chains hang about his hairy neck and chest- a character straight out of the Godfather. He reminds me a little of my ex-father-in-law actually. Interesting. The man and his friend, also a mafia-styled man with chains and an unbuttoned shirt but with more of a sneaky, rat like vibe, come over to inspect our map. The four of us lean over a cooler in front of the gas station, looking over my map. The men throw Spanish words into the air and talk to one another in their rough, tough way, hand gestures indicating whatever they speak about. Turns out, they're both truck drivers and are both heading to the south of Spain tonight. There's a long discussion about the law only allowing one passenger in each truck. Eric and I look at each other, eyes a little wild and excited, and say we stick together, inseparable, no matter what.

After some time, it is apparently decided that we will leave with mafia man 1 at midnight. The deal is one of us sits up front, but the other must lie down in the bed unseen by the policia. OK – so it's a plan. We have about four hours to kill.

Eric and I agree to take turns sleeping during the ride, so one of us is always watching the route.
We don't entirely trust this guy. We're excited, though, because with this new twist of fate, we'll be within a two hour drive to the port city, from where we can ferry across to Morocco. Interesting.

We go inside the gas station and treat ourselves to pizza. The only thing we ate all day was half a granola bar each and some bread. We drink juice, laugh, and take pictures. Eric's throat is sore, but he seems in higher spirits.

After our meal, we sit outside on the curb in front of the station. None of the men gathered here, all truck drivers, attempt to make contact with us. After the friendliness of the Germans and the French, it is a switch. Spain has a reputation for being more arrogant and for being a difficult country in which to hitchhike. We adopt a new phrase, "the kindness of strangers, except in Spain."

We sit on the curb, the mafia man tells us to wait here. Pointing to his watch, he tells us "media noche". We laugh together about our random adventure and the stories we'll have to tell. Secretly, each of us has private worries about traveling to Morocco with no money, crooked cops, drug dealers and crime, no contacts, and having to sleep outside. I'm also concerned about being stuck in the south of Spain or worse, Morocco. We brush our worries aside, snuggle close to each other, and bury ourselves in reading and writing. After a time, I read aloud to Eric. I read of a Papua New Guinean adventure and a woman trekking through the jungle.

We start getting very sleepy. The gas station has closed. I venture into the darkness, in the distance, away from the groups of men, to pee. When I return, I see that one can still buy items from the store through a window. I buy some chocolate donuts, savor them, and fall asleep.

Eric wakes me a couple hours later. It's 1:00am. We've been stood up.

It's time to find somewhere to sleep. We walk up the ramp we hitched near earlier in the day. We hop the barrier and walk up a hill of green surrounded by highways on all sides. We find a ravine by some trees and duck ourselves into the ditch. I hear a voice in the distance. Eric tells me not to worry and we go to sleep.


Day 11, October 11, 2008

We wake and head to the gas station. I use the facilities, change my panties, wash my face, put on my makeup, and prepare myself for another long day in the direction south.

We walk to the ramp again, past the green patch where we slept, and through a rush of speeding traffic, we cross the first highway. We walk up the median until we find the proper off ramp for the highway that will bring us south. We cross the busy highway again. I hurl myself to the other side, fearful of incoming traffic. We walk down the ramp and start thumbing. For breakfast, we eat bread and drink juice.

People again seem generally uninterested. Surprisingly, however, we are picked up by a disheveled young woman with lots of dark eyeliner and crazy hair, who speaks broken French, and her young male friend. After we say we're heading towards Morocco, the boy immediately offers us some "shit". Suddenly, less than two kilometers down the highway, they pull over and let us out. They can't go through the tolls with us. Apparently, it's illegal. We're fucked. We're left with no options. We have to walk ourselves out of this mess.

We walk up this busy, major highway. We walk and walk and walk. My feet are badly blistered and sore and my stupid shoes offer no support. My pack is heavy and weighing me down. Eric is sick and his knees and back continue to be painful. We don't know where to or how long we'll be walking. We stay positive, though, and stay on the march.

After quite some time, we see a college with a ramp onto and off the highway. We stop here to take a rest, all the while thumbing passing cars. I take my shoes off and we share a snack. Just as we prepare to move on, a man pulls up and offers a ride. He's a professor at the college. He drops us at a shopping center a few kilometers down the road, again near a ramp. We seek refuge and chairs in a Burger King. Children play outside and a young boys soccer team walks past us and we hear voices in English.

I buy some water at a gas station and we move on. We walk and walk some more until we find a suitable area with decent traffic flow heading towards our south bound highway. After some time, an Ecuadorian man picks us up. I speak a little Spanish with him. Latin American Spanish is much easier for me to understand. The man drops us off in the city centre of Barcelona.

Not sure what to do at this point, we decide to eat a little something from our packs and head to the coast. While walking, we see some modern art and a big park. I tell Eric we should play tourist for a little while before heading to the beach. We venture into the park. And, a wonderful surprise- it is filled with happy, playing dogs. I watch them, take pictures, and think about my kids at home. I certainly miss them.

Eric and I rest and smoke awhile before deciding to move on. We walk and come across a beautiful monument in the center of a large roundabout. Just behind, there's a large hill, covered in trees, that appears to have a museum or something. We walk that way. The view is amazing. There are lots of tourists and the building seems to be an art museum. We sit for a bit, reading and writing. From the lookout, we can see the sea. We decide we should buy some food at a market and head towards a beach to sleep.

We sit for a bit longer and Eric blindsides me with a question and an assumption that there's beef between us and that I've got "bad energy". I'm shocked. It was a touch day, but I thought things were fine between us. I thought I'd been sensitive to his not feeling well and that we'd just been on the move. He analyzes so much sometimes. I think he sees problems where there are none. I'm thrown totally for a loop. The degree of my exhaustion and dirtiness and hunger washes over me. The weight settles on my spirit. I suddenly feel alone and detached from him. That he could have imagined a problem with us and blamed me for "bad energy", that didn't even exist, bothered me. Aren't we partners? I shut down, closed in on myself. If he didn't understand me before, he wouldn't understand me now, or so that was my logic. I said nothing of substance to him for the rest of the evening.

We bought food at a market and walked towards the "beach". Like I expected, the sea was barred from us by industry, a port and a cruise line. We sat on the edge of a park on a hill and listened to some people playing drums randomly on the street side. I ate in silence and Eric tried to get drunk on cheap champagne. After dinner, we walked for a few more hours searching for a place to sleep with shelter. We feared rain this night, a horrible prospect to add to everything else. Finally, we gave up the search. The only spaces we'd found had been reserved by the homeless- their places marked by graffiti, tattered blankets, and trash. We headed into the park.
As I followed Eric up the hill, my pack at least twice as heavy as his, we come across some men, one of which has his dick out. Disgusting. Shortly after this, a mere minute later, I lose sight of Eric. I started to panic- alone, late, in the dark, my passport with him, freaky perverts over my shoulder, warnings again blaring in my brain. I don't see him anywhere. I don't know which way to go. I call for him, no answer. I whistle. I sit down. Fuck. Motherfucker, leaving me behind like this. Finally, he appears out of the woods, again, oblivious to my terror. I throw a bag of food at him. I'm spent. I've had enough. The whole scene lasted just a matter of minutes, but I was already feeling a bit broken.

We walk on and find a place to sleep. Eric's in pain, but passes right out. We walked twelve hours if not more that day, uphill, downhill, on the highways, through the city, and in search of shelter. We were utterly exhausted. I had difficulty falling asleep, agitated, alert, uncomfortable, and I was being bitten by little bugs on my arms, side, and thigh. Finally, I slept… but not for long. I was awakened by drops of rain on my face. Miserable night. I woke Eric and we walked on for a bit looking for shelter. Nothing.

The rain stopped and we stumbled across a nightclub at the top of the hill, eighty's American music blaring. We heard the people's voices and laughter. I looked down at myself. It was our third night outside. I felt disgusting. Worse, I felt homeless. Greasy hair, dirty hands, the same old clothes, I was filthy. I pulled out my bag of toiletries. I washed my hands and my face and tried to put myself together. This was pathetic. I would strengthen myself and put on a good face. Eric passed out behind me, the picture of a homeless man… and damn it, still irresistibly handsome. We'd guessed it to be about 5:00am, but it must have been much earlier. The music continued for hours before the dawn even hinted at rising. We laid for an hour or two on a hillside. Time is an abstract thing without a watch or a clock in the middle of the night. Eric slept and I cuddled up to him. I just want to get along and not feel alone. We woke again and walked up to the path. We found some benches. Eric took one and I chose another under the branches of a tree. Uncomfortable, but I feel asleep.

I woke with a man standing over me. I can hardly see, my contacts dancing in my eyes, and my heart beating out of my chest, I shot up. The man tells me it's OK and warns me that some men wanted to go through my backpack. He motions that he wants to sit down. Very uncomfortable now, I wake Eric. He wakes amused at my predicament. The man moves on. Eric rests again.
After this, I am repeatedly approached by men while Eric sleeps. One man, a homeless Pakistani man, brings me a pen, sunglasses, and a device that resembles a calculator. He says something about finding a bag. I don't know. What the fuck? The man leaves. I wake Eric. I want to leave this place now. All he can do is laugh at me as he packs his sleeping bag away. I'm miserable. Miserable, miserable, and alone. Before we can get away, the Pakistani man returns with more gifts- bracelets, a necklace, and some incense. What the hell? All the while, Eric can't stop himself from laughing. I'm being mocked. The Pakistani is courting me and wants to make me his bride. I hate Eric now and all he does is laugh. After a sleepless night and a very uncomfortable dawn,
I'm in a down mood.


Day 12, October 12, 2008

Miserable. Miserable. I feel weak, emotionally and physically drained, isolated, and alone.
First order of the day is to buy a cheap breakfast so I can use the toilet. I hate peeing in the city. I buy some coffee for Eric and a croissant for me. We sit outside. The weather is damp and dreary, fits. He writes, I read and write and brood. In my mind, I'm thinking of ending this and having a holiday in the south of France for the next couple weeks. I just need to get there and out of here. I'm tired and down. I hate myself for my weakness. When I look across the table, eyes mock me. I feel hideous. It is at this point I decided I have no intentions of being with Eric. I hate him for his insensitivity and how effortlessly he disassociates himself from me. I can see that he too has changed his intentions with me, my weakness and my unattractive appearance repulsing him. I feel betrayed. I vow to sleep in a bed that night. I promise myself a shower and some rest. I replay the words in my mind.

In the afternoon, Eric and I clear the air. It's not a perfect discussion, but I feel better. He does this thing where he stubbornly tells me what I think and how I feel instead of listening to me when he's wrong. I detest this trait. But regardless, I feel better getting a few things off my chest.

We head to an internet café and I send between twenty and thirty couch surfing requests. Ideally, I'll sleep in a bed for free tonight, but if it comes down to it, I'll pay for a hostel or a hotel. Miraculously, when I check my email a few hours later, we've been accepted into someone's home. I could have cried. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

At 9:00pm, we have a rendezvous at the flat. The building is beautiful, large marble entryway with an old lift in the center. We make introductions with Gerard and his three other guests. Everyone is cheerful and it's nice to be around other people. I head to the bathroom and draw myself a hot bath. Eric sits with all the guests at the dining room table. I hear them talking of pot and politics. I cherish the moment to cleanse myself. The water ripples away from me, black. Soapy foam carries the filth away from my body. I emerge refreshed and in clean clothes. It's Eric's turn to bathe and I sit with Gerard at the table. He is warm and energetic. We talk of school, careers, direction, couch surfing, and travel. It was enjoyable. Exhausted, it was nice to be in civilization again. The flat was awesome- colorful, modern, and artsy. I loved it. I drank my hot tea and meditated on gratitude.

I had mentioned earlier in the day that I needed to be held. When we laid down, Eric remembered and wrapped his arms around me. I put all the struggles behind us. It would have all been different if he would have just hugged me sooner, if he would have cared, if we would have found joy and comfort in each other. I was fast asleep.


Day 13, October 13, 2008

I woke feeling refreshed and revitalized, peppy even. The clouds had moved on and the sun was shining. After a night's sleep and a good cleansing, I was beaming with new found positive energy. We did laundry and sat in the sun on the terrace, reading and writing.

When the laundry was done, we decided to head out, traverse the city, and hitch again in the direction of Caspian. Eric's new found purpose and my new found energy put us back on track.
So, we walked. We walked and walked and walked some more.

Finally, we reached a beach. We were approached by a man and a woman and asked to be part of a video for a child. We had to hold up a sign and say in Spanish "Roc, give her a kiss." I had to kiss Eric on the cheek. Eric was not amused by the experience. I thought it was cute.
We took off our shoes and walked in the cool sand. I made a sandwich for lunch and Eric went for a swim. Maxi-pads bobbed in the water, three obese women sunned themselves in skimpy thongs on our right, and on our left a topless young girl swam and gave affection to her much older beau who adorned a beer belly and little shorts. After some time, we decided to move on.
Eric was cold. Though he wouldn't say much, his fingers and scars were blue. I worried that he might get even sicker.

We decided we would sleep on the beach, but first we would try our luck thumbing for an hour or so before the sun went down. Amazingly, we were picked up within fifteen minutes by a young Spanish artist with curly blonde hair. He invited to his village in the mountains of northern Spain, but we declined, fearing we might get stranded there. He instead dropped us off at a café along the highway.

It is from this point on that our luck astounds us, effortlessly easy, one beautiful moment flowing into the next. Over a week of pure perfection follows.

We head into the café and sit for a bit. Eric tells me I look nice. We have dinner, read, write, and laugh. We began to find our rhythm again. I love when we're in sync, a team. We look at the map and decide to see if maybe we can find an overnight ride into France. It was still early enough.

This next part is a miracle. Eric sees a car with French plates. I head over and Eric walks on. In French, I tell the man, whose casually smoking a cigarette by his car, that we are traveling in Europe and would like to go to France. In English, he says "Where do you want to go?" "Nice," I say. And he simply says, "Ok." Again, like placing an order. Awestruck!
I skip over to tell Eric. We hop in the vehicle for our longest ride yet- nine hours direct from Barcelona to Nice. We learn that the man is Polish and works on the Mediterranean on yachts. He lives in Antibes, a city just west of Nice. He made the same drive the night before. It's long. We stopped twice for him to rest. Eric and I took turns sleeping in the back seat.


Day 14, October 14, 2008

Two weeks into the trip. I wake just before we drive into Nice. The man drove us further than he had planned to drive himself, past his home town of Antibes. Again, the generosity dumbfounds me. He lets me use his cell phone and I call my Tonton Ange and my Tati Sylvia. It was 5:30am. We would be waiting for them at La Promenade des Anglais by the beach. We said goodbye to our new Polish friend.

Twenty minutes later, my great aunt and uncle pull up. It's been three years since I last saw them. Hugs, kisses, and we're ushered into the warmth of the car. We catch up on the ride to Carros- the latest on my grandmother's Egyptian travels, their health, and their plans for the day. When we get home, we're shown to the guest room. Pictures of my family line the walls and every available counter space. It is refreshing to be in the presence of family.

Eric and I gratefully curled up in the nice, comfortable bed, our first since Paris. We slept for just a few hours and woke in each other's arms. Sometimes our bodies just speak for themselves. We have such a strong and dynamic sexual chemistry.

Once out of bed, we showered and dressed for the day. We walked with Tati and Tonton to a bakery up the road. We bought bread for lunch and dinner. When we got back to the house, we sat outside in the sun and had a little drink with the men who were working in their yard. After, we settled for a nice, filling lunch. They had a doctor's appointment after noon, so they brought us to the beach to relax for a few hours.

We sat in the sun, loving the warm sensation on our bare skin. The beach was composed of smooth, round stones. It felt wonderful to strip all my layers away, down to my little black bikini bottoms. I read briefly and we both drifted to sleep. It was relaxing and beautiful on the blue blue Mediterranean Sea. On some clear days, you can see Corsica from this beach.

Tati and Tonton soon came back from the doctor and joined us on the beach. Everything was fine. Eric went swimming. Tonton skipped rocks on the flat sea. I laid my head in Tati's lap while she stroked my hair and scratched my back, the same way she's done for twenty years. Soon, it was time to dress and leave the beach behind.

We went to my Pepe's house. He passed away a few years ago at nearly a hundred years old. His house still remains in the family and I wanted to revisit it. I haven't been here in seven years. I love that house- surrounded by flowers, fig trees, olive trees, and a vineyard. It brings back memories of a loud and cheerful Italian family, all coming together to eat.

We then went to visit my cousins and other aunts and uncles. It was quite a reunion for me as we walked from house to house on the hillside. My uncle, Laurent, showed Eric his wine cellar and told him how he makes his wine. Later in the evening, we had dinner at Ange and Sylvia's. I had seconds and thirds and finished with a bowl full of ice cream. Luxury! It's good to be with family! It amazes me sometimes that these wonderful, friendly, happy people are actually related to my father. After dinner, we kissed goodnight, and Eric and I cuddled up in bed.


Day 15, October 15, 2008

The following morning I woke and showered and met Tati, Tonton, and Eric at the table for breakfast. Tonton gave Eric some spiffy shirts and packed us some food to go. We got all packed up and we were on our way again. Tati and Tonton drove us all the way to Italy, stopping to let Eric take pictures of the coast, the villages, and the sea. They drove us to a rest area by the autoroute. We said goodbyes- big hugs, kisses, thank you's, and promises to see each other soon.

Within minutes, we were picked up, but false alarm. The man was going into a village and we
needed to stay by the autoroute. No worries, two minutes later, we saw a car with Swiss plates. I went to ask the guy for a ride. The plan was to get to Chur, Switzerland and then try to catch the Caspian show in Prague five days later. The Swiss man spoke excellent English and was happy to share his car. He would drop us off at the Swiss border. Awesome. He and his girlfriend, 21 and 19 years old, were young missionaries and had lived all over the world. We talked of religion and beliefs. Hesitant to share my thoughts, I listened mostly and enjoyed the conversation. They were supposed to pick up a friend just past the border and there would be no extra room. The car was already stuffed with luggage- ours and theirs. We drove ..ping for lunch at a café, and drove on some more. After a time, they heard from their friend and their plans fell through. They could drive us to our final destination, roughly five hours in total.

Once we crossed the border into Switzerland, I was awestruck. It was stunning. It was a beautiful clear, sunny day, the blue blue sky behind the mountains of the Alps. Breathtaking! Snow covered the tops of the mountains. Little villages and farmlands with cows, horses, and sheep filled the mountainside and the valleys. With each rustic cabin on the mountain we passed, I pictured myself there, breathing in the crisp mountain air and warming myself by a large fireplace. I pictured my dogs running in the fields amongst the cows and sheep. Switzerland has an arresting effect. Strong beauty complimented by a strong government. The government built and maintains bunkers in the mountains, large enough to support the entire population. Each home is required to have a bunker built beneath. Astonishing and how well-planned, they make a mockery of us Americans. Switzerland has things down pat- a happy, clean, organized people, economically stable and politically neutral. Everything is so pristine, ideas ingenious. It's definitely a country to add to my list of places to live.

The couple dropped us off at a park in our goal city, Chur, a quaint, quintessentially Swiss town. We landed at a small park and decided to hang out there for the night. We ate dinner (packed from Nice), read, and wrote. Later, Eric befriended some kids and was given some green. We laughed and smoked, charted our path on the map. Eric pulled out his harmonica and played some tunes. The moon was bright in the dark blue sky and listening to a special hymn he plays, I remember thinking this is a moment to remember. He taught me a little tune of my own, Silent Night. I practiced for quite awhile. Soon it was time to make a nest in the corner of the park and go to sleep.


Day 16, October 16, 2008

We woke in the park feeling rested. We got ready and packed up and hit the road. We walked across town to the appropriate ramp. We found a tennis ball along the way, reserved for Maxi-boy back home, and bounced it to and fro as we waited for our ride. I had the song "Creep" stuck in my head and sang it cheerfully to myself for hours. "I want a perfect body. I want a perfect soul. I want you to notice when I'm not around. You're so fucking special. I wish I was special. But I'm a creep. I'm a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here."

Soon after arriving at the ramp, a young boy, in school to be an electrician, picked us up. He was friendly and enthusiastic and talked of music. He left us at a tourist restaurant on the side of the highway.

The restaurant was called Heidiland. It had a classic cast of a yodeling girl that popped out of the tower every now and then to do a little skit. There was a family of goats in a small enclosure, poor kids. The inside of the restaurant smelled delicious, pure luxury for us, beautiful foods of all sorts displayed in buffets. We were able to grab a leftover wiener schnitzel- yummy! We hitchhiked here by the restaurant for four hours with no leads before it started to rain. Eric belted out "Smile on your brother. Everybody come together and try to love one another" a dozen times or so. That's how you know things are getting desperate.

It was cold. Once it started pouring, we headed under an overpass to escape the rain. We thumbed from there with no success. Eric dozed off for a bit and I read. Then I dozed and he wrote. Two more hours went by and we were getting desperate. We started talking about places to sleep around here. This is a new skill I acquired and honed on our trip- finding a proper sleeping space in all kinds of places. I see sleep spots all the time now in my regular life. We made a deal that we would hitch for an hour or so more, then we'd warm up inside the restaurant and see if we could score some dinner.

We started busying ourselves, making lists of countries we have each visited. As we're doing this, a tour bus pulls up and stops in front of us. We don't move. The bus then backs up several feet and the door opens. We look at each other, "No… this can't be for us?" Hesitantly, we approach the door- surely, it's not a ride for us? But it is! A smiling face on an Italian driver beams at us! He says he's going to Vienna. Do we want a ride? Wow! Traffic is backing up behind the bus and we gather our things and jump on, in shock! We have the whole bus to ourselves with a private seven hour ride into Austria! JACKPOT ! What luxury, what luck! It's really unimaginable.
We make introductions. The driver's name is Ludovico. He's heading to Vienna to pick up a Chinese tour group who he'll drive all over Western Europe. He doesn't speak much English, but he smiles a lot and so do we! We spread out and get comfortable. We're beaming and delighted.

Once we cross the Austrian border, Ludovico stops to fill up on gas. With Eric outside smoking, he tells me how beautiful I am. Here we go again, I think to myself, but I laugh. He's a charmer, an Italian after all.

We gaze at the countryside as the sun goes down. Another day down, another amazing story. Ludovico stops a few hours later at a rest station. He goes into a McDonalds to buy a coffee for himself. He comes back with burgers and fries for us! Perfect. We're starved! We thank him repeatedly.

We continue the drive. We wake within the last hour or so. We have no plans, but need to sleep near the highway, preferably near a gas station, so we can continue thumbing in the morning, but Ludovico doesn't understand. He tells us not to worry.

A little while later, we arrive at a hotel in the town of Baden, Austria. We're not sure where we'll sleep, but it's 2:00 in the morning. Ludovico asks if we want to shower and invites us to his room. He smuggles us in, past the reception. Once we've arrived in his room, he looks at us and laughs "Go on, lie down". He encourages us to spend the night and get comfortable. It's awesome. There are two twin beds together forming a full bed and we pull them apart. Ludovico goes downstairs and returns with three beers. He rummages through his things and pulls out some French perfume. He gives it to me, saying he does not like his wife. French perfume from an Italian tour bus driver gifted to me in Austria, I smile. We're all hanging out, Eric's sitting on the floor writing, Ludovico sits in his bed flipping through erotic channels, and I'm smiling to myself about the absurdity, the randomness, and the wonder of this night. I tell myself to never forget this night. I know I won't.

When Eric goes to wash up for the night, Ludovico reaches over from his bed and touches my hand. In a last attempt, he asks me if I would like to go to the sauna with him. Naturally, I decline. When Eric comes back, I pull him into bed with me. We will be sleeping close tonight. I lay my head on his chest, his arms wrapped tight around me, I play with the hair on his chest, kissing him, and feel at peace. Despite Ludovico's loud and incessant snoring, I fall right to sleep.


Day 17, October 17, 2008

Ludovico wakes early, telling us to sleep in and relax. He has to pick up his Chinese customers.
We accept the invitation and stay curled up, close as can be.

After a hot bath, we decided it's time to get going. It must be 9:30 or 10:00am. We sneak, ever casually, out of the hotel and walk up the road. We find a road that heads towards Vienna and we start hitchhiking there. I have a new song stuck in my head. We saw the music video last night and the song is quite fitting, "Where you gonna go? Where you gonna go? Where you going to sleep tonight?" I bob around and dance as I sing the same chorus over and over to myself. I'm silly and happy.

After a time we get a ride by a nice old man in a truck. He speaks no English, but is smiling and friendly. We hop out of the truck near a ramp for the correct highway. Before "working" some more, we take a lunch break- canned sardines from Nice. We try to savor it, but hitching creates a tremendous appetite, let me tell you. And one sardine and a half does not a meal make. Oh well, back to work.

We're in an ideal location for hitchhiking. Sunny blue skies above, the highway to Vienna with a ramp directly behind us, plenty of pullover space for a willing driver in front of us, a sign saying "WIEN" in our hands, thumbs out, we're ready for the road.

Blessed again, we quickly get a ride. We're picked up by a sweet, friendly Austrian man. Roman was his name. I remember because I like this name. He is an engineer and loves his city. We listened to Mozart as we rolled into town. Roman talked with us about the US economic state, the real estate market crash, the elections, and Austria's status as the world's seventh leading economy. He dropped us off at a rest area on the highway to Slovakia and wished us well. A nice man.

At the rest point, we went to McDonalds where I couldn't argue with my grumbling tummy. I bought a burger, OK, two burgers. I tried to share with Eric, but he refused more than a bite. We looked over our map and planned out route. It seemed the easiest thing would be to leave Vienna and head to Bratislava in Slovakia. From there, there is a direct route to Prague in the Czech Republic. So, after a brief rest, we headed to the gas station. There were two other hitchhikers near the ramp. The boys held signs saying "Budapest" and "We're Cool". We decided not to cramp their space even though we were heading in the other direction.

We made a sign for "BRATISLAVA" and walked to the corner of the gas station where cars were passing. The first car to pass us had Slovakian plates. The driver looked at us and our sign, smiled and nodded. And, just like that, we had a ride. We waved goodbye to the poor chaps left behind.

The driver has wild red hair and the passenger dark straight hair and a Slavic face. They reminded me of a Slovakian Cheech and Chong. They spoke no English, only German and Czech. The passenger laughed incessantly. They had four phones on the center console, each one going off with a different ring. They juggled them and we got the feeling they were talking about us. Suddenly, one man turns around and hands a phone to Eric and says "Speak English." Apparently, they'd found someone who spoke English so they could determine where to drop us off. Sweet. We smiled, at ease. We held hands and gazed at the passing countryside. Windmills lined the hills. Green and gold fields lay in contrast to the bright blue sky. I looked at Eric, touched his thigh. Sometimes I'm absorbed completely by him. For all the times I've felt like two islands on this journey, there are five times as many moments when I've felt drawn to him, peaceful in his gaze, and happy when he smiles. There's a true friendship here. I don't know what else. The men drop us off at a rest area in Bratislava. They laughed, said goodbye, and drove off.

I wandered into the store to check out prices in comparison to the other countries. Slovakia is not yet on the euro and things seemed relatively cheap, though I didn't buy anything. When I came outside, Eric was talking to a man about a ride. The man left for a moment and came back. We were sitting on a bench by a coke machine out in front of the gas station. He offered us a ride to Prague. Amazing, again! We hadn't even tried to start hitching yet. Our luck is still going strong!

The man had been working in Romania and was driving a work van full of tools and supplies. He moves some things around in the back and makes space for our packs and for Eric to sit down. I sit up front with him. His English is halting and hesitant, but I think I catch some words of French. I ask him if he speaks French and we continue in this language. I learn so much. He spoke the whole way to Prague and I struggled, focusing, trying to take in every word. He is Czech and was writing something political during the revolution against the Communists. He had to flee to France with his wife. They later returned to Prague and now have five children, ages 16, 14, 9, 7, and 5. He showed us pictures and videos on his camera. He is a proud papa. He told me that in Romania there are many small Czech villages. They are isolated and simple and the people still speak Czech and hold onto their traditions. It was in one of these villages that he worked. He bought a house there that he was renovating. The house is surrounded by farmland and animals- pigs, goats, dogs, chickens, and more. And up on a hill, the vista is amazing. We saw a video of a beautiful sunrise. We talked the whole way, three or so hours to Prague.

When we were nearly to the city, he offered us a place to stay. We accepted. My heart swelled with gratitude. He owns an entire building in the center of Prague where he rents out a dozen flats. He is renovating the flat across the hall from his own. He offers this to us. It is empty and to be all our own- with a heater, hot water, a mattress, big windows, and a balcony. Perfect. Thank you, thank you.

Once we pulled up to the house and helped him carry some of his bags upstairs, we put our things into our flat and were given keys to the room and to the building. Then the man, Bernard, invited us over to meet his family- his wife, Lucie, and his sons and daughters. They were all smiling and happy to have us. We took off our shoes and jackets and were ushered to the dining room table. The atmosphere was all bright and full of love. Children's paintings hung on the walls, sea shells on the shelves, books and toys on the floor. Lucie and Bernard busied themselves getting snacks and drinks prepared for us. The kids eyed us curiously. I was overwhelmed with gratitude and so happy to be in such a loving home. I was already falling in love with them all. Lucie offered Eric a beer and I accepted some hot tea. We ate goat cheese, from the Romanian village, ham sandwiches, and cherry tomatoes. Such a treat! Bernard and Lucie were so sweet, speaking in French to me and me translating to Eric. The kids missed their papa and came to him with hugs and kisses and stories to tell. Bernard brought us maps and books of Prague. He showed me references in pages for some of the stories he told me during the ride. We stayed for a couple hours, surrounded by this warm family, before scurrying across the hall to our flat. I was in awe, I still am. These people melt my heart. I need to be a better person. I need to be open and generous like this! Inviting strangers off the street into their home and treating us like family! I was so moved. There are no words. I undressed and laid down in Eric's arms. I stroked his chest and kissed him goodnight.


Day 18, October 18, 2008

The next morning we rose early. We had been invited back to Bernard and Lucie's for breakfast. We ate bread with the goat cheese and bread with honey also from the Czech village in Romania and jam that Lucie made from her mango trees. We drank hot tea and coffee.

Martin, Bernard's oldest son, 14, offered to take us on a tour of the city- to the old castle. He called a friend of his that is fluent in English and we were on our way. The weather was beautiful. We walked to the castle. Impressed by the architecture, we merely looked around and took pictures. The boys told us about their favorite music and sports. They participate in pentathlons- swimming, running, shooting, horseback riding, and fencing. I was impressed by their language skills and their awareness of the world, including American politics. Lucie had packed us a lunch of ham and goat cheese sandwiches and cherry tomatoes. We were spoiled. We ate and kept walking. The city is beautiful. The boys brought us back home.

Eric and I lounged around. We headed to a supermarket and loaded up on food. We each bought bread and meat. I bought cheese, pain au chocolates, juice, and wine. Eric bought some sort of ham salad with mayonnaise, a sweet roll, and some vodka.

We came back to the flat and bathed together in the big tub. After, we sat in the sun on the
balcony and watched the world go by. We stripped off layers and had dinner. As the sun lowered behind the buildings, we covered up again. We sat outside for the remainder of the night, drinking wine and vodka. I finished the last of my bottle and listened to Eric's struggles from the last year. He has such a resiliency. As warm as he is, he wouldn't strike most people as a person with a painful past. With a trip as intense as this, you really get to know someone in leaps and bounds every single day.


Day 19, October 19, 2008

We woke up and had breakfast on our balcony. I feasted on my two remaining pain au chocolates. This day we wandered around the city on our own. We went back to the castle. We peeked into shops, eyeing jewelry. Eric exchanged some more money and decided to show himself a good time in the beautiful city of Prague. We've both always wanted to come here.
We start walking early towards the venue. The Caspian show is tonight! It takes us all day to get there. My feet are starting to really hurt. I can barely put weight on my right foot. We go to a supermarket to buy beer and wine. On the way back, we bump into the band- again, surprise, greetings, and catching up. We sit in a square with a couple of the guys and down our beverages before walking back to the supermarket to restock. The band starts to unpack and prepare for the show. I head off to buy pizza- two thin slices, one garlic and spinach and the other ham and cheese, premium, delicious. We drink some more and head inside. We shoot the shit with the band before the show.

Finally, it's time. We follow the guys to the front of the crowd as they get on stage. Ah, the rock star's life. Some of these guys are ordinary joe's at home- working at Starbucks, going to school, smoking weed, and playing video games, but this is their moment. In this moment, here, they're on stage. Here, people scream for them.

This was the best show. The energy was high. The setting- a dimly lit, cavernous room down a labyrinth of stairways, like the bowels of a giant beast. The room pulsated with the melody. I loved it, everyone did.

After the show, we hung out some more. Eric proceeded to get wasted. After several beers, shots of whiskey, and some smoke, he was spent. He giggled and chased me, tickling my waist, and whispered words about a sexy time when we get home. He was still adorable as this point, as he helplessly tried to carry instruments and put them in the van. He was blacked out and forgot what I was telling him minute to minute. Before I could object, we were in the van with the band, escorting them to the hostel. We had a long walk ahead of us and I was ready to get moving. It was 1:00am. Once underway, Eric was so drunk that it was difficult to get anywhere. He tried to give up a few times and just lie down. At points, he was uncooperative. I was sober, freezing, and pushing myself to walk on my painful foot. But thankfully, with the map, I was able to navigate and get us home three hours later. Needless to say, on arrival, we passed right out.


Day 20, October 20, 2008

I woke and bathed. I took my time, savoring the hot water on my skin and the sweet smells of my soaps and shampoo. Perhaps, I had a premonition that this would be my last cleansing in Europe.

Eric and I sat on the balcony and had breakfast. We enjoyed the breads and apples we took the night before from the band's backstage supply. We smothered the bread with raspberry jam from my pack and drank apple juice. Eric thanked me for getting us home safely.

With a full belly, I lay back down on the mattress and snuggled in the blankets and sleeping bags. The sun shone down on me through the large windows. Warm and tranquil, I drifted to sleep.

I woke peacefully some time later. I found Eric standing at the window, looking at me while I slept. He said I was "sweet". He came and lay next to me on our little bed. He pulled me close to him. Sweeping the hair from my face, he kissed me gently. I kissed him softly back on the cheek. He kissed me again, sweet, little kisses, full of tenderness. Affectionately, he looked in my eyes, like lovers do, and I knew I was all his. He kissed me again, ever sweetly. Slowly, delicately, we embraced, lost in adoration. Our kisses were warm and soft and romantic. We took in the moment. Seamless and passionate, we made love as if it were our first time.

It was time for us to move on again. Regretfully, we had to say goodbye to our Czech family. We packed our things and tidied up the flat before shuffling to Bernard's. Bernard was sweet and wished us well. He invited us back to visit. He mentioned the possibility of leasing the little room to us and finding us work. I would love to return. I already feel at home there. He brought us bags of sweets for the road and told us Lucie was outside. We gave him a big hug and took pictures in the doorway.

Lucie was in her garden, her refuge, preparing for the upcoming winter. She was sad to see us go and hoped that she would see us again. She told me that I could find work easily in the schools tutoring English. I could tutor her and Bernard and their children, as well. As we spoke, the children dangled a rope from the balcony and played tug with Eric. I think I will be back here. This helped with my goodbye. We hugged tightly and we were off again.

We had plans to walk to a couch surfer's home on the other side of the city. Limping, I try to keep pace and Eric slows down for me. We walk in the general direction of the address and stumble across a large park. We find a bench and rest. We eat some of Bernard's cookies and take in our surroundings. It is a huge park, filled with happy dogs. Golden leaves carpet the ground. Children skip past us. It's an oasis in the city. Prague is actually a very green city, squares and parks widely available for playing dogs and children. Two ponies saunter by with young girls on their backs. There is a little wooden bridge over a small stream. A man throws a ball for two happy dogs. The weimaraner and the short-haired pointer jump from the bank into the small stream delightedly chasing the ball. The sun dances through the trees, painted in the colors of fall.

We move on. We walk out of the park and back into the hustle and bustle of the city. We come to a large trench with train tracks beneath and seemingly cannot cross. There is only a major highway crossing here. We're exhausted and seem to be at a dead end, at least for now. We find a clearing and lie down in the grass. The sun shines down on us and we both fall fast asleep. We wake an hour later with a dog happily rolling on the grass between us. Like a little angel, he came out of nowhere and blessed our day.

We move on again. We have to cross over the train tracks by walking on the highway. It's nerve-racking and we move quickly. After some time we come to a train station. We see a young girl, playing a flute, and asking for money. She sits on the grass in front of the crowd of pedestrians. She has three healthy-looking dogs at her side. I wonder what her story is. It must be a good one.

We walk up concrete stairs and onto an overpass. We pass a homeless woman peeing in a corner over some trash, ugly graffiti and gang symbols carelessly painted on the walls. At the top of the overpass, we see a photo shoot, a model being photographed against the backdrop of the graffiti, the heavy traffic below, and the city behind.

We cross a long bridge over the river and see a striking sunset against the skyline of the city. The bright oranges and reds peak around the tops and sides of the buildings.

We walk some more and pass under another overpass. Every available space is covered in colorful graffiti. Artists have been here. Even a trashcan, chained to a light post, has been painted. It's really unique and quite stunning.

The sun continues to set. Eric heads into a grocery store to buy food and a beer. I rest my feet while sitting on a bench. I watch the bus stop across the street. People gather around, going about their day, and running in and out of the bus when it arrives. Eric returns quickly. He surprises me with a sweet roll with strawberry filling! I'm happy.

We walk a little further and pass an open air market. The Asian men are closing up their stalls
for the night. I see some shoes in the back of a stall and run in to check the price. The man hustles me into the space and starts pulling shoes out of boxes. He tells me the price and I pull all the money from my pocket. I tell him it's all I have. He continues to search for shoes in the proper size. He doesn't speak much English. I find a pair I really like, but cannot pay. Finally, we settle on a price. I walk away in brand new shoes offering support for my feet and ankles. The price was eight euros.

Happy with my find, we walk on. I have had to pee for quite awhile, but have not found a private place. This is nearly impossible in a city. We refuse to pay to use public toilets. I have patience and prefer the change to stay in my pocket. In the coming darkness, I think I have a place, but quickly see it's being used by a homeless man. I tell Eric we can find somewhere else. I have no desire to fight for territory.

We walk some more. We pass a college building and ask a student to borrow his cell phone. We call our couch surfing host, Nicolas. He was expecting us the previous day, but can meet us at his flat at 11:00pm. No problem. We walk on. We find another small park and rest again. We talk and enjoy the break.

We are now very close to Nicolas's neighborhood. We find his street and flat. We decide to find a market and buy some food for dinner. Predictably, we buy some bread, some cheese, salami, and red wine. We sit down in the entranceway of an apartment building and dine. After our meal, we
walk to our host's flat.

We wait in the cold for a couple hours. We curl up in front of the building with jackets, scarves, and blankets over our laps. We look like vagrants. We drink wine to keep warm and watch people walk past. Two men, looking a little nervous, walk past us several times. There is a strip club across the street. They tentatively peak their heads inside before walking away for good. Eric begins to play some tunes on his harmonica. I feel drowsy and start to doze. I wake and am saying something ridiculous, when I look over, and a man says "Yes, are you Tess?" I pull Eric's bright red skully off my head and stand up. "Yes! Nicolas?" We make our introductions and he invites us inside.

The flat is amazing- three stories with a winding stairway in the center. It is very modern. One of Nicolas's flat mates has a cat. Little and gray, she's in heat, and meows desperately, asking for attention. Nicolas invites us for a beer at his favorite bar, just down the street. The boys drink beer and I take a glass of wine. Nicolas is very kind. He's Parisian and has been living in Prague for three years. We enjoy getting to know him. Back at the flat, we sit in his bedroom and listen to music from his computer library. He uploads dozens of songs to Eric's zip drive. It is fun. All the while, the kitten meows and paces around us.

Around 2:00am, we head upstairs to our bedroom. The mattresses are comfortable. We undress and fall right to sleep.


Day 21, October 21, 2008

We wake early to say goodbye to Nicolas as he heads out for work. We pack our things and get dressed quickly. We stop only to get online for maps, couch surfing, and emails. Eric charts the best route into Krakow. He chooses for us to head south to Brno first, before taking the highway into Poland.

When I get online, the news is not good. My grandmother has severely broken her ankle. My grandfather's old dog, Chloe, has reached the end. He was forced to end her pain and in result began his own. My mother was taking care of all my children back home- my three loving cats, two talkative birds, my restful gecko, and my two devoted dogs. She is stressing out, balancing her own home life with the chaos of mine and my grandparents'. I walk away from the computer feeling weighted.

Limping, the ache in my foot pulsating, we walk on.

We head south out of the city. We walk all day long. We stop twice to try to hitchhike, but with no success. People are not interested in us at all. No one even stops to talk to us. We alter our theme again- "the kindness of strangers, except in (Spain-crossed out) Czech". It is difficult. We don't talk much, just walk.

We try to walk along the highway, seeking a ramp where we can hitch. In this pursuit, we happen across some apple trees, hidden randomly in the center of the metropolis. We jump and pull down branches. We pick as many apples as we can. Eric climbs up the railing and reaches even higher for some plump specimens. As he picks, he fills his pockets and the inside of his jacket. He comes down spewing apples from every nook. We continue to fill his little red bag with apples until it's bursting at the seams. We would eat apples for days to come

Munching on apples, we walk on. Still limping.

We're forced to leave the city completely on foot. In the last two days, we walked from the northern district of Prague all the way south to the edge of the city. It's quite a feat. We still walk now.

We walk alongside the highway until we reach a gas station with ramps available in the direction of Brno. We stop here for the night and try to hitch before the sun sets. No luck.
We eat apples and the rest of Bernard's sweets. Still hungry, we go inside the gas station to look for other options. We each buy a sandwich, baguettes with ham and sauerkraut, for less than three euros. Feeling better, we decide to look for a place to sleep. I choose a place across a ramp from the gas station on a hill in high grass. A big billboard with bright lights towers above us and the busy autoroute noisily sits below the hill. We spread out our plastic tarp and lay in our sleeping bags. It is still early, but we are tired. We watch the big trucks and the traffic flow by beneath us. I read aloud to Eric with the light from the billboard illuminating my pages. He falls asleep near the end of my story. Soon after, I, too, fall asleep.


Day 22, October 22, 2008

Very early in the morning I am awakened by drops of rain on my face. I wake Eric and we hurriedly pack our things. Eric decides we should take advantage of low traffic flow on the highway to our left and walk across the overpass. He thinks we might be able to find a better place to hitch. We walk on. Nervously, pacing as fast as we can, hiding behind guardrails where available, we walk. The rain stops and we continue our march up the highway. We come to another gas station with ramps onto the highway. We decide this is as good as it will get. We have walked completely out of Prague; the city a distant memory on this cold night.

Still dark, perhaps 4:00am, we decided to try to sleep some more. I sit on the curb while Eric scouts for a spot. He comes back ten minutes later and said he has found somewhere. We climb some stairs behind the gas station and walk onto a pedestrian bridge that passes over the highway and ramps. On the other side there are buildings a little ways away. We climb a little hill and lay out our sleeping bags. We lay at a slant and slide slightly down the hill. We fall asleep anyway, bundled up against the freezing cold.

I wake at daybreak. Eric, shivering, snaps photos of me with drool hanging out of my mouth and oozing onto my sleeping bag. Classic. I wake feeling cheerful. We walk back to the gas station and I freshen myself up for the day.

This day is slow moving. We hitch in the cold by the ramp for hours. No one stops in the speeding flow of traffic. I try to ask some drivers, but they quickly move away from me. We're cold. We seek refuge inside the gas station and drink much needed hot coffee. We read and write and are hesitant to brace the cold again. We know we must, however. We have no options and must leave Czech as soon as possible.

We make a sign for "BRNO" and sit outside the entranceway of the gas station. Shortly, a young man comes up to us. He doesn't speak any English and we have difficulty communicating. He says that he's going to Brno with his friends. His friends, four seedy looking boys, stand around us. They are waiting for someone, apparently, and will leave at 1:00pm. We have an hour's wait. They gather again at the edge of the parking lot. It seems a little odd. Eventually, two men in nice cars, wearing business suits, pull up and there is some sort of transaction. Eric and I look at each other. We'll wait and see how things go. We sit on the curb, watching from a distance. The time passes. There is still no movement to leave. We wait, but now put our sign back up, visible to other drivers. Eventually, the boys speed off and leave us.

We wait some more. Cold, we go back inside the café. We eat some sandwiches with mozzarella and tomatoes. We stay inside long enough to take the chill off our bones. This takes quite awhile. We read and write and worry. We have to be in Krakow in two days. At this pace, it seems farfetched.

Finally, we go back to the ramp and thumb.

After a little while, a miracle happens. A driver pulls over and invites us into his truck. He doesn't speak much English, but agrees to drive us to Brno. The ride is just over two hours. He tells us that he has a friend that might be able to drive us some ways towards Poland the following day. The man is working, delivering newspapers. He brings us to the warehouse. We are quickly shooed off the property by his boss. The ride for the following day is evidently denied.

We walk from the warehouse for a ways before arriving at a gas station. We sit outside, eating apples. All of a sudden, the driver from the warehouse reappears. He is a friendly older gentleman and he comes over to us smiling. He makes the gesture with his hands that his boss was complaining. He pulls a big piece of cardboard out of his truck. He acquires a black marker from the cashier at the gas station. He goes on to make a sign for us, stating the proper highway to Poland and a couple towns along the way. Our sign reads "OL (Olomouc) to CESKY TESIN". He sets it up for us on the curb. Eric wipes an apple on his jacket and offers it to him. He declines, waves, and drives off.

We sit here for quite some time with no leads. I'm hungry and getting sick of apples. I am out of Czech currency and the gas station doesn't take euros like some of the others. Eric reminds me of my credit card. I forgot all about it. Excitedly, I run inside and spend just a few dollars on sandwiches, corn chips, cookies, and a beer. I eat happily until I am stuffed. Eric eats one of my sandwiches, while I eat two, and drinks the beer I bought him. Unfortunately, I didn't read the label and it's nearly nonalcoholic. We laugh.

We cover our legs with the Lufthansa blanket and snuggle close. Hoping someone will take pity on us, we try to look as cute as possible. We give up. I lay my head on Eric's shoulder and he reads to me from "Brave New World". At the end of the chapter, we decide to find somewhere to sleep.

We walk across the adjacent rode and into a freshly cut cornfield. Our arrival sends rabbits hopping away. We lay out the plastic tarp. Eric places our new cardboard panel underneath us. We lie down in our sleeping bags. I remove some layers and Eric massages my shoulders and back. Heavenly. I start to get cold and bundle up again. Eric runs his fingers through my hair. I fall asleep with his hand on the side of my face.


Day 23, October 23, 2008

I wake early again to rain drops on my face. This time I wait to see if it will pass. I am still very tired. After a time, the rain still does not stop. Eric wakes up. We hear the rumbling of thunder in the distance. We hop up, pack our things, and run to shelter.

We don't have many options. The gas station doesn't have a café inside and doesn't have an awning large enough to protect us from the rain. The road next to us is not a major highway, though it does lead to one. We decide to walk. We have nothing else to do.

Bowing our heads against the wind and rain, we walk. We walk up the road to the highway. Once we reach the highway, we walk some more. I don't know what time it is, but it is still black outside. Big trucks and cars pass us on our left. We trample through grasses on the other side of the guardrail. Heads down, we keep moving.

After a time, we see an overpass. We stop underneath to make a plan. We see a gas station ahead of us. We will go inside to warm up. If the rain stops, we will hitchhike at the ramp some distance before the gas station. If it continues to rain, we will try to hitchhike from here, underneath the overpass.

At the gas station, I go to the restroom. I look at the mirror and my reflection is amusing. I don't even care anymore. We've now slept outside three nights. In the humidity, my hair is extremely greasy. I decide to make a game of it. I form a ridge on top of my head with my bangs and secure my hair with bobby pins. The effect is similar to that of a mohawk. I pull the rest of my hair back in a ponytail. I line my eyes darkly and put on dangling earrings. Today, I am a punk rocker. Joyful and laughing at my game, I go outside. Eric is sitting on the curb writing. I can only imagine that he is writing about the cold and the rain. As he stands up, I take off the hood of his jacket and also form his greasy hair into a mohawk. I laugh. We still look hot. This is a fun game. We take pictures and I am proud. If no one will pick us up today at least they will have reason.

We sit inside the café by the gas station. I order a hot tea and Eric orders a coffee. We scrape together the last of his Czech change. We stay inside until the sun comes up. It is still raining.
We stick to our plan. Eric puts on his rain jacket. I put on my poncho, ugly, of course, and full of tears, I doubt it will do me any good. I wrap my backpack in its protective gear. Hoods on, the mohawks are forgotten. We take in the last minute of warmth and we throw ourselves out into the cold. We move quickly up the highway, walking against the flow of speeding traffic. Within minutes, my new Prague shoes are soaked through. The legs of my jeans are wet up to my knees. This doesn't look good. We arrive under the overpass. We put our things on the slant of concrete and stand behind the guardrail, holding our cardboard sign and sticking out our thumbs. We're freezing. I am wearing a bra, a camisole, four sweaters, two winter jackets, leggings, jeans, wet socks and shoes, and gloves. I wear nearly every item of clothing I have. I am still freezing. Eric has not nearly as much on. I can see him shivering, but he doesn't complain. Instead, he sings and dances around. That's the spirit! Keep warm! We laugh.

After what seems like hours, Eric turns to me and, through chattering teeth, says that we will wait just a little while longer and then go inside. I doubt anyone will stop. There's no place to pull over here and cars are speeding at over 70 mph. A few minutes later, we see a motorcycle coming. Eric looks at me and says "Whose more crazy? Us or that guy?" Turns out, that guy is a cop. He asks for our passports. As he looks them over, he tells us that it is illegal to hitchhike on the highway itself. We could cause an accident. We must leave right away. We walk back to the café. My feet feel like blocks of ice. It is so cold that I no longer feel the pain in my right foot.

Bummed, we predict that the rain won't stop any time soon. We have gotten totally wet for nothing. I head into the bathroom to try to dry my clothes. I hold my shoes and socks and jeans under the hand dryer for twenty minutes. I try in vain.

With nothing left to do and sore spirits to mend, we decide to spoil ourselves with some warm food. We splurge. We choose hot soups to start. I take a sandwich on a baguette with prosciutto and cheese. It is divine. We each take dessert. I eat all of my food. Eric strategically saves half of his for later.

We sit in the restaurant for hours warming up. The rain finally stops. We head outside and find a roundabout behind the gas station with a ramp towards Olomouc. We sit here and, miraculously, the sun comes out! Now wearing my old black shoes, I put my wet socks and Prague shoes in the sun. My pant legs start to dry like the splotches of rain on the pavement. Eric scolds me for looking like a gypsy. I ignore him.

People pass us with grim faces, not even wanting to look at us. We laugh and start to make jokes of them. It seems almost painful for some of these people to behold us. Poor them. Our spirits are up again, though we have been sitting here for quite some time.

Finally, a car pulls up. Quickly, I throw my shoes and socks in a plastic bag. I smile at the driver and start to seat myself up front. He tells Eric that he wants me in the back. I don't understand. It is not a big deal, but I spend my time curiously guessing his intentions. The man is relatively young, maybe thirty. He doesn't speak English and doesn't smile. Eric asks him his destination and the man says "Brno", the town we are already in. I wonder why then would he drive us into this other region. I remember a warning from yesterday's driver about people in Cesky Tesin. He says there are many gypsies that steal and then, making a slicing motion at his throat, says they kill. I begin to worry myself and pull my pack from the back into my lap. The driver adjusts his mirror to look at me. I edge closer to the window and think to make sure that my door is not child-locked. I know I am a little paranoid at this point.

We stop at a rest area up the highway. I am relieved and jump out of the car. Then, the man says he can drive us further. Eric is very friendly with him, like he always is with people. We get back into the car. Eric eyes me and sees I'm nervous. He subtly asks me if I'm OK. I nod. My pack ends up again in the back of the car. This time, I cannot pull it up with me because the straps are caught in the door. "Strategic little plan", I think. Maybe my exhaustion is getting the best of me. I reach in my backpack and pull my passport out and slide it down the front of my jeans. If nothing else, I will have that. I am sleepy, but fight like hell not to pass out. The man is friendlier now and smiles with Eric. Heavy metal plays in the background and I think I recognize a song. We pass some lovely countryside. Soon, we are in Cesky Tesin, land of the gangster gypsies. He pulls over off the highway. We get out and I am eager to grab my pack from the rear. Everything is Ok. I was just nervous. The man turned out to be very nice and quite generous. He drove us over an hour away from his location for no reason other than goodness.

We are now off the highway near two small roads, a rundown building, and a warehouse. I have to pee and search for somewhere private. There is nothing available. Eric pees behind a railing at the intersection that has some signs hanging. He tells me to pee there. It is surrounded by roads with a few cars and pedestrians on all sides. I am reluctant, but he is impatient. First, I subtly place my passport back in my pack. I don't want Eric to know just how paranoid I was. Then, awkwardly, I try to pee behind the rippling sign. Eric is laughing at me. With stage fright, I am unable to go. I will find a more suitable place later, I always do. I tell Eric that from now on, I would like to always have easy access to my backpack in vehicles, just for my peace of mind. He goes on to tell me that I was too nervous with that driver. I admit that it is true. He then says that my reasoning for being nervous was unwarranted. He cites my reasons to be that the man was unattractive, his car was messy, and he listened to heavy metal. I was shocked. Does this guy know me at all? Those factors never once entered my mind. He chastised me for being judgmental. I tried to tell him otherwise, but he stubbornly insisted on his wonderful "observation skills". I was fuming.

The anger passed quickly. I run hot and cold sometimes. I did, however, harbor an annoyance towards him. I decided to just take the good with the bad and be happy in my own mind. I was still quite peaceful. We were only a short distance now from Poland. While thinking these thoughts, a driver pulls up, surprisingly. He is Polish and heading to Bielsko-Biala in Poland. We eagerly hop in, fearing a cold night in this gypsy land. He drove and talked friendly to us. He asked Eric where we're from. Eric, thinking that he asked our language, says English. The man starts talking about England for a little while. Then he asks Eric what part he is from. Eric is confused and I explain what's going on. He then tells the driver that we are not English, we are American. There's a perceptive disappointment. The man is quiet for a few minutes contemplating this new veracity. After a time, he returns to his friendly demeanor. We cross the border into Poland.

Eric asks the man to leave us at a rest area. The man tries to dissuade us by saying we should continue on with him. We try to explain that we need a gas station from which to hitchhike. We point to a rest area and reluctantly the man pulls over. He continues to try to tell us to ride further with him. I tell Eric to get out of the car when he stops. Eric gets out and starts to help me out of the two door vehicle. The driver tells me to stay. I get out anyway, of course. He proceeds to go into the restaurant and exchange facilities, asking for someone who speaks English. People look at him, perturbed. We're weirded out. We decide that we don't want to go on with him. We will stay here. We tell the driver we will sleep at the hotel. Finally, he leaves us alone.

We use the facilities. I exchange some money. Eric tells me I have "bad energy". I shrug him off. I only have frustrations with him. He can just get over it. I'm happy. As we walk, a man comes out of the rest area and approaches us. He saw us with the driver earlier. He doesn't speak English, but, through hand gestures, has only one message to relay, "No hitchhiking here. Take a train. Choo. Choo." Ok, whatever. We never listen to what people say. If we listened to warnings like this, we wouldn't be here. I've been discouraged by people since the first day I told my family all the way until now. They can create their own realities and I will create mine. Everything is possible.

We walk on. Standing on a concrete median, holding a sign for "KRAKOW", a man drives up. He waves to me and I tell Eric to jump in. He drives us to Bielsko-Biala. He is friendly and talks with us about music. He drops us off on a highway to Krakow.

It's starting to get late. It is very, very cold here in Poland, by far the coldest temperatures we've felt. We hold up our sign for Krakow at two different ramps. No one stops. As the sun starts receding behind the trees, we make our way into the town. We see a stop light in the distance and go to see what's there. We find a big building and a parking lot full of cars. We walk up to it. The sign says 24 hours. This is a good sign. The structure is a mall. All the pretty people walk around shopping in the various stores. We find a grocery store. Like monsters, we pace the aisles. I wonder how people perceive us. I wonder how bad we smell. I buy some bread and cheese.

When we walk outside, it is dark. We walk to another intersection. On our right, there is a Carrefour. We go inside. I notice the availability of internet. I keep this to myself for now. Eric goes in search of free samples and I wander around. When he returns we head out into the night.
We need somewhere to sleep. There is also a looming prospect of rain. It has been overcast since we arrived in Poland and the humidity hangs in the air.

We walk and eventually decide there is no available shelter. I tell Eric that I would rather go to bed early and then if it does rain at least we would have had some sleep. Across from the Carrefour there is a patch of trees at the bottom of the hill. We head there. Eric stomps around, looking for an area without sticks. Once he finds a suitable place, we lay down the tarp, the cardboard, and our sleeping bags. I eagerly get in my sleeping bag, seeking warmth. Unfortunately, my clothes are still damp and so is my sleeping bag. I bury myself inside and munch on bread and cheese. I offer a bite to Eric, but he declines.

Eric told me earlier that he likes to see me in survival mode. I am not sure if that was an attempt to make friends, but that's definitely the mode we're in, survival mode. I am not mad at him anymore. I just don't have the energy to play games.

As we lay, he asks me sweetly if there's anything I want to talk about. I don't really want to bring it all out in the air. I'm exhausted. It's been another challenging day. He insists, saying that there's no need to just get through this, that he's opened the door for conversation. Usually, this would be exactly what I want from him, but I don't know what can be said. I give in anyway. I explain my frustrations from earlier in the day. He interrupts me a dozen times. Finally, I come to the conclusion of my complaints. He starts talking and immediately repeats the same accusation that I was "judgmental". I can't stop myself from speaking out. We go back and forth and the dialogue is ineffective. We go to sleep. Even in my sleeping bag and in all my layers, I still shiver all night.


Day 24, October 24, 2008

We wake at dawn. It's more than cold. It's frigid. My body aches from shivering all night. Today is the day of the Caspian show in Krakow. We must get moving. I have a pain in my eye, but ignore it.

We walk to a gas station down the road. I almost feel guilty walking past the cashiers and slipping into the bathroom. I look at myself. My right eye is quite noticeably swollen, as if I wasn't hideous enough. Leaves fall off my jacket and scarf. I leave a trail of dirt behind me. I put my glasses on and try to recover some beauty. I sweep my hair back into a neater ponytail. There's only one look, though; my hair is frozen in place by grease. I apply my eye makeup and then give up on the rest. I have to accept looking like someone who hasn't slept in days and has been rolling around outside.

We walk to the ramp where we hitchhiked yesterday. We stand here for hours. No one stops. No one cares. After a couple hours, we decided to head to the Carrefour to use the internet. We still have not been able to touch base with our host in Krakow. This is imperative. We cannot sleep outside tonight. It is only getting colder.

I sit at the computer. I smile at the man next to me. First, I check my couch surfing account. There is no word from the host, but there is a kind word from our previous host in Barcelona. I open my email account and see an email from my mother. I open it, hoping the news is better this time.

I read the first line. Mom tells me that "it is with a heavy heart" that she must tell me… My heart starts beating wildly in my chest. My face feels flushed and adrenaline muffles my ears. This is something bad. I read on. She found my cat, Masai, under the house, unable to move. I'm crying now, but at first I have hope. I think maybe he was hit by a car, maybe he was saved. But, I read on. "He had a heart condition, probably since birth"… Tears stream down my face, as they do now in my retelling of this. "He had a blood clot". They brought him to the emergency clinic. He did not make it. I'm in shock. I'm crying. This is the worst thing that I could ever hear. My kids are the most important thing in the world to me. I feel guilty that I wasn't there with him. I'm crying and can't stop. I read the email only once and leave the computer. I go to Eric and tell him what has happened. All I can do is shake my head and cry. The tears flow and he rubs my back and kisses my forehead. I am overwhelmed. I love Masai so much. He's my angel, who cuddles up to me every night. He is the love that wakes me up with kisses on my nose. He follows me on every walk and enlivens my home and my life. I can't imagine a life without him. It is unfair. I cannot accept the idea that this has happened. He was so young, so perfect. He deserved to live a long, happy life with me.

Eric asks me what I want to do. I say that I want to go home. He says he will come with me. I am a mess. He goes to the computer and takes charge. He looks at the train schedules and costs of flights. I am useless. I cry. My head down, I just follow him.

It is such a gift for me to have him right now. Eric's company soothes me. The ability to not have to be present instead allows me to be in my mind and thoughts, grieving. Eric sacrifices much in making this choice. I am infinitely aware of the sacrifice. When push comes to shove, everything ill is put behind us. He is a wonderful friend. I need him and he becomes what I need.

He pays for the internet use. He asks a security guard for directions to the train station. And we walk. I'm not sure how long it takes, I am lost in my mind, but we arrive at the station. We pass a van with a sign for Krakow. Eric exchanges some of my money and we pay for the ride and get on. I cry the whole time. I look out the window, desperately, and picture my love. Eric holds my hand.

We haven't eaten. From all the crying, from the exhaustion, and from the hunger, I have a terrible headache. We eat bread and apples. The van stops many times and the ride is very long.
Eventually, we arrive at the train and bus station in Krakow. On the way into the city, the sites seemed unimpressive. The weather is dreary. It suits me. The sun would mock my sadness. At the station, we walk from a bus vendor to the train vendor to compare prices. We choose the bus. Eric is a godsend. I finally stop crying and he actually makes me smile. I decide now is the time to spoil ourselves. We must waste all the money I converted, roughly 10 more euros.
We go into the McDonalds and order two of the biggest burgers and a large fry. Eric orders a coke and we find more fries on an empty table. We sit here and eat. We eat everything. Then, I eat a strawberry filled sweet I bought at the train station a few minutes before. I feel a little better. I just try not to think too much. I will have a lot to face on my arrival in Savannah.
We go across the hall of this building into a grocery store. We buy four sandwiches, some sliced bread, a jar of nutella, banana nectar, a fruit juice, and a few other snacks. We go to find our bus. It departs at 4:00pm.

Once on board, we take two seats in the front. I sit by the window and stare out. Eric tries to make me smile as much as he can. I just love him right now. As the bus gets moving, I curl up in his lap.

We have to change buses once, but then we're under way. We're heading to Frankfurt,
Germany, where we will change our flight to one as early as possible. I sleep in Eric's lap. Then, we switch places. He leans against the window and I lean against his chest.

After everything that has happened on this trip, I feel closer to Eric than anyone I can think of in my life right now. I met him so suddenly and now feel as though he is one of my very best friends.

The loss of one of my children is a brutal thing for me to go through. Eric is here for me whole-heartedly. He's seen me at my absolute worst on this trip, worse than many of my friends have ever seen. I've been weak. I've been angry. I've smelled like and looked like a homeless person. And, now, I've been heartbroken. I don't think it's possible for me to hit any more or any lower lows.

I think about these things and the drive continues. It will be about 15 hours in total.


Day 25, October 25, 2008

We're still in the bus. We ride on. The sun comes up and we're still sleepy. It's difficult to get comfortable on a full bus. Together, we did the best we could.

We arrive in Frankfurt at around 8:30am. We walk into the train station. We have difficulty understanding the German on a ticket vending machine. A woman helps us buy tickets for a ride to the airport. And, we are underway.

The train is quick and spits us out at the airport a few minutes later. We head to the airline counter. It will be an additional $250 each to change our flights. We are here now. It is done.
We are scheduled for a flight to Vienna this afternoon, in less than two hours. Tomorrow, we will fly out of Vienna for Washington at 9:50am. From Washington we will fly to Atlanta. This is our original itinerary only four days early. Eric accepts the burden of missing not only the last four days of Europe, but also the last two potential Caspian shows. He also must absorb the costs of the transportation and flight change. This is more than we have spent on the entire trip thus far.
We check in and check luggage. We rush through security. Soon, we are at the gate. Then, we're on the plane. It is a two hour flight to Vienna. Eric mostly sleeps and I am dazed, thinking of home.

In Vienna, Eric sets about trying to make me laugh. He buys some whiskey and coke and finds a wheelchair. Looking at my feet, I see they are completely swollen. I no longer have ankles and my right foot throbs. I smile and sit in the wheelchair. For hours, now, he pushes me around as we laugh and drink. He scoots me to tables to swipe leftover food. We are having fun again. In my mind, I thank him a thousand times.


Day 26, October 26, 2008

We wake early. Eric drank late into the night with some Polish men he met. One of the Polish men stole my shoes and I made a fuss. When Eric passed out, I slandered his body with mockery of his alcoholism. Before the flight, we each kept a little distance. Exhaustion always wears on our patience.

On the flight, we were seated in a two person row next to each other. We quickly smoothed things over. We took note of the extra space around our two seats, how lucky. There was a Great Pyrenees in the cabin with us. He lay quietly at his owners' feet. We wondered how he managed to be allowed on the flight. We would love to bring our puppies with us on international trips, but fear checking them as "cargo".

We waved goodbye to Europe beneath us and prepared for the flight. I read and underlined my book. Eric wrote in his journal. I kissed his forehead and his cheeks and smothered him with my affections. Soon the movies came available on our little screens. We lay and watched two different movies.

When lunch was served, we took two different lunch entrées and shared. Eric gave me his dessert, saying I would enjoy it more than him. I kissed him some more. During lunch, turbulence rattled the plane. I think it was the worst turbulence I've ever experienced. Usually a very at ease flyer, I had a jolt of adrenaline. I relaxed, though, and continued to eat. The flight attendants came around with hot wipes. I cleaned the ink off Eric's arms. We snuggled up together.

Dinner was served a few hours later. It was time. We were ravenously hungry again, especially me. We ate smoked salmon, cole slaw, a salad, and a raspberry mousse for dessert. It was wonderful. I asked the flight attendant if I could have some extra bread and butter. She returned with another serving of smoked salmon and dessert, in addition to the bread. We love Air Austria.

The rest of the flight was uneventful. Eric and I snuggled and waited out the final hours of our ten hour flight.

We arrived in Washington and went directly to baggage claim. There was a little beagle inspecting all the luggage at security. We moved through quickly. Eric went to the bathroom and we lost each other. We reconvened at the Delta gate.

Eric offered to buy me a burger. We shared a big bacon cheeseburger with grilled onions and mushrooms and a large order of fries. We were stuffed. We headed back to the gate.
Soon we boarded on our last flight of the day. I slept the entire two hours.

I woke to Atlanta. We left the plane and went to baggage claim. We waited and watched the belt, but we didn't see my backpack. I didn't check my backpack on the way into Europe, but was forced to check it after I stuffed it with my sleeping bag and acquired jackets and sweaters. My backpack was lost. This is the third consecutive time I've lost checked baggage, the same pack, on an international flight. I knew the process by now and headed to the lost luggage desk to fill out some paperwork.

Eric and I hopped on the metro and rode it into Chamblee. Aaron, Eric's oldest brother, and his wife, Kim, picked us up at the metro. It's difficult to relay a trip as intense and extensive as this to anyone quickly. We could merely say, it was an adventure. And, it certainly was that, intense and amazing.

We reached Aaron's home and ate a warm dinner and took a warm bath. I called my mother. She didn't know I was coming home early. I hadn't even responded to her email. We talked about Masai and we both cried. It was painful. I knew that I would compose myself until I reached Savannah, but I was sure that on my arrival there I would break. Mom and I said goodbye and I told her I would see her soon. Later, Eric went outside for a smoke and to spend some time with his brother and I went to bed. This was our first bed in a week. I melted into it.

Eric came to bed some time later. We both realized this would be our last night together. He pulled me close to him and kissed me. I warmed his cold body with my warmth. He offered to give me a back massage and I accepted. I was aware of an apprehension, because I didn't want to fall asleep and miss this last night together. I didn't need to worry.

Eric undressed me. He took care to rub my sore shoulders, the middle of my back, and the small of my back. His strong hands kneaded my muscles. He brushed his hands gently over my skin and grazed his hands along my butt. He ran his fingers down my thighs and back up again. He gently slipped off my panties. I turned over and looked at him. He leaned in and kissed me. I always feel so at home with him. My desire is always overpowering. It is as if I belong to him. I kissed his face. I kissed his neck. I kissed his lips. I kissed him everywhere. Our bodies became one. The intimacy lasted for hours. Passionately, we moved from bed to floor to bed. We pleased each other. The delicacy of the moment mastered. To choose one word for description, perfect. This is the way I will always remember our love making. This was the beautiful conclusion to our journey. This moment represented all the other love we'd made. This moment honored all the memories. I will never forget. We fell asleep, intertwined.




The next day Eric drove me the four hours to Savannah. I came home and had to face the pain and the disasters that had unfolded in my absence. I had to accept fate's dealings. The first couple days were a struggle. I missed Masai. At every turn, I saw him. I visited my grandparents and saw the pain in their eyes, the tears on their faces. And just like with any other arrival back home, there is the disentangling of messes and the reorganizing of affairs. One has to resettle back into a life. It becomes time to go to work and move on. It is in this moment that I stand now.

All travel makes an impact. If a trip lacks a lesson it could be considered a failure. I have traveled quite a bit. I struggle to absorb now the immensity of our journey. It is only now, in recounting all the emotional trials, all the joys, all the surprises, all the challenges, all the generosity, that I emerge feeling like I have a solid picture of what we experienced. It is amazing. We have pushed ourselves. We have really grown to know and appreciate each other. We have been faced with hurdles and we overcame. I see this as a journey in growth and a journey in resiliency. I see a journey of love and offerings and sacrifice. I see an incredible friendship that I hope will last me the rest of my life. I see an acknowledgement of and an appreciation for the human spirit. I see that genuine, giving, loving spirit in us and also in all the people that contributed to our journey. I see appetites for life that will never be quenched, desires that will always exist. I see a hunger in us to see the world, to know the world, to live and experience. I see strength and openness and love. This was a journey about all of these things. There is no simple way to absorb this trip. I think effects of this will ripple down and show themselves for the rest of my life. I know there are so many memories here that cannot be forgotten. I leave wanting to be better. I leave embracing a relationship with a man I find continuously remarkable. I leave feeling … grateful.