Spontaneity and Self-Improvement in Spain

February 29, 2024May 9, 2024 / Eric / Leave a comment

In one of my more spontaneous moves, I booked last-minute flights to Madrid on February 1st. The roundtrip fare was $1, which with an additional $440 in taxes and fees was still a terrific deal. Less than a week later, I boarded the plane, flew seamlessly across the Atlantic, and found myself in Spain’s iconic capital city on the morning of February 8th. The only thing I booked ahead of time was a weeklong language course in Madrid and an accompanying homestay – everything else would be cobbled together on the fly once I arrived. I would end up seeing several cities in central and southern Spain, exploring Spain’s rich gastronomy, learning over 2000 years of Spanish history (at least the CliffsNotes edition), and forging friendships that I expect will last a lifetime…all in all, an incredibly rewarding trip! Now, the only way to defeat jetlag is to dive immediately into sightseeing, so let’s get right to it.

Toledo

I went straight from Spain’s capital airport onto a tour bus to Spain’s former capital on the hill, the medieval city of Toledo. The approach built up anticipation, ascending from the dry plains of Madrid’s exurbs into a rocky landscape dotted with battlements and manors and monasteries. Obligatory photos were taken at the 9^th century Alcantara bridge and the city overlook above the Tajo River gorge. We stopped in the metalworks factory, where artisans and their students fashioned intricate designs from gold and silver wire to be fused into fine jewelry and tableware. When we were finally ready to tour the city, we rode the underground tourist escalator from the bottom of the hill to where it deposited us in Zocodover Square. There, the grandeur of 16^th century Spanish ambience was visible immediately with the painted buildings and iron balconies, all hovering over a touristy streetscape of trendy cafes and gift shops displaying full-size steel swords by the thousand. In that regard, Toledo felt like a tourist zoo, shuffling visitors between notable architectures while encouraging a sort of medieval or conquistador roleplay.

But once I wandered off onto the side streets, I found the city’s bucolic character that the 10,000 residents of the old town experience daily. Stone alleys, often accessed through massive wooden doors, lined with 2-3 stories of window balconies. Dog walkers casually smoking cigarettes and chatting with neighbors, while their dogs engaged in a wordless drama with the neighborhood cats. Quiet plazas where Christians, Arabs, and Jews once congregated, living side-by-side for centuries before the Inquisition. It was here that I ducked into a small museum dedicated to Manchego cheese, where a warm host introduced the history, traditional techniques, and cultural importance of sheep’s cheese before leading a decadent tasting: a spread that ranged from young cheese (aged three months to soft, sweet perfection) to old cheese (aged over a year to rich sharpness and a tree-bark aftertaste), accompanied by a nice glass of tempranillo. I finished my visit in the cathedral, marveling at the elegant painted stone building blocks of the cavernous gothic-style nave. My favorite part was the sacristy chamber, lined twice around with gilded portraits of every bishop of Toledo going back to the 4^th century. The place displayed a grandeur indicative of an illustrious religious history, earning the comment from my tour guide that “for Spanish people, this is our Rome.” Holy Toledo, what a powerful first-day introduction to Spain!

Sevilla

The next morning, I would catch a bullet train from Madrid to Sevilla, hurtling through various states of California-like scenery at nearly 200 mph to arrive in Spain’s 4th-largest city less than 3 hours later. Sevilla’s first glimpses were modern, with a typical cavernous train station and the iconic wooden Parasol (affectionately called Las Setas for its giant mushroom appearance). But the city dates back to at least Roman times, as the Setas were unwittingly sited atop a Roman-era ruin, prompting an extensive archaeological dig that is still ongoing beneath the pavilion. I would learn about these complicated layers of history during a food tour, where our guide Alejandro shared numerous facts like how Sevilla was an Atlantic port 2000 years ago before the ocean receded, how the common practice of hanging whole hams originated from undercover Jews and Arabs during the Inquisition, and why the city has 60,000 Sevillian orange trees lining public ways. Alejandro also was a great gastronomic guide to Sevillian cuisine, which was notably rich and delicious! Despite not ordinarily leaning toward seafood, my favorite dish was shark adobo – a tender, melt-in-your-mouth nugget with a savory explosion of Moorish seasonings. The mojama (fine tuna jerky) and fried cuttlefish were also pretty excellent. Rich flavors abounded in the solomillo al whisky (beef tenderloin slow-simmered in…brandy), Iberian pork cheek stew, ham croquettes, and payoyo cheese (a unique tangy goat cheese from the mountains near Ronda). Plenty of beverages would accompany this tapas feast, as I would try manzanilla (the driest white wine in existence), amontillado (a somehow drier wine that tasted like old wood), orange wine (an ancient recipe for tried-and-true deliciousness), the local Cruzcampo beer, and my go-to Spanish vermut cocktail before walking a meandering route back to my hotel for the night.

The next day, I set out to explore the historic city in reverse chronological order. A morning run along the Guadalquivir River revealed a modern manufacturing area near the port and a now-dilapidated park complex from the 1992 World Expo. The ‘new’ Plaza de España, built in the 1920s, was in top form, however, as hundreds of people gathered outside by the quaint semicircular canal on that beautiful Saturday: I spent at least an hour there taking photos, listening to street musicians, and watching a flamenco school performance under the arcade. I roamed through the Baroque- and Renaissance era streetscapes, stopping in an adorable stationery store that has been open since the 1850s among other quaint craft and souvenir stores. I toured the cathedral, gawking at its treasure collection and climbing the Giralda (square minaret) for a panoramic vista of the old city. In one of the wings of the cathedral, I was surprised to encounter the massive marble tomb of Christopher Columbus; then again, it was here in Sevilla where Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand commissioned his New World Expedition, which in turn built the city into the Spanish Empire’s economic powerhouse. I proceeded to the Archives of the Indies, a Renaissance-era building that displays a small fraction of its millions of colonial documents including maps, land grants, treaties, and even Columbus’s voyage diaries – fascinating information from an unvarnished colonialist perspective. Unfortunately, by the time I reached the medieval battlements protecting the Royal Alcázar, all the tickets were sold out and I was unable to enter what looks to be an astounding palace of centuries of Muslim and Christian royals (and later the backdrop for Lawrence of Arabia and Game of Thrones), a real downer after such a good day of touring.

Seeing red after that load of bull, I headed to the Círculo de Toros, where a small museum to bullfighting is housed inside the fortified anterooms beneath the iconic stadium. A collection of art and memorabilia gave a vivid illustration of the wild part-sport, part-art spectacle that is Spanish bullfighting, such that when I stood out on the hard-packed dirt of the ring I could easily visualize the ecstasy and anguish present in a full arena. Moving from one passionate pastime to another, I took in a flamenco show at Casa de la Guitarra. First, a professional guitarist named Javier showcased his dexterity with a modern twist on flamenco, weaving slaps, twangs, and hammer-pull trills into a melodic story of suspense and intrigue. Then they layered in the singing, an Arabian-influenced chant shouted from the depths of despair to convey lyrics of dire circumstances and gritty perseverance, accompanied by crescendos of syncopated clapping. With the musical stage set, an elegantly-costumed dancer performed a couple of mesmerizing routines that rattled the room with flawless tap steps and dazzled the audience with expressive movements, somehow achieving intimacy and chasmic separation simultaneously, a beautiful and passionate display of Andalusian culture. Wandering the narrow streets and hopping between tapas bars after the show, I was never too far from the sounds of street accordion, classical guitar, or spontaneous dancing – this is the contagious energy that I will forever associate with Sevilla, a city with a rich history, richer food, and a billowing cornucopia of culture.

Madrid

To this point, I had only shuttled myself around on Madrid’s highly-efficient Metro and slept off my jetlag in a futuristic capsule hostel, essentially spending the better part of my first day here underground. But I would soon get to know Spain’s capital and largest city intimately, aided by the best homestay experience I could possibly imagine! I spent the week living in the lovely, even museum-like apartment of Mrs. Amparo Ruiz de Ayllón, a prodigious sculptor, artist, poet, and stellar human being. I immediately felt a part of the family, sharing a rich Sunday dinner of octopus and roasted potatoes with her and her youngest son Pablo, who is around my age and works as an English-to-Spanish translator on movies and television. No translator was needed for the rest of the week, however, as we became fast friends talking about everything from art to family to culture to current events. She generously shared her world with me, not only preparing traditional breakfasts and dinners but also helping me navigate the city, understand Madrid’s world-class art scene, and introduce me to Spanish television mainstays such as Pasa Palabra, El Hormiguero, and El Desafío. It was a particular honor to see highlights of her art career, which includes being featured alongside Picasso in a periodical and publishing a truly moving poem within a poetry anthology. I had such a wonderful time at this home-away-from-home, and I can’t thank Amparo enough for inviting me into her life and family.

I settled into a routine for the week: I would attend Spanish language classes in the morning then spend each afternoon sightseeing. It was a pleasant 15-minute walk through the trendy Salamanca neighborhood to get to my school, Expanish, which offers full-immersion courses of various levels to foreigners from all over the world. Despite nearly 10 years since my last formal Spanish lessons, I tested into the highest intermediate level, which meant that my class consisted of more complicated and/or specific conversation topics accompanied by occasional grammar reviews that focused on special cases. This ended up being the ideal class for me, with a conversational method of instruction that quickly shook the rust off my spoken Spanish and expanded my descriptive capabilities with useful vocabulary. With a diverse class representing several countries (Japan, Austria, Germany, Switzerland, Belgium, Palestine, Brazil, and the United States), we discussed the similarities and differences between our countries in terms of the significance of various gestures, norms that could surprise international travelers, cultural openness, healthcare systems, poverty and welfare, and legal conflict resolution – a truly interesting series of discussions that left me with a broader perspective and respect for my new peers. I would highly recommend this school/homestay experience to anyone interested in honing their Spanish skills: while one week is certainly not enough to learn a language, I made significant strides in my Spanish while also making meaningful friendships in my short time there.

Some afternoons, the school would host extracurricular activities – I hopped on a group outing to the Museum of Archaeology, and I was astounded by the collection! For an admission of just 3 euros, I was walked through the entire human history of the Iberian Peninsula, from neanderthals and stone age foragers to Phoenicians, Romans, Visigoths, Arabs, Jews, Christians, conquistadors – the tools and artforms from every era were presented in a way that brought these bygone cultures to life. Other days, my classmates and I would meet for lunch or dinner; this is how I got a taste of the various neighborhoods in Madrid. The elegant city center, with towering opera house and grand Plaza Mayor dating from the peak of the Spanish Empire. Along the Gran Via, touristy shops, restaurants, and attractions like the Museum of Ham. Lavapiés, with its narrow cobblestone streets and trendy restaurant scene. Malasaña and Moncloa with bustling crowds of students and families among modern monuments, like the brand-new Plaza de España and the out-of-place Egyptian Temple of Debod. Retiro with its splendid green park, lake full of rowboats, and crystal palace conservatory. I wandered into the San Francisco Basilica one evening right as Ash Wednesday mass was about to start; of course I had to stay, and I understood every word of the priest’s enunciated Spanish while admiring the astounding 400-year-old sanctuary.

Temple of Debod, shipped over from Egypt in 1968

Given that I had an inside view of Madrid’s art scene from Amparo, my time in Madrid was highlighted by visits to its world-class art museums. The extensive collection at the Prado Museum guided me through centuries of Spanish artists, giving me some context for works I had seen earlier like the El Greco paintings in the Toledo cathedral and the medieval triptychs in Sevilla. Of the many works by Velazquez, Pacheco, El Greco, Zurbarán, Goya, and even Picasso, I was most impressed by the expressive capture of poignant colonial scenes by Juan Bautista MaÍno and the emotional evolution within the masterful retrospective of Francisco Goya. An evening visit to the Reina Sofia introduced me to more recent Spanish art and its connection to political and social upheavals, highlighted by Picasso’s Guernica (1937), a room-sized painting that instantly strikes the viewer with powerful anti-Fascist sentiment. There are numerous other art museums in Madrid – the Sorolla, Cerralbo, Galdiano, Thyssen-Bornemisza, Romanticism, Contemporary Art, and Matadero to name a few – but those will be reserved for future visits when I gain an even deeper knowledge and appreciation of Spanish art.

To culminate my stay in Madrid, I waited in the long line to tour the Royal Palace, built in the mid-18^th century to house powerful Spanish monarchs and still used for ceremonial state functions. Once inside, my new friend Micaela from Argentina and I gawked at the magnificence of the painted dome ceilings, ornate furnishings, fine china and precious metal dinnerware, commissioned wall portraits by Goya, and tons of gold everywhere. The truth that Madrid was the center of gold, silver, and imperial prosperity was never lost on me – in fact, there’s a sophistication in the way that Madrileños carry themselves today, practically floating as they walk. They’re polite, welcoming, and effortlessly classy, socializing over glasses of wine while dressed to the level of “business casual” even when no business is being conducted, wearing stylish jackets in the winter despite it being a warm 60 degrees every day. Even the counterculture kids are mannered, donning shiny black combat boots and dark wool coats. It’s not strictly buttoned up all the time, though: for my last night in Madrid, I joined a few friends from school and went to an EDM concert. To get there, we got off the Metro in a massive, dark, deserted train station, where eventually lasers and strobes beckoned us to a spacious warehouse. There, Madrileños and foreigners alike let loose (but not too loose) for a night of dancing, and by the time I left after 4am, I was one of many people riding the bus and strolling the streets for the least sketchy late-night schlepp home ever. It was a fun way to celebrate what was a wonderful week in a welcoming city with some hopefully-lifelong friends!

Córdoba

After just 2 hours of sleep, I bid goodbye to Amparo and caught a high-speed train to Córdoba, a historical Andalusian city that I previously passed on the way to Sevilla. Once I left the train station, I immediately found myself in the midst of some kind of street party, with people in costume, music playing from several directions, and police clearing out the boulevard. Delirious from the night before, I stood there with my luggage as a parade began in front of me – but one thing I know is when a city throws a parade upon your arrival, you stay for it! I thoroughly enjoyed watching as act after choreographed act passed right in front of me: dancers with billowy uniforms and hula hoops, Spanish guitarists accompanying musical or dance groups, an ancient Egyptian drumline, costumed men singing about the postal service, several hundred high schoolers dressed in full Avatar costumes, lots of furry mascots, and more. While I had no idea that my visit to Córdoba would coincide with the grand finale of Carnaval, I consider myself lucky to have witnessed such a fun display of culture!

The real reason I was in Córdoba was to see the famed Mezquita-Catedral, a UNESCO-listed landmark that lived up to its billing and more! Entering from a bright courtyard of orange trees, it took my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim lighting of the old mosque, but once I could see the vast field of red and gray brick arches, it took my breath away. A closer look at the detail adorning parts of the mosque was stunning, like the mihrab with fine Arabic script leading upwards into an ornate gilded dome. Interspersed around the perimeter were Christian chapels like in any other cathedral, but with a preserved backdrop of Arab stonework or multifoil arches. In the center, a section of the mosque had been replaced with a high-ceilinged, neoclassical cathedral built in the Episcopal style, a beautiful structure in its own right but with really jarring transitions to the older brickwork. The only other church I’ve visited that compares in terms of architectural variety and religious importance is the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem, this place was that special! After my visit, I retreated across the street to the ‘modest’ Hotel Mezquita, a bit of a landmark in itself located in a 16^th century villa and decorated floor-to-ceiling with Baroque and Romantic period art.

Walking the narrow stone streets of old Córdoba was a truly lovely experience too, tying up my action-packed day in the city with a neat bow. I crossed the Roman-era footbridge at night, enjoying the incredible view of the Mezquita and the Calahorra watchtower with the soundtrack of a talented accordionist. I enjoyed two classic Cordobese meals: for lunch, stewed oxtail in a fragrant yellow rice, and for dinner, the most stereotypically Spanish dish I could ever imagine, flamenquín (ham rolled in pork loin then deep-fried like a croquette) with salmorejo (cold tomato soup with chunks of ham). I stopped in a few artisan shops, captivated by one store in particular where an older man named José María was fashioning a traditional three-stringed instrument from a gourd while chain-smoking cigarettes. We talked at length about these ancient instruments, called rabels and inspired by Arab lutes and ouds. When I decided to buy one but told him I didn’t have the cash, he insisted upon walking with me back to my hotel. I’m glad we shared this extra 15-minute stroll together, as he was able to tell me about his life experiences in Córdoba past and about the springtime festival that brings Córdoba to life (even more, somehow). Exhilarated but exhausted, I finished the day sitting against the outside wall of the Mezquita, listening to Spanish guitar music while trying to process what was an absolutely wild day in Córdoba.

Granada

After a good night’s sleep, I boarded the high-speed train once again, this time bound for Granada, a diverse and historical city located at the base of the snowcapped Sierra Nevada mountains. I felt a college town vibe immediately upon entering the Christian quarter of the city, as students crossed between 18^th century Spanish government buildings that are now part of the University of Granada. I visited the San Jeronimo monastery, where decorated chapels surrounded a peaceful courtyard to provide a solitary environment for the monks. I continued to the Capilla Real, or grand chapel where Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand are interred (Spain’s favorite royals, there’s a reverence for Queen Isabella in particular that far surpasses the lukewarm regard for Columbus). As has become a theme, Granada’s cathedral is also astoundingly beautiful, with a central nave covered in ornate gold plating that tells stories from the life of Jesus. Particularly interesting to me were the 15^th century choir books, massive tomes painted with calligraphic flourishes that only barely resembled sheet music. I began to recognize features that distinguish this from other cathedrals, like the golden capillate with paintings from my new friends El Greco and Pacheco and the 8-foot tall golden sacristy decorated with pelican imagery (because a pelican will spill its own blood to feed its young, allegorically to Jesus…a gross but fascinating observation).

After two guys in suits checked me into the luxurious Hotel Inglaterra (another ‘modest’ hotel booked last-minute on a budget), I found myself on the main street of Albaicín, an old Arab neighborhood characterized by boxy white houses that extend up the hill opposite the Alhambra. I couldn’t get enough Moroccan food here, feasting on a rich lamb tagine with bread and olives, an ideally balanced couscous with stewed beef and spicy vegetables, mint tea, cardamom coffee, and perfectly flaky baklava. I would walk off these hefty meals on the stone ‘streets’, some of which were stairways that wound between white homes and walls on the steep hillside. The streetscape was bucolic, with ivy dangling from wilted windowboxes (these will undoubtedly spring to life in a few weeks when winter ends) and cats slinking along mostly out of sight. Every so often, when I’d least expect it, a car would rumble down the tight cobblestone alley, forcing me to jump into a doorway or duck down a secret passage. I would come back to watch the sunset from San Nicolas Square, where a spontaneous flamenco gathering entertained me in front of a glorious backdrop of the red-gold Alhambra palace complex beneath snowy peaks and purple sky.

Further up the hill beyond the ancient city wall is the more rural neighborhood of Sacramonte, known for its cave dwellings and Roma culture. I went to the Sacramonte Caves museum, which featured a cave compound set up how residents lived as recently as 1950 along with very informative historical exhibits. There were caves set up as a bedroom, kitchen, stable, pantry, blacksmith shop, and crafting room, all neatly arranged and painted white with lime, an abundant natural disinfectant. I found the whole place very interesting, from the caves’ aesthetic to the traditional way of life, and I’m not alone: evidently, Germans are buying up a lot of the cave home properties to make into their retirement homes, attracted by the ‘underground glamping’ vibe of Sacramonte. In another move of questionable authenticity, I would attend a flamenco show here at Cueva la Rocio, a restaurant with multiple ‘caves’ for intimate dance performances. Quite different from my first show in Sevilla, this show was structured more like a dance-off, featuring four dancers who demonstrated different styles, or palos, of flamenco dance from tap-heavy buleria to scarf-waving fandango. While this may not have been the original zambra where flamenco was born a few centuries ago, it was an impressive and holistic show nonetheless!

The next morning, I went trail running in the large Generalife preserve across the Darro valley from Sacramonte. As I ascended into the hills, I came across several homeless encampments occluded by sheet metal barriers and homemade canebrush fences. Upon closer examination, these people were actually living in caves too, just not the quaint, lime-coated and hermetically sealed caves shown to the tourists in Sacramonte proper, the shelters were dirty and primitive. I became unsettled after passing a few of these, especially when I lost my trail and had to bushwhack my way back toward town, trying just as hard to keep out of sight of these vagrants as they were from me. After uncovering Granada’s secret, the vibes just felt off – I began to notice a brashness in the way locals spoke to each other and to me. As I was walking up a backstreet in Albaicín, a guy with a North American accent told me not to watch the sunset there, that tourists should be watching from lower viewpoints in the guidebooks. I also had a heated argument with a waitress over the price of berenjenas con miel (a delicious tapa of eggplant fries with a honey-sesame drizzle!…just not worth 18€ instead of the listed 10€). This was probably an honest mistake, but I had enough interactions to sense a tension in Granada that didn’t exist in any of the other cities I visited in Spain.

No visit to Granada is complete without a tour of the Alhambra – though tickets were sold out for the next 2 weeks, I managed to jump on a group tour that got me inside those famous gates. We hiked up the steep hill, through the pomegranate arch, up the sloped stone path that soldiers would pour olive oil down to thwart attackers on horseback, through the Justice Gate into the walled city. The ramparts of the Alcazaba were very impressive, with spectacular views of the city of Granada and the Sierra Nevada. I learned how sultans lived through the different eras, from humble abodes among the soldiers in the early days to the luxurious Nasrid palaces later, always paranoid that their sons would murder them (apparently, this happened often enough that there was a special prison built specifically for the son of the sultan). After Granada finally fell to the Catholics in 1492, Queen Isabella put Christian art and iconography over the major Muslim symbols – and I understand why, it’s a magnificent complex in a one-of-a-kind location. King Charles V built a large square palace in the Alhambra, which I found starkly out of place with its Renaissance ostentatiousness plopped amidst the peaceful curated gardens. Before leaving Granada, I stopped at Casa Ferrer where I talked with Ana Ferrer, a 4^th generation luthier who handled her guitars with such care as though they were made of paper-thin glass. She summed up my thoughts on Granada perfectly – it’s such a one-of-a-kind place where everyone has been doing what their families have done for generations, that there’s a pride in their past that prevents people from being too warm or open to outsiders for fear of losing or destroying a bit of it. I understand the sentiment, Granada is a beautiful city with a unique and fascinating cultural blend that absolutely needs to be preserved.

Málaga

Upon getting off the bus in Málaga, I was immediately welcomed back to the 21^st century by wide boulevards, high-rise condos, and a shiny new shopping mall with brightly lit signs for Burger King, Starbucks, and KFC. I was staying in a pensión, a modern walkup of efficiency apartments that reminded me of my time in China. This lodging was actually right in Malaga’s Chinatown, where I enjoyed a late-night dinner of stir-fried noodles and mixed local seafood. Málaga is a departure point for numerous exciting daytrip options – you can board a bus for the mountain-top city of Ronda or for Gibraltar, or you can hop on a ferry to Melilla or even spend the day in Tangier, Morocco. But after the hectic pace of the previous few days, I was content to spend my final day relaxing in the brown sand and wading into the cool, clear waters of the Mediterranean.

Now, even my more low-key days end up being full of memorable happenings. I wandered over to the central market and finally found a place that served paella for one, a delicious victory for me! I paid my tribute to Spain’s favorite son at Picasso’s birthplace, where a small museum showed me an illustrated narrative of Picasso’s life in the spacious apartment where he spent his earliest childhood years. I enjoyed an afternoon merienda at the famous tapería El Pimpí, trying chivo malagueño (tender goat stewed in garlic), local Victoria beer, and Pimpillo vermut. I walked through the Alcazaba, which was a worthy little brother to the Alhambra with more accessible Moorish architecture and great city views. Higher up the hill, I toured the Gibralfaro Castle, a massive walled fortress built by the Arabs and refortified by the Christians that had even better views of the city and sea. At the end of the day, I descended to the trendy beach neighborhood of Malagueta to catch a catamaran cruise around the harbor.

As I watched the sun go down through a glowing halo of Sahara dust, I reflected on what was a wild and massively rewarding two weeks in Spain. I felt grateful, that I had the means to drop everything and travel to Spain on a whim. I felt lucky, that my homestay and classroom experience exceeded any expectations I had by a long shot. I felt fulfilled, that I had learned a whole lot about Spanish history and culture. I felt vindicated, that I overcame the anxieties and challenges surrounding solo travel to nail this trip. Because the truth is, you’re never really alone out there…I met many good people through my school, on group tours, in stores and restaurants, even elderly people I encountered on the street would strike up inquisitive conversation when they found out I could speak Spanish. This is the warmth that I carry with me home from Spain, Amparo’s warmth, that makes me certain I will one day return to check out other regions of this fascinating country.

A Quick Trip to Quebec

December 3, 2023May 14, 2024 / Eric / Leave a comment

A perk of living in New England is its proximity to many cool vacation destinations… and where better to go for a 4-day weekend in May than Quebec City?! We simply hopped on I-93 north, wound through the beautiful White Mountains of New Hampshire, sped through the pastoral Northeast Kingdom of Vermont, and soon arrived at the Canadian border. After a hassle-free set of questions from a bilingual blonde bombshell of a customs agent, then a couple more hours of gentle highway driving (with extra caution owing to some indecipherable French roadsigns), Veronica and I found ourselves crossing the grand suspension bridge over the massive Saint Lawrence River. Over the next 3 nights and 2 full days, we would enjoy a perfect sampling of the city’s iconic viewpoints, interesting colonial history, and hearty Quebecois cuisine.

Upon checking into our vacation rental, we were immediately transported to the Old World, or so it felt. The upstairs apartment was rustically furnished with antique wooden chairs and chests, complete with a plank floor and compact washroom. We could open up French-style windows to a view of the towering Ste. Jean-Baptiste church over the quiet one-way street in front, or to a communal courtyard in back. The French influence was felt throughout our walking tour of the Old City: two glorious cathedrals both named Notre Dame, cobblestone streets, open-air cafes, even a street performer playing an accordion. Beneath the famous Dufferin Terrace, we saw the origins of French influence at the ruins of the old Chateaux, an archaeological site turned museum chronicling the growth of the colonial seat of government from remote outpost in 1608 to a grandiose manoir by the mid-1700s.

The British colonial signature was all over Quebec City, too, mainly in the form of battlements and other remnants of war. The Plains of Abraham, now a sprawling hilltop park, was the site of two major skirmishes in the French-and-Indian War and remains flanked by stout stone lookout towers. We toured the Citadelle, a massive walled fort that the British built on the highest point overlooking the city. The protective wall around the Old City has a Tower-of-London feel, with narrow graystone gates and cannons galore. The historical animus against Anglophones has mostly disappeared from Quebec City, but these stone fortifications still stand out as an immovable reminder of a tumultuous past.

Perhaps the most prominent influence – and the one that makes Quebec City so unique – is distinctly Canadian. It was Canadian urban planners who, in the late 1800s, transformed Quebec City from a military bastion into a world-class destination, adding the incredibly-photogenic Fairmont hotel above the Chateau de Frontenac. The view of this landmark from all directions is simply stunning, and it is understandable why this is the world’s “most photographed hotel.” It was easy to imagine being a well-to-do visitor in Victorian times, walking past the kiosks on the Dufferin Terrace, if not for tourists from all over the world wearing shorts and taking selfies. Weaving through the throngs, we ducked into folksy art galleries and souvenir stores filled with maple products and accents of red flannel – exactly like Vermont except urban and French. We tried the poutine in several traditional Quebecois establishments, the very best served under a rich venison tartare at La Buche, a restaurant with the ambience of a Northwoods trapping lodge right in the heart of the Old City.

The atmosphere of Quebec City is unmatched, at least in 21st century North America: a European-style walkable city with incredible views and interesting history to boot. We had the perfect first-warm-weekend-of-summer weather to roam the streets, window shopping and photo hopping. Tulips of all colors were in full bloom, brightening up the Parliament Plaza to its fullest French-revivalist splendor. We mingled with locals in the neighborhood of Rue Saint-Jean, where locals young and old congregate for beer, tea, or dessert. Despite knowing nary a French phrase upon arrival, I was positively stoked to nail my ice cream order in broken French, enjoying a sweet victory of raspberry sorbet in a decadent dark chocolate cone. The Quebecois people who we interacted with were universally lovely people, glowingly cheerful and exceedingly helpful as we communicated in some mixture of English, French, and pointing – in other words, they’re Canadian above all, dispelling any preconceived worries I had about tensions between Francophones and Anglophones here.

There’s so much more to explore in Quebec, our weekend was barely enough to scratch the surface. We spent a sunny Sunday just outside the city at Montmorency Falls, enjoying the roaring 270-foot cascade from the viewing platform, high-arching footbridge, and cable car (though the more daring way to experience the falls would be via zipline or cliff climb) – spectacular! We had a nice outdoor lunch on Ile d’Orleans, where pastoral farms and seaway views recalled deep memories of Prince Edward Island. I’d love to come back to experience the great outdoors in Jacques Cartier NP, the Saguenay Fjord, the Laurentians or the Eastern Townships. Or to return in winter to slide down the Dufferin toboggan slope, enjoy the Old City decked out in Christmas decor, ice skate through the forest at Domaine Enchanteur, and more. Not to mention revisit the world-class city of Montreal, where I haven’t been since I was a 8-year-old picky eater. Anyway, this weekend in Quebec was so satisfyingly perfect that I’m sure I’ll be back to explore more!

Prague Days of Summer

September 10, 2023October 9, 2023 / Eric / 2 Comments

To kick off my incredible trip to Poland, I flew into Prague to meet my family and ‘Czech’ (okay, last pun) out the country for two days. After a 6-hour delay in Zürich, I hit the ground running immediately, breezing through an empty customs area straight into an Uber. My driver, a Ukrainian refugee named Olesya, floored it by cement apartment blocks from communist times, through a throng of students on skateboards near the Czech technical university, and past the riverboats along the Vltava River. I soon checked in at the Urban Crème, a sleek modern hotel sandwiched into a row of 1800s walkups, arriving just in time for my family’s food tour in the Old City.

Markéta guided a phenomenal food tour, fully satisfying us with tons of food and interesting information about life in Prague. We began with a deliciously savory three-course meal of braised beef shank, brown butter chicken, and fermented potato pancakes (with a side of herbed stuffing and colorful cabbage slaw) at Kro Bistro in the Karlin neighborhood. We followed this feast with a sausage and cheese charcuterie at the Lokal (local neighborhood bar), paired with a foaming Pilsner Urquell that was delivered with a scorecard – we only had one pint apiece, but locals will regularly hang out and drink the nine beers allotted on the tab over the course of a social evening. We tried the famous meatloaf sandwich and steak tartare at Nase Maso butcher shop, personally and enthusiastically presented by a young carving artist. We ventured inside the steel vault at Banker’s Bar, sipping on their signature Becherov sour while listening to Marketa’s storytelling in elegant, low-lit surrounds. We capped off the evening at Café Savoy, tasting scrumptious choux pastries (větrník and věneček) and strawberry dumplings in an elegant late-19th century restaurant that exuded vibes of Austro-Hungarian royalty. Bold, fun, decadent, informative, luxurious, and a bit excessive – our food tour was all of the above, and then some!

An enthusiastic ambassador for the city, Markéta also introduced us to the history and culture of Prague, providing a special window into the emergence from communism since the Velvet Revolution of 1989. She described her communist-era childhood as bleak and minimalist – people were only afforded life’s basic essentials and had abandoned the finer aspects of culture, religion, and hope. Marketa’s older relatives who fully grew up with communism remain skeptical about her job as a food tour operator: Prague’s culinary scene is practically brand new, as Czech chefs who trained elsewhere are returning to Prague and rediscovering traditional ingredients and recipes. Vestiges of the communist period are still very visible across the city: Prague was divided into Hunger Games-esque administrative districts, and we saw the period contrasts of Prague 8, Prague 7, Prague 6, Prague 5, Prague 2, and Prague 1 as we zipped between landmarks by light rail.

At street level, however, I saw only a vibrant, eclectic city with interesting surprises around every corner. Lauren and I started the next day at Prague Castle, a massive 14^th century Gothic cathedral that doubles as a secular shrine to everything meaningful about Prague; recesses contained carved maps of the medieval city, the vaulted ceiling featured painted crests of ruling families from across Europe, and modern memorials to WWII-era resistance and the Velvet Revolution were displayed prominently. As impressive as the architecture was from the inside, nothing beats the tower view that we earned by climbing 287 stone steps: intricate roof adornments in the foreground with an infinite panorama of red roofs and dark spires bisected by the shimmering Vltava River. Back at the ground level, we marveled at the history within the royal palace and the quaint nostalgia of Golden Lane, a preserved street of tiny stone businesses that included a tea room, a goldsmith, several historical residences, and a silent film studio that showed a reel of the idyllic street scene from around 1910. Tucked behind one of the residences was the prison tower, Daliborka, where cold stone cells and medieval torture equipment showed that everything was not, in fact, golden in Prague’s olden days.

Descending from the castle hill into Prague 1, the fun and random character of the city came into focus. We passed on a couple of stereotypically-medieval dinner theaters then followed an intriguing sign for “Pivo Basilico” into a cool stone basement where we were treated to a fantastic Tuscan lunch of pizza and the best green ravioli with prosciutto and lemon. We picked up fresh fruit at a pop-up farmers market then walked through the Senate gardens, a beautifully landscaped baroque courtyard with a reflective pond, florid grotto, and geometric hedgerows – a perfect backdrop for a local pageant queen’s photoshoot. We snacked on trdelnik, or chimney cake, a melt-in-your-mouth fried dough cylinder stuffed with fresh fruit and ice cream…but when your ice cream comes with a piping hot pastry, it does nothing to relieve you from the summer heat, which was pushing 95 °F/35 °C with no breeze by early afternoon.

We staggered into the R. Jelínek Slivovitz Museum looking for a cool atmosphere, and it ended up being perhaps the coolest stop of our entire visit to Prague! The self-guided tour led us through interactive exhibits, where black-and-white holographs of Jelíneks explained the family’s history of slivovitz production followed by a light show that explained why the Moravian hills are perfect for cultivating brandy plums. The best part was a VR immersion room where we experienced the complete journey from plum to liquor, which was a tree-shaking, tractor-bumping, fruit-mashing, warm-fermenting, hot-distilling, efficient-bottling, fast-shipping, drink-pouring wild ride. Chasing virtual reality with reality, we tried a flight of various shots paired with meaty finger foods, one strong flavor-punch after another. We staggered out of the museum with an exhilarating buzz which made the rest of our city tour a fun-filled blur.

We rejoined the throng of tourists at the famous Charles Bridge, meandering past craft vendors and street performers while gazing at the beautiful river views on both sides. We continued on the touristy Karlova Street, poking our heads into a few shops: one memorable store displayed hand-carved board games from floor to ceiling, how fun! We debated visiting another of the many eclectic, very specific museums here, which include museums dedicated to artists Mucha and Franz Kafka, to communism and the KGB, to medieval alchemy and beer, to Legos and sex machines, to absinthe and optical illusions. But we were running out of time, so we skipped straight to the iconic Astronomical Clock, watching the wooden figures announce 5 o’clock as golden hour began to descend on the much-photographed main square. After rejoining with the rest of my family (and enjoying another drink at a rooftop bar above the Vltava), we all boarded a cramped, graffiti-covered elevator and plummeted to what seemed like the center of the earth to ride the subway amid dark, bunker-like concrete tunnels. A dinner of Ukrainian-style pierogies and an evening walk around the grand boulevard at Wenceslaus Square, and our quick visit to Prague drew to a close.

In such a short time, Prague left a lasting impression on me, with its beautifully layered history beneath its bustling, adventure-filled present. Our stop at Kutna Hora on the way out encapsulated the contrast perfectly: on the surface, it’s a pastoral village with cobblestone streets, historic architecture, terraced orchards, and a towering 14th century cathedral. But beneath a small cemetery at the edge of town lies the Sedlec Ossuary, an underground chapel adorned with the bones of 40,000+ exhumed bodies fashioned into bell-shaped altars, detailed wall hangings, and skeletal chandeliers. A bizarre and macabre place with a fascinating backstory, it was another one-of-a-kind sight tucked into a dark nook of an otherwise idyllic landscape. I would be excited to return to the Czech Republic to explore more of these hidden gems, as my brief visit was full of intriguing twists and turns that inspired my curiosity, released my inhibitions, and satisfied all of my senses.

My Pilgrimage to Poland

August 28, 2023September 22, 2023 / Eric / 3 Comments

Poland has been towards the top of my travel list for a long time, given my family history. Especially after my cousin Piotr reached out to me via Facebook in 2019, I was excited by the real possibility of a family reunion trip. Nearly 4 years later, my sister and I met our parents and mom’s sister in Prague, where we enjoyed two days of sightseeing and great food before hopping in a van bound for the small but historic city of Krosno, Poland. For all the anticipation, the border crossing into Poland was so uneventful that we didn’t even notice that we changed countries. The highway we were traveling felt familiar, like it could be here in Massachusetts, lined with mixed forests of birch, pine, and fir and filled with fast drivers. In fact, many of the terrains in southern Poland compare closely to places I’ve lived: the rolling rangeland east of Kraków reminded me of rural Texas, and the limestone bluffs of Ojców evoked scenes from the Ozarks in Missouri. As we wound through the final stretch of countryside near Krosno, the square houses with pitched roofs and bountiful gardens felt pastoral and homey, reminding my mom of the village where she grew up in rural Connecticut.

Of course, my connection to Poland goes far beyond the surface level, as 4 of my 8 great-grandparents emigrated from Poland in the early 20^th century. I would learn a lot this trip about my great-grandfather, Jakób Mercik, who came through Ellis Island between 1906 and 1910 and settled in Connecticut, followed by his brothers Józef and Jan. Their other siblings would stay behind, including younger brother Władisław, who survived the hardships of two world wars and multiple foreign occupations to eventually become the patriarch of his own line of Merciks. Though they likely knew that they would never see each other again, Władisław and Jakób kept some form of contact, even through the challenges of distance, geopolitics, and hard economic times. The thread of communication continued between my mother and her cousin Alicja, who wrote letters back and forth as children but lost touch as adults. Even though my mother has no memory of Jakób and our cousins have no memory of Władisław, I am sure that they were smiling down as their descendants would bring the family together in their hometown after over 100 years of separation.

Krosno

Soon after our arrival to the luxurious Pałac Polanka hotel, we met our welcoming party of Piotr and Alicja and their families. The hotly anticipated moment was full of smiles and hugs – we would catch up on lifetimes apart throughout the weekend, but first, the logistics of our VIP tour of Krosno. The next morning, we would reunite in the historic city square, a peaceful plaza flanked by three magnificent churches that date back several centuries. We climbed the steep wooden steps of the bell tower to view the breathtaking panorama of Krosno and the surrounding Subcarpathian hills. We learned about key players in Krosno’s long history, like Robert Wojciech Portius (a Scottish wine merchant who financed the ‘new’ cathedral in the 17^th century) and Ignacy Lukasiewicz (the inventor of the kerosene lamp). We toured the glass-blowing museum, which featured fascinating live demonstrations from local artisans and exquisite pieces of art (including a positively glowing set of uranium glass, pictured). Pride for the region’s glass-making heritage runs deep here, as Krosno factories have produced top-quality glassware distributed across Europe for nearly a century, earning the nickname “Miasto Szkła,” or Glass City. In fact, Krosno has memorials for practically everything – its founding charter issued by Casimir the Great, religious iconography in its old churches, various historical figures, glass manufacturing prowess, Pope John Paul II’s visit in 1997, and more – and it was heartening to see that our cousins all share a deep pride for their hometown.

The highlight of the weekend was, of course, spending time with our relatives – in true Polish style, with generous hospitality and impossibly large quantities of food. First, we were treated to hearty dinners of pork cutlet and goulash pancake at the fine Restaurant Portius. The celebration continued at cousin Dorota’s home, where a luxurious spread of finger foods and desserts awaited us – you cannot possibly leave a Polish party with space in your stomach! Gifts were exchanged and old pictures were shared, along with the stories of how everyone was connected. We visited the final resting place of Władisław and his wife Genovefa in a quiet church cemetery along with stones from a few more distant ancestors with surnames I had never heard before. The rector let us inside the old wooden church at Targowiska where Jakób and Władisław would have attended as children, a sanctuary whose dark interiors were brightened by radiant biblical murals and shed light on a connection with ancestors I never knew but could vividly imagine in that moment. We proceeded to the grave of Władisław’s son Stanisław, who was brought to life by the many positive memories portrayed by his children and grandchildren. My heart was especially lifted when meeting his widow Babçia (as everyone calls her, grandma), whose witty one-liners and endearing warmth reminded me of my own grandmother in all the best ways.

The family reunion festivities were truly special. After cousin Paulina graciously helped translate the icebreaker conversations, I had an opportunity to visit with each of my cousins at length. Alicja, who was perhaps most excited for meeting her long-lost penpal, told me fervently about the religious landmarks of Krosno and asked me loads of questions through our translator app about life in Oklahoma and New England. All the while, her 3-year-old grandson Leon was riding his scooter-bike all over the yard, usually followed closely by his adoring grandfather Waldemar. Piotr, more of the quiet type, positively glowed when talking about family history and about his daughter Agnieszka, who excels in judo and is overall a sweet young lady. Piotr’s wife Katarzyna counterbalanced his quiet demeanor, leading a spirited tour of Krosno and sharing her favorite bookshop with the bright passion of a youth librarian. Dorota exuded kindness and care with a smile throughout, showing a special enthusiasm when helping her adorable daughter Emilka recite the lines for her first grade English class performance. Their youngest sister Anna is an elementary Polish teacher and very involved sports mom to Mati and Maciej, with whom I enjoyed some laughter-filled soccer and basketball scrimmages in the yard. I formed an automatic rapport with Dorota’s son Dominik, a pre-law student who shares many of my interests from sports to hiking, and his vivacious girlfriend Kamila, who was very interested in talking about travel and pilates. There is a saying, “friends are the family you choose”; well, in this case, I am lucky to be able to choose all of these cousins as family who I hope will remain close for years and decades to come.

For many reasons, my weekend in Krosno was one of the most heartwarming and defining experiences I’ve had as an adult. Not only do I better understand my heritage, I now have an active connection to the Mercik family, a supportive and tight-knit unit who still live close to one another and gather every Sunday afternoon. I since learned that Jakób and my great-grandmother Wiktoria sought to build a similar family-centric dynamic in Connecticut, buying up land around their house first to operate a small farm during the lean depression years then to parcel it off for their sons to build houses for their families. Growing up with privilege in America, I had feared that my relatives who stayed behind would have faced debilitating hardships – perhaps that was true for older generations under communism and occupation, but I was relieved to see during this short visit that they live comfortably, happily, and with an aspirational family ethic. In fact, our Polish family had achieved Jakób and Wiktoria’s exact dream, with Alicja living in a beautiful house surrounded by a bountiful garden of fruit trees and berry bushes, Dorota and Anna living next door to each other near Władisław’s old homesite, and Piotr living close by in Krosno. I felt wholeheartedly content as we all walked to a beautiful lavender farm, chatting and playing with the children amongst rows of purple beneath a picturesque stormy sky – a truly memorable ending to an unforgettable visit. As we were preparing to leave the Pałac Polanka, Barbara at the front desk told us that countless Americans come looking for records or remnants of their own family histories, with many running into literal dead ends at cemeteries or finding nothing at all. This made our tearful goodbye one of gratitude and happiness, as I am deeply grateful to be united forevermore with such wonderful and loving people in my Polish family.

Kraków

The next day began with a two-hour bus ride to Kraków, Poland’s second-largest city and thousand-year-old cultural epicenter. The approach to the Old City transported us gradually back in time, as communist-era apartment towers yielded to grandiose 1800s city blocks when we neared the Planty, a magnificent 200-year-old greenbelt encircling the city center where a moat and wall once stood. We hopped on a golf cart tour to introduce us to Kraków’s rich architectural history, proceeding past the stout brick Barbican tower and through the medieval St. Florian’s Gate. The historical ambiance hit us immediately upon entry to the Old City, where throngs of pedestrians wove around our golf cart among stone facades that dated back several centuries. Notably, there was not a single car to be seen, only horse-drawn carriages clopping down well-worn cobblestone streets that have survived the tumults of history.

And Kraków’s history is simply legendary. The city was founded around 900 AD when the heroic Prince Krak defeated a dragon; this dragon’s bones* hang like a trophy above the entrance to the Wawel Cathedral, and we even walked through the supposed cave where this dragon resided beneath Wawel Hill. Soon afterwards, Poland was united under Bolesław the Brave and established as a Christian state, leading to the construction of the small St. Adalbert’s Chapel and fortified St. Andrew’s Church – the ancient stone interiors of these buildings felt cold and barren compared to later architecture, bearing the weight of many invasions and sieges weathered. The Mongol Horde and other invaders ransacked the city, but from the ashes rose my favorite king, Władisław the Short (or King Elbow-High because of his rumored 120cm stature), who restored Poland after hiding for 4 years in a narrow cave that we crawled into on our guided hike through Ojców National Park. His son, Casimir the Great, really brought Kraków to prominence as the capital of the new Polish empire, founding the Jewish neighborhood of Kazimierz, chartering the world-renowned Jagellonian University, and building Wawel Castle atop the dragon’s hill. We visited the tombs of most of these royals in the gilded halls of the Wawel Cathedral, including other notables such as King Jadwiga, the first female king who was crowned at age 10 then married Duke Jagiełło of Lithuania to unite the two countries, and King Sigismund the Old – so many great names with even greater stories.

The Old City still reflects the early renaissance time period of these royals. We spent hours enjoying the main square, watching tourists mingle with locals in the Cloth Hall market and meeting our cousins Paulina and Jonasz (with their cute son Leon) for ice cream under one of the hundreds of outdoor dining umbrellas. We witnessed the age-old timekeeping tradition at St. Mary’s Cathedral, where on each hour a bugler blasts the city song in all four directions from the highest tower. The inside of this cathedral is breathtaking, with Gothic high-arched ceilings, dramatic stained glass windows, and nearly every surface covered in intricate gold leaf. We strolled through the courtyard of the old Jagellonian University and past the rowhouse where Copernicus lived as a student there. We toured the Wawel Castle, admiring the massive tapestries and renaissance artwork in the palatial living space of Jagellonian kings and queens. Kraków remained at the pinnacle of European civilization for centuries, fueled by riches extracted from the nearby Wieliczka Salt Mine – this was very impressive, walking through the maze of rock salt passageways including a resplendent underground cathedral made entirely from salt. I was also impressed by the Czartoryskich Museum, which was founded during the Austro-Hungarian period and still remains as a 200-year-old collection of art, antiquities, and artifacts from centuries of Polish royals.

Despite lengthy gaps in Poland’s autonomy, the people of Kraków have kept their rich culture intact; nowhere is this more apparent than in the universal pride for Polish cuisine. And to say that we ate well in Kraków is an understatement! We began with a food tour of Kazimierz, where our guide Magda introduced us to a grand variety of new and traditional Polish foods: tasty pierogi (with fillings like wild mushroom, mediterranean lamb, and sweet plum preserve), a platter of cheeses and sausages, crispy zapiekanka, even a microbrewed IPA. She informed us that “greasy, fatty foods” are customarily served so that people can better hold their liquor, advice that came in handy for our subsequent vodka tasting, where flavors ranging from hazelnut to horseradish may have wrought burning regret otherwise. We enjoyed a casual cafeteria-style meal at a milkbar, elevated highlander cuisine at Morskie Oko restaurant, a sampling of Ukrainian and Georgian cuisines – all delicious meals served in quaint, historical surrounds. Kraków’s ambience is certainly a blend of western and eastern influences; while I did not hear polka music even once among the many street performances, I was positively transfixed by the group of Ukrainian women playing folk operas on bandura near St. Florian’s Gate.

Tragically, Kraków bears indelible scars from its more recent history, particularly in Kazimierz: as many as 68,000 Jews lived here before WWII, building a thriving community that served as a refuge for persecuted people from all over Europe. After the Nazi invasion in 1939, Jews were forcibly removed to the Kraków ghetto, a walled work camp that is nowadays being gentrified with cold steel-and-glass apartment buildings. We stood in Heroes Plaza, where 70 bronze chairs memorialize the brutal events that took place there (the symbolism of these chairs is somewhat abstract but tragic). Some elements of hope and resilience were conveyed in the stories of the Apteka pod Orlem pharmacy and Schindler factory, the latter of which houses a thorough and thoughtful museum about the Jewish experience before and during the Nazi occupation. But all hope was crushed later when we visited Auschwitz, which was the single most chilling, devastating, despicable place I have ever set foot in. The evil brick buildings of the concentration camp were frozen in time, making it painfully easy to imagine the terrors that the Nazis inflicted on their prisoners. A large room filled with confiscated belongings personified the scale of loss, as each old coat or shoe or suitcase was ripped from a person being herded to slaughter. And the end of the train track, next to the bombed-out ruins of the gas chambers…it was a textbook view brought to devastating reality, a feeling of heartless, senseless death hanging in the air. Just a wretched place, and I left with a lasting pit in my stomach.

Collage of destroyed Jewish gravestones after Nazis used synagogue yard as trash dump

In truth, Kraków is still recovering, not only from the tragedy of the Holocaust but also from the next 45 years stifled under Soviet-style communism. The fraught history likely contributes to the reserved, orderly demeanor of the Polish people; if I accidentally broke a rule or convention, which was bound to happen, I could smooth the situation over with a quick “Przepraszam” (hard to pronounce but essential vocabulary, sorry). There’s a cynicism that remains among the older generation, who retain a distaste for government affairs and measure Poland’s progress against its neighbors, particularly the thriving Czech Republic. There’s also a deeply rooted, hopeful brand of faith, exemplified by Pope John Paul II, who spent most of his life in the Kraków area and played an instrumental role in Poland’s solidarity movement and eventual independence. His relics and memorials are spread throughout the city and across Poland, befitting the level of inspiration that he has provided for the people. In discussing Kraków’s storied history, I failed to mention the youthful, cosmopolitan energy that I imagine is fairly new to the city. But you can’t miss it: shiny new streetcars shuttle young people between universities and busy shopping malls and entertainment districts, bringing life to the city day and night. I loved Kraków – such a captivating blend of history and culture and food and fun – and I would love to someday return and explore more of its sights and stories.

Zakopane

For the grand finale of the trip, I split from the rest of my family to spend a weekend in the High Tatras, a ruggedly beautiful mountain range along Poland’s southern border. I boarded a bus for Zakopane, the rustic base camp for outdoor activities that felt somewhat like other tourist trap towns (Gatlinburg, Tennessee and Queenstown, New Zealand come first to mind) but with a distinctly Polish flavor. I visited the local architecture museum, which featured intricate models of timber houses and displays of craftsman furnishings. I checked out the public market, where tucked behind souvenir stores were vendors selling local woodcrafts, weavings, and piles of animal pelts. I noshed my way up and down Krupówki Street, sampling local delicacies such as Oscypek cheese (a smoked goat cheese that was oddly squeaky but delicious), grilled mutton with farmers cheese spreads, and a monstrous pork knuckle with żurek (a sour rye-based soup that is infinitely more delicious than it sounds). I rode the panoramic funicular to the top of Gubałowka Hill, where I tried out the gravity slide before relaxing for a few hours with a mesmerizing view of the jagged Polish Tatras across the valley.

All this prepared me for the highest highlight of the trip, at least in terms of elevation and adventure: an all-day epic hike to the summit of Rysy, Poland’s tallest mountain. I caught a bus at the crack of dawn to Tatry National Park, where I warmed up with a brisk 5-mile walk along the scenic alpine road to Morskie Oko lake. Hundreds of Polish tourists were making the trek alongside me, from women in sandals pushing strollers to seasoned backpackers with hiking poles, all enjoying the perfect clear weather and spectacular views of the rocky peaks in the morning glow. When I arrived at Morskie Oko, I found a flat rock away from the crowds to stretch/do pilates beside the placid, mirror-like surface of the lake. I followed the stone path along the lake’s edge, stopping often to ooh and aah at the many views of this famed natural wonder framed by tall firs and flowering bushes. A 20-minute climb to the scrub pine treeline and I arrived at the arguably more beautiful Czarny Staw, a deep black pond surrounded by towering walls of rock and snow. This is also where I had my first view of Rysy peak, a pointed crest looming far in the sky. The hike then veered up a steep glacial slope, climbing over fields of fallen boulders and traversing a few slippery snowfields. The risks along this exposed mountainside became very real when a pair of rescue helicopters roared overhead. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I would proceed with caution as I used anchored chains to climb the steeply slanting rock face, section by section, occasionally pausing to take in new angles of the angular peaks surrounding me. Fortunately, there were plenty of other hikers to talk to and root for, and our line pushed upward for another hour or more before reaching Rysy’s saddle. I stopped here to look down the steep glacial valley, glimpsing a family of brownish dots (European brown bears, maybe?) scampering on the rocks and snow a half-mile below. Above me, I could see the pointy Polish side of the summit, and after just a few more minutes of chain-pulling I found myself signing the “We did it!” record book and staring in breathless awe at the 360° panorama of majestic mountaintops.

Basking in this glorious view from the pinnacle of Poland, I could not help but feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude. I had never felt a stronger bond with my roots, like the serene perfection of the peaks surrounding Rysy intensified my genetic connection to southern Poland. I was deeply thankful for my health, that my body was able to complete that strenuous climb a year removed from major back surgery. I felt the excitement of exploration, not least because the particular ledge where I would eat lunch was on the Slovakian side of Rysy’s summit, notching another country to my growing list of great experiences. I enjoyed a camaraderie with other hikers who braved the climb (from Poland, Slovakia, Kazakhstan, Australia, and elsewhere) and with other Polish friends with whom I would reconnect over the course of this trip. The exhilaration would carry me all the way down the mountain, a grueling 3-hour quadricep burner punctuated by more spectacular views – rather, the same spectacular views from the morning’s climb but with a new patchwork of clouds that yielded to a splendid golden hour by the time I arrived back at Morskie Oko. A 5-mile cooldown on the paved road, made more palatable by some blueberry ice cream, and a drowsy 45-minute bus ride back to Zakopane, then my greatest hiking day ever was in the books. Despite the soreness and fatigue that followed me for the next days of travel back to the States, I felt completely fulfilled after this trip to Poland, where from the depths of Wieliczka Salt Mine to the very top of Rysy, I found a country with exceedingly beautiful sights, fascinating history, and wonderful people.

The Flight from Hell

June 29, 2023January 17, 2024 / Eric / 2 Comments

…Bound for Unexpected Enlightenment

By the time I boarded Swiss Air flight 55 from Boston to Zürich, I was already running on fumes. The previous 36 hours had been a roller coaster of caffeine and melatonin, owing to the insomnia accompanying taking the FE exam and making last-minute preparations for this trip. As soon as I got off the standby list (an added frustration, as I had purchased my ticket in full months ago) and onto the plane, I popped the maximum recommended dose of melatonin, fully intending to wake up 7 hours later across the pond.

Alas, even the best laid plans tend to come undone. My eyes drooped as we stalled on the runway for over an hour, sans explanation, a delay that would certainly jeopardize my connection. The moment we finally cleared 10,000 feet, I reclined my seat into an onslaught of punches and kicks from the energetic, inconsolable 4-year-old behind me. I had managed to just fall asleep when I was promptly awakened by the flight crew, who bafflingly insisted that all passengers be seated upright during the dinner service. This was a debacle that lasted over an hour, including a passenger tirade about dietary restrictions and the dramatic spillage of scalding hot tea on the lady sitting in front of me. Why did I have to stay up through all of this? Something about not inconveniencing anyone, I was told. A particularly hard kick to my lumbar and I turned to give the kid behind me a piece of my melatonin-drunk mind, and his mother said to me defensively, “Okay, but maybe you should move your seat more forward.”

Half asleep, stewing over my reheated beef stew, the man seated directly to my left started chatting with me. I couldn’t imagine an occasion when I was less inclined to small-talk, but since I was forced to sit up anyway I begrudgingly returned conversation. It didn’t take long to realize that this man was one of the most interesting individuals I’ve ever had the fortune to meet. He was an American expat living in Vienna. His father played in the NBA in the 50s. He grew up in New Jersey and had a budding career as a sportscaster in the 80s. Around age 30, he suddenly quit to travel the world and raised his daughter across 17 countries. He has written 3 books that weave scattered anecdotes from his unbound life experience. We talked some sports, being fans of pro basketball and collegiate baseball. But we mainly talked travel, as he recounted stories of writing about random encounters for Tokyo Monthly magazine, backpacking through India and Nepal, hitchhiking across Mauritania and Senegal, learning from elders in Vietnam, and making educational trips to the Galapagos as his daughter was growing up. He spoke incisively, voicing strong convictions formed from years of listening to people from all walks of life and various corners of the world.

This man, with his jeans ripped, face gray-stubbled and sun-worn, living his retirement dream as a vagabond for a few hundred dollars per month, was special – I realized in my middle-of-the-night melatonin stupor – he is the embodiment of Worldly Observations. He represents the future that I did not take, but may have if I had the fortitude to follow my freelance tornado modeling vision to its furthest end. For better or worse, social and physical pressures pushed me to refocus on engineering, career growth, and stability. But I have to admire this man’s perseverance toward his own dreams, traveling to places from the top of my bucket list to places that I can’t imagine experiencing in my wildest dreams. That’s how one winds up with perhaps the most fascinating Amazon bio, all wild and all true. Connecting with people is truly one of the most rewarding aspects of traveling, and I consider myself lucky to be seated in that exact middle seat on that horrible, horrible flight. To crossing paths again under more wakeful circumstances, somewhere in the world, and continuing conversations!

Experiencing Pura Vida in Costa Rica

January 31, 2023May 31, 2023 / Eric / 1 Comment

Last month, Veronica and I spent 12 days immersed in the rainforests and beaches of Costa Rica. It was a spontaneous trip, planned about 3 weeks prior to departure upon Veronica’s acceptance of her new job. There was no shortage of adrenaline, as I rafted through the jungle, ziplined above the lush canopy, swam beneath towering waterfalls, and learned how to surf on the rolling Pacific waves. There was also plenty of relaxation, featuring geothermal baths in the shadow of the majestic Arenal Volcano and beautiful beaches along the Nicoya Peninsula. Not to mention the abundant life in the protected rainforest and coastal reef ecosystems. I am still riding high off the energy, an energy that pervades the entire country and actually has a name that is part-cliché and part serious slogan for the country: pura vida.

What exactly is pura vida, you may ask? It’s literally the “pure life,” a distillation of life’s best elements into a lifestyle that builds you up from the inside out. It de-emphasizes stressors like work-culture and materialism to focus on friends, family, and fun. Pura vida is appreciative without being forced, chill without being lazy, welcoming without establishing barriers, exuberant without being frenetic. In Costa Rica, pura vida is used as a universal motto, a replacement for “hello”, “goodbye”, “cheers”, “hell yeah”, or a number of other contexts (the craziest one was “Pura vida, I have the best cocaine” – my stunned response was, “No thanks…pura vida!”). There’s a warmth and openness to every interaction, like the Costa Ricans know that they have harnessed lightning in a bottle and are happy to share their joy with visitors who are attentive and accepting. I hope that some of this joy is conveyed as I take you through what was a truly phenomenal trip.

After a short 3-hour flight and perhaps the easiest customs experience ever (welcome, pura vida!), we picked up our rental SUV, a silver Hyundai Tucson that we would soon find out is the official tourist vehicle of Costa Rica and a certifiable all-terrain workhorse – we would need this on the rough-and-tumble rural roads and highways. We stopped first in the town of Liberia, where awaited a delicious meal of barbecue a la parrilla with perfectly crispy patacones. We then headed for the mountains on Highway 1, our speed capped at around 80 kph/50 mph by a persistent grinding sound coming from somewhere in the front suspension or alignment of our rental. After a two-hour drive that got progressively steeper, darker, and rainier, we arrived at Hotel Catarata, a splendid budget motel with a garden walk connecting all-wood cabins with the central open-air dining pavilion. A steady waterfall of rain pattered on our tin roof the whole night and into the morning, but by noon the next day it had cleared enough for us to enjoy the remarkable Rio Celeste. Named for the celestial blue water caused by light scattering from mineral particles, the river appeared chalky gray from the earlier downpour, which made for extra excitement as we took the roiling rapids by innertube. We spent the afternoon hiking upstream in Volcan Tenorio national park, catching glimpses of the bright blue headwaters in moments of sun. This was our first experience with the resplendent rainforest and its wildlife, including a tawny agouti darting across the trail and a sloth climbing purposefully along vines overhead.

We spent the next 3 days in the Arenal area, enjoying the attractions around La Fortuna during the day then retreating to the bucolic Tio Felix Ecolodge at night. Located at the base of the imposing Volcan Arenal, which spent the whole time shrouded in dense rainclouds, we would awaken to the sounds of toucans and songbirds feasting from the tropical fruit trees around the farm. We toured an artisanal chocolate and coffee farm, learning about the sustainable agriculture of several cultivars grown in Costa Rica (cacao, coffee, banana, peppercorn, vanilla, cinnamon, ubajay, and others) while creating our own chocolate and coffee blends to taste. We enjoyed delicious meals of Peruvian anticuchos and ceviche, elevated Caribbean barbecue, and rotisserie chicken with a smattering of innovative sauces. We hiked down 500 stairs in dense jungle to the base of the 200-foot tall La Fortuna Waterfall, where we plunged bravely into the turbulent pool surrounded by a lush, misty ravine. We continued our splashy adventure on the Sarapiqui River, an exciting Class III-IV whitewater rafting experience that was basically one continuous rapid for several miles. The action only paused for a snack of fresh mango and pineapple, and to portage around a tree that had fallen in the previous night’s torrential rain (this was an interesting situation, as the guides said that this hadn’t happened before yet marshalled us around the tangle of timber the without a hint of distress). As the perfect recovery, we concluded the day at lovely Paradise resort, sipping cocktails while floating in geothermal hot pools secluded by verdant palms and bromeliads. Days of high adventure followed by top-notch food and relaxation…now that’s pura vida!

December marks the end of the rainy season in Costa Rica, and the deluge began to subside the day we left La Fortuna. That morning, we hiked through a downpour in the national park, trudging through varied stages of rainforest evolution (a series of 20th century eruptions flattened the old growth and the park seeks to preserve the new forest biomes). When we arrived at the “old” lava field from the most recent eruption in 1992, the clouds gradually opened to reveal a breathtaking vista of the majestic volcano towering over Arenal Lake. We continued around the lake by car, practically alone on the scenic winding road apart from a few top-heavy cargo trucks and a band of opportunistic coatis. Our lunch stop at Toucan Lane was exquisite, and I ate a rich seafood stew on a balcony above the vast lake. Though this was just a roadside stop between two destinations, it had a really memorable energy: hummingbirds whizzed around our heads while jockeying for access to a nectar feeder, an adorable bunch of dogs playfully patrolled the restaurant as we ate, and our waiter even invited us to his birthday party the following evening. A tempting invitation for sure, especially with pura vida in mind, but as American tourists we held firm with our reservations and pressed on.

The road became rougher as we ascended to Monteverde, an ecotourism hub located in the cloud forest a mile above sea level. The air was chilly, and the clouds from the steamy Caribbean side were moving fast just above our heads as they dissipated into drier air from the Pacific side – this was the exact confluence of interesting meteorology and unique ecology. We took a walking tour of the cloud forest reserve, where our guide Marvin pointed out the intricate details of the rainforest ecosystem. A hummingbird in a delicate woven nest. A massive tarantula coiled in a hole, its hairy pincers poised to strike unknowing passersby. A green-brown anole, camouflaged perfectly with the branch to which its feet were suctioned. Leaf cutter ants that systematically tore off pieces of foliage up to 1000 times their weight to carry back to their miniature civilization. We followed a band of coatis as they foraged for beetles and grubs, poking their snouts into the soft soil, barking and squeaking all the while. We birdwatched for the rare quetzal, whose bright blue plumage had been spotted by photographers earlier that morning – to no avail, but the act of listening to the silence and watching intently for the slightest distant movement was positively meditative. The rainforest is brimming with life, all the way from the forest floor to the 150-foot tall ficus canopy. For a higher perspective (in elevation and adrenaline), we ziplined through various levels of the canopy, culminating in a thrilling mile-long flight above the treetops. Gliding through the foliage at 70+ mph while the clouds raced just above our outstretched fingers was certainly a rush, and I’m grateful to have interacted with the cloud forest on so many levels.

As we descended to the coast for the next week of beach-hopping, we had the full Costa Rican road trip experience: awesome views of the Gulf of Nicoya from the California-like golden foothills, a herd of brahma cattle traipsing down the middle of the road, a washout and an impassable river crossing, and tons of potholes and large rocks everywhere. Armed with glass-bottle Coke, plantain chips, and sour Panditas, we were ready to enjoy these obstacles with pura vida spirit, playing reggaeton on the radio with the windows rolled down – our trusty Tucson was crushing the terrain, and we would get there when we get there. When we reached Santa Teresa, we were treated to an absolutely stunning sunset on what felt like a private beach, where we relaxed for the next day in the palm shade watching the long wavebreaks. They were the perfect waves to learn the art of surfing, as my instructor John somehow managed to get my tall and flail-y self to spring into a standing position and ride a surfboard all the way to shore. In contrast to Santa Teresa’s secluded boho surf town vibe, Tamarindo’s beach was lined with resorts and crowded with horseback riders and vendors, still beautiful and vibrant but decidedly not peaceful. My favorite beach town was Montezuma, a tiny fishing village with an undeveloped beach abutting the coastal rainforest. After a night serenaded by crashing waves, I set out on foot to do the waterfall hike, where after about a mile of clambering over roots, rocks, and stream crossings, I was rewarded with an invigorating dip at the base of the 100-foot cascade – pura vida at its essence.

From the beach in Montezuma, we boarded a boat tour for Tortuga Island, known for some of the best snorkeling on the Pacific coast. And it didn’t disappoint – the reefs were brimming with colorful coral, spiny urchins, and lots of fish. Though I missed the elusive octopus, I did watch a manta ray opportunistically patrol the reef perimeter and a pufferfish partially inflate when startled by a crab. The scenery above the water was beautiful as well; I savored a melt-in-your-mouth grilled corvina (sea bass) under a stand of tall palm trees, hiked to the top of the island for a panorama of the bright blue gulf, and saw rock formations and waterfalls from the boat. We immersed further in the coastal rainforest ecosystem with a visit to Curú Wildlife Refuge, where we were greeted in the parking lot by a cacophony of jungle sounds. There were bands of capuchins and howler monkeys in the trees, iguanas marching every which way, white-tailed deer* snacking on coconuts, and macaws screeching and squawking from…somewhere. This was surreal, feeling the press of the jungle with all of our senses. Veronica even had a cartoon moment where a nut fell on her head, discarded from the mouth of a macaw in the canopy above. After passing a spidery mangrove swamp and crossing a rickety wooden bridge Indiana Jones-style, we found ourselves in a quiet rainforest that evoked Jurassic Park and other scenes I had only seen in movies. While I have serious qualms about the refuge putting out food to draw all the animals to the parking area, it really made for an intimate, one-of-a-kind experience with Costa Rican wildlife.

Speaking of one-of-a-kind experiences, we did a couple of nighttime tours to see things that I never imagined I would witness firsthand. From our lodgings in Paquera at Casa Manito (my favorite overnight – Alonzo and his family really made it feel like we were staying in their home), we walked down to the shore at sundown for a bioluminescence kayaking tour. As soon as our guide Eddy shoved our boat off into the dark bay, we noticed the ethereal blue-green sparkles. Every paddle stroke generated a bright cluster of these ethereal aqua embers that danced in chaotic swirls before gradually burning out (in nerd-speak, we supplied critical oxygen that the algae metabolized to generate the bioluminescence). And these algae attracted all sorts of life to the bay, as a few fish jumped over our kayak and we spotted the outline of a sea lion in the water nearby. Another crazy night tour had us drive from Tamarindo out to an isolated beach, where we hiked in pitch darkness to the nesting site of some green sea turtles. By following the tracks where turtles had dragged their shells up the sand, we kept tabs on three mother turtles, lurking out of sight until they had cleared the loose sand and begun digging their holes. Using a dim red light that wouldn’t disturb the turtles, we watched as the mothers methodically scooped sand upward with their fins and tossed it aside. When the holes were a couple feet deep, the mothers settled in and began laying clutches of eggs – we watched from an arm’s length as about 100 gooey ping-pong balls were pushed out into the nest. Two months later the eggs hatch for the famous arribada, when the baby turtles will face a treacherous, predator-laden gauntlet to reach the ocean. Truly spectacular wonders of nature, viewed under a glorious skyful of stars!

As the trip drew to a close and we returned to the airport in Liberia, I felt a mix of warm satisfaction from my encounter with pura vida and a longing to stay in that wonderful country. I understood why so many people from all over the world are captivated by the scenery, adventure, culture, and overall vibe of Costa Rica – case in point, my friend Cassidy (whom I met in passing on my Peru trip 5 years ago) fell in love with Costa Rica as an exchange student, tries to travel back every year, promotes Costa Rica often in conversation, and just so happened to be there during this trip so we met up in Tamarindo! I had the privilege of meeting many awesome people who were all drawn to Costa Rica for various reasons: Silicon Valley escapees Elango and Anka looking for new connections and adrenaline, London power couple Ken and Gami seeking new experiences and closeness, a group of Chilean nurses looking for beach relaxation and camaraderie, Montreal natives Eric and Kathleen seeking warmth and wildlife watching. Some even stay long-term, like our Argentinian whitewater guide and the Polish couple who opened a pierogi truck in Tamarindo (an absolute gem of an eatery, by the way, serving the best Polish food – I tried practically the whole menu!), settling in a niche and leaning all the way into the pura vida lifestyle. Part of me wanted to abandon everything and remain in paradise as well, but I hope instead to bring back the best aspects of pura vida to apply in my life in America, to be an unflappably warm, flexible, grateful, and positive person for the people around me.

*Despite all of the wondrous wildlife in the country, the white-tailed deer is the official national animal of Costa Rica. Yeah.

The Frozen Clock on the Square

November 8, 2022November 9, 2022 / Eric / Leave a comment

…and other tales from two years living in rural Texas

I find that the most interesting stories almost always happen by accident – the tale of my two years living in rural Texas is no different. After a chaotic month in Junction, a dusty town on the cusp of west Texas, I was hit head-on by an old man driving an old pickup truck mere miles from the Mexican border. Desperate for a new car and stable work situation, I stumbled into a different job in a similarly small town of 2500 people, Hallettsville, tucked in the rolling hills of south-central Texas’s Czech country. I only found the job because of a fleeting connection I met in Junction, and I only accepted the job because there were few opportunities at the height of the pandemic. However, the next two years would unfold as some of the most surreal, simple, fascinating, and definitive times of my life.

I began my post staying at the Hotel Texas, a faux-rustic motel with limestone facades and wagon wheel furnishings on its wraparound porch. It was brutally hot in late July – I didn’t care as much about the kitschy Texas ambiance as that my room had a strong air conditioning unit. After working 10 or 12 hours in the day, much of it surveying our facility in 100-plus degree heat, I would slump on the bed and crack open a Shiner seasonal brew from my well-stocked mini-fridge. For the first month, this was my only taste of the culture – the sweet overtones of Strawberry Blonde, Peach Wheat, and Mango Kolsch, brewed at the Shiner brewery in the next town over, were my nightly cure for heat exhaustion and loneliness. I did not explore either town, simply stayed in my cool dark hotel room until morning, when I would grab a Texas-shaped waffle from the continental breakfast on my way to work.

Eventually, I did need to get acquainted with Hallettsville – when my month at the hotel was nearly up and I couldn’t find a place to live. The town is so small that there were no rental units listed online, and the only property with a visible “for rent” sign was restricted to senior citizens. My new coworker Jen, amused by my misadventure but eager to help, showed me that most business in Hallettsville is conducted via Facebook groups, and she quickly found me a small rental home in a central location. I met my new landlords, Donna and Mark Nevlud, the next day as they handed me the keys over a signed lease agreement. Setting up utilities was simple, a one-stop shop of co-ops managed by the city. Finding high-speed internet was harder…it’s not something most people use here. Without any recommendations, we eventually managed to find one provider who could run a new fiberoptic line into my unit for a solid 50 Mbps connection. I met my neighbors soon after moving in, and even in the distance of the pandemic, I felt welcomed by the warmth of interaction.

My “downtown apartment” had a face and a personality

A little about my humble abode: it’s a converted garage, pictured above, with a washer and dryer in the lower story “man cave” and everything else in a miniature flat above. I say miniature because of the four main rooms – kitchen, dining nook, living room, and bedroom – the kitchen was largest at 10’ x 10’ (about 9 square meters). The bathroom was also compact, as I had to straddle the vanity to use the toilet and hop over the toilet to access the shower. Did I mention that the ceilings were only 7 feet upstairs and barely 6 feet downstairs? The door frames were scaled down accordingly, so I learned to duck at the bottom of the stairs or when entering my basement or closet. This dollhouse of a home was part of a makeshift apartment complex, behind the turn-of-the-century anchor house and its duplex addition, a small two-room cottage that was plopped in the side yard, and the stripped-down shell of a 100-year-old farmhouse that was propped up on cinderblocks opposite the driveway. This homemade hodgepodge of residential architecture is common around here, as it turns out, which gives Hallettsville a character that doesn’t exist in most rural or suburban areas.

After moving in, I finally wandered into Hallettsville’s central square, the nexus of commerce for most of Lavaca County, a town center that looks much as it did 50 or 100 years ago. Hovering over everything is the brownstone courthouse, a towering monument to the law and order that tamed the West and influences Texas culture to this day. A stone clocktower rises a couple stories higher, the hands on each clock face perpetually reading 5:13, like a snapshot of nostalgia in a Norman Rockwell painting. A number of other turn-of-the-century buildings remain around the square, many marked by the Czech names of their original proprietors. The 1893 store of A. Levytansky is now subdivided into the county headquarters for the Republican Party. The Victorian redbrick florist building is juxtaposed against the modern steel-and-glass People’s Bank (lined with an impressive collection of exotic taxidermy visible from the outside at night). Several other businesses remain in aging storefronts: Ehler’s furniture, Rainosek’s Hardware, Cole Theater, two barber shops and two salons, a boutique, several offices, a restaurant, an ice cream parlor, a bodega, and more. My favorite storefront belongs to a dusty computer repair shop, unironically crowned by the “The New Era” below the building date of 1923. Granite and iron hitching posts line the sidewalks, hearkening to a time when the parking spaces were occupied by horses and wagons instead of large pickup trucks and farm trailers.

Lavaca County Courthouse, crown jewel of Hallettsville since 1897

The more time I spent in the square, the more I appreciated how special it was to have a very-much-alive downtown within a short walk from home. Despite scouring all the furniture stores within a 50-mile radius, my mom and I found the best furniture fits at Ehler’s – the sleek dining set and ladder bookshelf that ended up in my apartment were new additions to their constantly rotating inventory, and at a good price too. Anytime we needed odds and ends setting up the house, Rainosek’s usually had what we needed. If not, there was another hardware store, two auto parts stores, two lumberyards, and a Dollar General a few blocks away. I could get the freshest meat from Glen’s Meat Market, the freshest mangoes and avocados from Tienda San Miguel, and most other grocery items from Brookshire Brothers or Hoffer’s. For such a small town, Hallettsville was stocked – thanks to liberal subsidies from the city government. In the same vein as the MAPS program in Oklahoma City, the citizens had agreed upon a 1-cent sales tax to fund, among other public goods, a business development program through which local businesses can receive up to a $10,000 grant, provided that they spend all of that money at other Hallettsville businesses. The result was a climate where small businesses survive, even thrive, to the point that locals often don’t even consider making the 40-mile drive to Victoria to get a slightly better deal.

I had the special privilege of visiting City Hall early and often, giving me an exclusive look into the operation of small-town government. My company did not yet have the permits to build a large-scale hand sanitizer manufacturing operation on its property, and one of my first assignments was to “strong-arm the City” into allowing our construction to proceed. I arranged a meeting with the city administrator, chair of the chamber of commerce, fire marshal, and head of the permitting office, which took place in a drab conference room with folding tables set up in a large U-shape around a set of American and Texas flags. After we were given a warm welcome for setting up in their proud little town, the tide of the meeting turned rather quickly as the city representatives informed us that there are no exceptions to the permitting process. Rather, since the town is too small to have resident code experts, all permit reviews (except for the simplest things like residential outbuildings) are outsourced to Bureau Veritas, a private firm that specializes in all levels of code consulting. As no one in the room had undertaken a building project on our proposed scale, my company was sent away to assemble the team of requisite code experts ourselves. Every time I went back to City Hall, however, the staff was warm and helpful, appreciative that I was working closely with them even if red tape limited the extent to which they could help me.

As the summer days became more bearable in September, I settled into my new home and routine. Work from sunup to sundown, relax for a couple hours in the evening, and head out of town each weekend. One evening while sipping a cold Shiner on my balcony, I noticed a phenomenon at the vacant and dilapidated Ford dealership across the street: every night, shortly after sundown, a few hundred bats would emanate from the broken windows, make a beeline for the pecan trees in my yard, then disperse into the night. In a cacophony of echolocation clicks, the swarm of bats would feast on all the insects in the neighborhood as the frogs and other night sounds came alive. I caught COVID during this awkward time when many people were beginning to treat COVID as an unserious or even nonexistent condition while simultaneously shunning those who contracted COVID like biblical lepers. In my isolation, I would walk outside every evening, watching this nightly wildlife show against the glowing backdrop of a Sahara dust sunset before making my rounds on the empty streets of the town.

Upon my recovery, it wasn’t long before I had my first visitors! A group of friends who lived in Houston, working as nurses during the worst of the pandemic, passed through on the way back from a weekend in the hill country. I was excited to take them around the photogenic town square, culminating with some rolled ice cream from the adorable Flamingo Diner. Unfortunately, their visit coincided with one of the two times during the year that local farmers turn over their fields. The muggy air was heavy with the stench of manure, a nauseating smell that pervaded the whole town. The odor stuck to my clothing, hung in my nostrils, penetrated my pores. Our visit was rushed indoors, which stunk a little bit as well. I had to work to convince my friends that I didn’t live in a literal shithole, coughing, “It’s not usually like this here!” as they hurried back to their vehicle.

The haunted Lavaca County Jail preparing for Halloween

Fall sneaks up on you in Texas – it’s still hot like summer, but the days are shorter and there’s an occasional tropical depression that drops several inches of rain in one weekend. One place in town leans all the way into spooky season, though, and that’s the old Lavaca County jail. A foreboding stone edifice that looms over a vacant lot behind the square, the old jail was built in 1885 and held prisoners as recently as 2005 (crazy!). Inside, there are massive vault-style doors concealing several concrete cells upstairs, with no air conditioning, only windows fortified with wrought-iron bars. I only briefly peeked inside the former jail, getting a view of the cage-like holding cells along a sterile white guard hallway. If you’re particularly bold, there is an option to rent the building for events, mostly attracting experienced ghost hunters/paranormal investigators. For Halloween, the outside gets decked out with cobwebs and scarecrows for a family-friendly haunt with no mention of the real ghosts inside. That’s in addition to the year-round décor, a wall of pro-Trump banners and other Republican campaign signs that might frighten someone from San Francisco but is about as common as the American flag here.

The 2020 election was a huge deal here, though not for the reasons you might think. Since Republican victories were all but assured in the statewide races, county and city offices were the most hotly contested. The challengers for sheriff and judge ran on a joint platform to “end the tyranny” of masks and shutdowns, and I only caught wind of a raucous debate about the constitutionality of any COVID precautions a week before election day. The race for Hallettsville mayor was perhaps more intriguing, as challenger Gordon Clark stuck colorful flyers in every mailbox to detail his qualifications as a down-to-earth cattleman and thrifty small-business owner. I saved one of the flyers – an instant classic – my favorite line was one where he likened incumbent Alice Summers’s policies to “horse manure.” Mayor Summers prevailed in her election, as did the “end the tyranny” duo, which means that change candidates uniformly lost their races. It did bring me solace, however, that my little Texas town finally had a proper sheriff to protect it, I mean look at this guy!

Displaying 20200925_192925.jpg — Odd but colorful mural at the police station that I would pass daily

High school football is king here in rural Texas. For a school district with only 80-100 kids per graduating class, Hallettsville High School is well-endowed with a brand-new astroturf field and 3000-seat stadium that would fill to capacity for Friday night home games. The Hallettsville Brahmas were the talk of the town as they dominated opponents en route to a runner-up finish in their 3A-1 state tournament in 2020. So the hype to play rival Shiner, who won their state championship in the next division down, was at an all-time high when I took in my first Brahmas game. Though I knew none of the players, the names were familiar – “Patek in the pocket, pass is…caught by Rainosek, quickly brought down by Janak just short of the first down.” About half the names I knew as prominent families in the area, either from the names of businesses or from my other interactions in town. Also during this game, I was dismayed to learn that Brahma is pronounced with a hard “a”, rhyming with Alabama…I am certain that I poshly mispronounced their mascot on several occasions yet never received a single “bless your heart,” at least not to my face.

To get away from the bright lights, I would often drive out of town on a nameless dirt road to gaze at the night sky. At my favorite spot a few miles outside of town, I would park on a grassy hilltop with a 360° view and throw a mattress pad on top of my car to lay on. Once my eyes adjusted, I could see the diffuse glow of Victoria, Houston, Austin, and San Antonio off toward the horizon, but directly above was a deep black sky littered with thousands or millions of stars. On a crisp night in November, I was laying out under a drafty quilt watching a meteor shower in full clarity when, suddenly, the sky behind me glowed bright yellow. A column of flames, tall and wide as a building, roared up from the flare of the oil well a hundred yards away, blazing with the hungry whoosh of an old steam engine and radiating an ominous warmth that I could feel in my face and chest. I was transfixed, watching in awe as the massive fire burned for several minutes, an unsupervised bonfire of thousands of liters of high-pressure natural gas released (somewhat paradoxically, at least to me in that moment) to preserve the safe operation of the well.

The oil and gas industries, while integral to the economy and culture of Texas, inspire mixed feelings among the residents of Lavaca County. On one hand, rich crude oil deposits boosted the area to a level of affluence throughout most of the 20^th century, as I read about in a featured book display at the local library. Many residents still receive small royalty checks from wells that operate to this day. However, a series of oil busts wiped out the high paying industrial jobs that many residents relied on, and the bulk of the drilling activity has migrated to the massive Eagle Ford shale formation that begins 20 miles to the west. Nowadays, cattle ranching is held to a much higher esteem, as cows outnumber people 3-to-1 in Lavaca County (in fact, Lavaca translates to “the cow” in Spanish). Brahmas may be the favorite mascot around Hallettsville, but the area is also known for other varieties such as Hereford, Angus, Longhorn, and Shorthorn (the mascot of the next town to the north, Schulenburg). Since my company took over the old Fair West Trailers building, I had many uncomfortable conversations as locals stopped by expecting us to service their cattle trailers. It was a personal affront to many of them that Fair West Trailers would go out of business, as the shop was central to the cattle raising culture around the community.

Ranch scenes taken during bike rides outside of Hallettsville

After the first frost in late autumn, a windy day blanketed my yard with hundreds of pecans. The windfall littered the streets of the town with a scree of raw nuts that crunched underfoot. I didn’t mind this at all, as after cracking the shell by rolling the nut with my shoe I would eagerly extract the edible flesh and savor the aromatic overtones, grazing as I walked. Capitalizing on the inconvenience of the hard shell, signs advertising shelling for $5 to $10 per pound sprang up in front of many homes and businesses. While I slowly peeled my ~10 pounds of pecans by hand over the next several months, I understood why mechanized shelling equipment was such a hot commodity. Unfortunately, pecan trees only bear fruit every 2 years, as I found out the following year when none of the trees in my yard, outside my work, or in the public park dropped any delicious nuts.

Hallettsville’s city park was an underrated gem. Situated around a 9-hole public golf course, the park contains several baseball and soccer fields, a public pool, sand volleyball courts, a covered basketball court, a wooded half-mile walking path, a garden club, and more playground equipment per capita than anywhere else I’ve been – again, the power of local tax revenue. The park was a refuge for me, as I was often the only person shooting hoops or walking the loop. Along the path are signs detailing the history of Hallettsville as a land grant community given by the widow of John Hallett, as the original mecca for youth rodeo competitions, and more. One sign, titled “The Hanging Tree,” nonchalantly tells the story of Pocket the Indian while commemorating a giant, crooked oak for its cruel past. In the official account, Pocket was a young, friendly, half-white Sioux who was turkey hunting with his British companion Leonard Hyde when he impulsively (some accounts blame “firewater” for this erratic behavior) shot the poor guy. After a year of trials and appeals, Pocket was sentenced to death by hanging, an event that allegedly gathered a crowd of about 3000 spectators. A smaller park on the other side of town houses a couple of unassuming monuments to local Confederate officers, another memorial that is easy to overlook but points to a checkered history.

In a quiet cemetery, these Confederate monuments receive neither protests nor adoration

Downtown Hallettsville in full Christmas glow

The Christmas season is magical in Hallettsville, as the downtown transforms into a Hallmark scene for a few joyous weeks. Thousands of lights are strung from the spire of the clocktower down to every corner of the square, a magnificent scene accompanied by Christmas carols broadcast from on high. In addition to the traditional holiday window-dressing, businesses around the town center participated in a Christmas mural competition, won by a detailed realization of Ebenezer Scrooge’s moneylending office painted on the massive windows of People’s Bank. There are also several decorative dioramas that illustrate the Christian origins of holiday items like candy canes and the twelve days of Christmas. I found Christmas in Hallettsville to be as authentic and wholesome as anywhere, in no small part because the feared cliché of “taking Christ out of Christmas” seems to have not yet reached holiday celebrations here.

Like other places in rural America, Jesus Christ is eminently visible at the forefront of life year-round. While the town is home to congregations representing several denominations of Christianity – Methodist, Lutheran, Episcopal, Church of Christ, three varieties of Baptist, and a few nondenominational churches – the Catholic church is a dominant political and cultural force, dating from the original settlement of the area by Czech and Bavarian Catholics. Sacred Heart Catholic Church has a campus that occupies the area of several blocks, including a large 1960s-style sanctuary and a K-12 parochial school that once rivaled the public high school. I attended mass at Sacred Heart a few times, but I preferred visiting the famous European-style painted churches in the outlying hamlets of the countryside. These small churches, constructed board-by-board by the original settlers in the late 1800s, feature ornate, hand-carved altars along with beautiful biblical imagery painted on the walls and ceilings. These historic churches are kept alive by a rotation of mainly younger priests dispatched from Sacred Heart to revive the magic of the old-country mass at least for a couple hours each month (albeit with more creaks from the aging floors and congregants).

Ascension of the Lord Catholic Church, Moravia

The German-Czech heritage is visible elsewhere too, not just in the names of businesses and surrounding villages (Moravia, Breslau, Vsetin, Praha, Henkhaus, Weimar, etc.) but also in the local cuisine. Besetsny’s Kountry Bakery, a local chain based in Schulenburg, has a popular outpost on the main drag in Hallettsville that sells kolaches and other baked goods along with homestyle diner food. Novosad’s barbecue joint only opens for a brief period on Fridays and Saturdays, but people line up out the door for the ribs and pork steaks prepared using traditional Czech recipes – they’re delicious, and worthy of the ‘Top 50 BBQ in Texas’ status proudly painted on the old plaster walls. Janak’s sausages are also famously tasty, competing with Maeker’s in Shiner and Hruska’s in Ellinger for the regional crown (I think Janak’s are the best, but I am admittedly biased). I went into Janak’s country store one day asking for kielbasa, since the seasoning in their raw pork sausages reminded my mom of the recipe she used to make with her Belarussian grandmother. The staff donned looks of complete confusion as I described the boiled kielbasa that I was craving…very few people buy their sausages unsmoked, and it had not occurred to these Texans that a sausage could be prepared in any way besides barbecue.

Across the road from Janak’s market is an odd landmark that I can’t omit from any account about Hallettsville. Numerous handmade signs point to the Pecan Grove Apparition Park, which contains a small hand-built shrine where you might find travelers who stopped to pray or reflect. As the story goes, the landowner had gotten his pickup truck stuck near the creek when a vision of the Virgin Mary appeared to speak to him. Magically, his truck became unstuck, and he proceeded to build this outdoor worship space by the highway in the hopes that people would learn about this miracle and feel closer to God. I don’t know what came first, the shrine to the Virgin Mary or the outdoor roller rink that has fallen into disrepair nearby, but the place is an interesting stop nonetheless.

When the entire state of Texas was hit by a devastating winter storm in February 2021, Hallettsville was blanketed by 3 inches of ice and snow for the first time in at least a decade. The town took on an entirely new character, silent without trucks or people, landmarks covered by the white stuff that was the only missing element from the Hallmark Christmas set. The courthouse stood over it all, its frozen clocktower resolute above the sea of white. I fared through the disaster just fine, never experiencing an electrical blackout because I lived across the street from the police and fire stations. But I heard horror stories from people living away from the town center: pipes freezing and breaking, homes dipping below 40 degrees, livestock suffering from hypothermia. I hope that the community stepped up to help those affected, though I don’t have any strong evidence for that. A few weeks before this calamity, my landlord Donna lost her battle with breast cancer, leaving Mark alone without the love of his life. Though Mark was a former teacher for the Hallettsville ISD and a weekly attendant at Sacred Heart, he didn’t exactly receive an outpouring of help, more an acknowledgment of thoughts and prayers. I felt deeply sorry for Mark, but fortunately he could lean on his family (and a sense of rugged individualism, which comes with the territory) for support.

Snow scenes of the courthouse and Cole theater during the winter storm emergency in February 2021

Every few weeks, I would get my haircut from a barber whose small studio hangs off the back of the feed store. He had been working in the same shop for nearly 50 years, offering a standard haircut (you’d have to convince him if you wanted something else) for a bargain price. He told me several stories, most of which lamented the decline of Hallettsville since its apex in…the 70s, the 50s, or 20s, this was never clearly articulated. For my favorite of these stories, he had a prime view when PETA protested Glen’s Packing Company across the street: the townspeople had a grand time heckling the protesters, who fled when a young hog was released to run wild in the crowd. Glen’s is an unassailable fixture as the best place for locals to bring cattle for processing, and once I got past the outdoor chute where trailers of cows are unloaded for slaughter and the alternating smells of dead animals/manure/bleach, I began to understand its popularity. Glen’s Meat Market sells the most delicious steaks, any cut you might desire as long as it’s massive, never frozen but always fresh from the cow, meat so delectable that I would bake (I know, blasphemy!) a ~2 pound sirloin in its own juices with minimal seasoning and it would come out to a perfect tenderness every time. The store also sells other meats along with local sauces and seasoning blends, supplying the barbecue needs around Hallettsville all year long.

One Saturday morning, I went into Glen’s with Veronica when a skeleton crew of mostly family was manning the counter. The entire store fell quiet, leaving only the resonating thwack of a meat cleaver striking an age-old chopping block. Customers stared at Veronica, an outsider with cool hair and visible tattoos, and the clerk ignored her salutation and proceeded to serve me (even though I stood behind her). There are signs all over the store saying that they “reserve the right to refuse service to anyone,” though I was surprised by the follow-through. Around the same time, I was getting a haircut when my barber looked at me sternly and said, “Big things are coming. The Lord will, with our help, reinstate the right people as leaders. And when it comes time [for Texas] to secede, you better know whose side you are on. ‘Cause if you’re on the wrong side…let’s just say a lot of people will be lined up and shot.” It was chilling, revolutionary talk that I had heard murmured before but never in such a specific, pointed manner. Though I would return to Glen’s periodically thereafter, needless to say I found another barber.

I don’t wish to characterize the people here as hostile to outsiders; I was greeted warmly with small talk by many strangers who genuinely wanted to know more about me. The number of times I was asked about my last name and whether I had any family in the area was staggering, too large to be counted using both hands and feet. But the people are definitely guarded, cautious when talking about themselves and wary of businesses owned by out-of-towners that have a history of promising big things then vanishing with unpaid debts. My friend Jen moved to Hallettsville over 20 years ago as a single mom and still feels like an outsider. She recounted when she tried to get her daughter, who was around 10 years old at the time, a membership to use the public pool during her summer vacation – they were put on a waiting list for over a year while some sort of unofficial vetting process undoubtedly took place. Beyond a ‘members only’ pool, the legacy of racial segregation still persists here 50 years later. Black residents make up about 10% of Hallettsville’s population, and the majority live south of where the railroad tracks used to bisect the town, near the public junior high school (which used to be the black high school when segregation was legal). Occasionally, someone I didn’t know very well would utter a derogatory remark to me in hushed tones, most commonly a criticism of how a black acquaintance behaved or a complaint about the preponderance of Mexican restaurants in town. The same nostalgia that makes Hallettsville’s small town vibe so one-of-a-kind also holds the community back, keeping people at arm’s length from one another under the veneer of Southern manners.

Fields of bluebonnets blanket the rangeland around Hallettsville every April

As spring arrived and the fields of wildflowers began to pop, I became extra busy at work: our building permits were approved, and I was coordinating work crews during the day as well as offering my recommendations for food, drink, and entertainment. My hands-down favorite restaurant in the town is Los Jarritos Taqueria, a traditional Mexican establishment that serves the most incredible pork al pastor on soft homemade flour tortillas (along with other specialties like barbacoa, lengua, carne asada con nopales, horchata, and aguas frescas). The best spot for drinks is Cabo San Lucas restaurant, where you can order their very dangerous margarita by the punchbowl-sized goblet. Entertainment was a little harder to come by for our work crews, since they wouldn’t be as interested in the Hallet Oak Gallery (a lovely art gallery on the square that features rotating exhibits of local artists and offers free art classes). Cole Theater shows a new movie on its single projector screen every couple of weeks, packing the house nightly for movies like Top Gun: Maverick and leaving me a whole row to stretch out while watching The Lost City. Hallettsville proper can be a little quiet, admittedly, but I find that there were a lot of things to do if you include my adventures farther afield.

Heading out of town on FM 957, you quickly arrive in the heart of the pastoral German-Czech countryside. A pair of wineries offer locally-produced wines in peaceful surrounds – Majek Vineyard with its open-barn pavilion, live music performances, and farm vistas; and Moravia Vineyard with its traditional craft wine cellar and better wines. The town of Shiner is synonymous with Spoetzl Brewery, where you can take a tour of the shiny new manufacturing space then unwind in the biergarten. Nearby Schulenburg lacks drinking options but has a small museum dedicated to the area’s polka bands, past and present. Further up the road are La Grange and Round Top, where interior designers and collectors of Americana flock to the antique furniture exchanges. The region is also central to Texas revolutionary history, as you can easily make a daytrip to Goliad, where Texans were massacred at the Spanish colonial fort (nowadays, the Presidio de la Bahia is as peaceful as it is historically interesting). The next skirmish occurred near Gonzales, a half hour detour from Hallettsville; this battle is famous for the Come-And-Take-It cannon, which is displayed prominently in the city museum. Between Gonzales and Goliad, Cuero houses a museum dedicated to Chisholm Trail history and a fascinating Frontier-era pharmacy, where an effusive docent described the array of antiquated powders, tonics, and medical devices (even bringing out a 100-year old fetus from the ‘secret collection’)… some off-the-beaten-path fun!

The canonical symbol of Texas independence is so tiny!

Hallettsville has a few festivals every year that bring the community together at the large KoC event center. Fiddle players and fans from across Texas come out every April for Fiddlers’ Frolics, a weekend-long festival headlined by a multigenerational, cross-genre fiddling contest. The Texas State Domino Competition is less spectator-friendly, but that’s not the point: the community gathers outside the hall mainly for epic barbecue competitions. During Fiddlers, my coworker Rodney competed against 140 other teams judged across 10 categories of barbecued meats. It’s a weekend long cookoff, with families and friends tailgating outside in the field of smokers – but it’s surprisingly hard to get any samples, as nearly every cut has already been claimed by judges or family. Even the Kolache Festival in the fall is less about kolaches (which were served room-temperature in plastic wrappers) than the barbecue. With a car show and craft fair tacked on, each citywide gathering was a rollicking good time, even if the headline reason for the gathering was often barely noticeable.

In May of this year, I was invited to my coworker Kevin’s wedding. Donning slacks and a blazer, I was severely overdressed for the ceremony at Holy Cross Lutheran Church in Yoakum (the “Land of Leather” and of stonewashed jeans, apparently). After a low-key service in which the pastor repeatedly razzed my guy Kevin, the entire party proceeded to a dance hall outside of town, where Bud Light and barbecue flowed. After an extended dinner and social hour, everyone threw down for an evening of country dancing that shook the old wood floors and metal siding of the hall. It hardly mattered that I knew nobody and stuck out like a sore thumb; I had fun participating in a moment (mainly from the sidelines, but I was there!) of authentic celebration for Kevin and his new bride.

Wedding cakes for a happy couple moving in together on a ranch

At some point during my second year in Hallettsville, the clock above the square was repaired! All four faces of the clocktower now tell the correct time, with bells chiming on the hour. And sure enough, the passage of time had brought several changes to Hallettsville during my relatively short stay. The bat colony across the street had been exterminated to make way for a comfy new Vietnamese nail salon in the old Ford dealership showroom. Hallettsville Seafood and Steak finally opened to much fanfare – finally, a restaurant that isn’t Mexican! (Sidebar: there were 3 such restaurants before, and now there are 5.) Next door, the even newer Vicenza’s Restaurant deserves the shine for some of the best Italian food I’ve eaten outside of the northeast. A trailer selling “BBQ/Menudo” was plopped into what looks like the beginnings of a food truck park. My company halted its construction before meeting the permit scope, but blending operations were allowed to commence anyway. Once the City had fired the fire marshal earlier this year, it no longer had any recourse for mandating inspections or enforcing code compliance, a return to the free-for-all building philosophy that individualists love until something weird gets erected next door.

With much less need for a facility design engineer, I amicably resigned from my company in July 2022, ending an employment term of exactly 2 years. After my last day of work, I wandered next door to Sammy’s Night Club, a windowless cinderblock building that usually appeared closed during the pandemic. There, a bunch of guys around my age gathered to play pool and drink beer, flocking from the oil field to the west and the large pipeline construction site to the east. I met Terri, the owner and bartender, who described her role as chaperone to these wild wildcatters of today; evidently, the area still has a huge problem with drunk driving, that’s why sensible people stay off the roads after about 9 pm. It’s a problem that’s not exclusive to young people, as a table of octogenarians played dominos in a corner and accumulated 5-6 empty pint glasses apiece. I made it safely back to the apartment, where I spent the weekend packing my belongings into a storage unit before moving away.

A few months after leaving Hallettsville, I returned to vote in this week’s elections. The town is, of course, much the same as when I left, save for a few more new businesses rotating in where others went out. I paid a visit to the Lavaca Historical Museum, where Ms. Janice took me through exhibits commemorating various histories of the area. It’s funny how in a place so seemingly frozen in time, the faded photos from 50 and 100 years ago portray people and places that seem so far removed from the present. The stark differences between generations were particularly evident when reading a long-form account from 1976 about Hallettsville, the author describes a completely different cast of characters who were even more connected with the traditions of the original settlers who built the community. I felt a sense of nostalgia, not because I loved living here or meshed with the community at all, but because I got to experience something that is rare in today’s world: a small town that not only preserved its history but continues to actively live it!

A Visit to Vacationland

August 31, 2022September 8, 2022 / Eric / 1 Comment

Last week, I returned to my home state of Maine for the first time since I turned 18. I knew it would be different this time, returning as a tourist with my girlfriend Veronica. My childhood friends have all grown up and moved out of the neighborhood, pursuing their various careers all over the east coast and beyond. I have also changed as I came of age, training as an engineer at Rice and Vanderbilt while following a fascination with tornadoes to deeper roots in Oklahoma. I may call Oklahoma home now, but I was a Maine kid through and through.

Looking back, my childhood in Maine was idyllic. The neighborhood was full of kids my age, and we played outside together practically every day. The kickball and whiffleball games were frequent and intense, almost as good as the spontaneous games of bus stop tag. We had free rein of the woods behind the houses – Ryan and Sam and I built forts, climbed trees, and explored every field and stream within yelling distance of the back porches (and some beyond). We grazed on fresh apples and wild blueberries in the summer. We skied and sledded every slope in the winter. Our snowball fights with the boys across the street were next-level, complete with fortified igloos and combat trenches. It was truly paradise for a 10-year-old boy, and I didn’t know how great I had it until I had to leave it behind.

After my family moved to Oklahoma, we came back for a few days every summer. Some of my fondest memories come from when we were returning guests, often making day trips down to the picturesque coastline or going “upta camp.” Ryan’s family cabin is among my favorite places in the entire world, with so many fun things to do – swimming, kayaking, taking the skiff out to Blueberry Island, tubing while Ryan’s dad drove death circles in the boat, four-wheeling through the fragrant fir forests, playing flashlight tag in the quiet of night, stargazing without light pollution from the dock. Of course, it would be difficult to recreate the exact vibe that combines the homely Maine scenery with the warmth of those friendships, but I gave it my best shot for this three-day visit.

As an introduction to the Maine coast, we spent the first afternoon in Ogunquit, a coastal village in southern Maine that my family had previously bypassed in favor of other popular beaches farther up the coast. We strolled the scenic Marginal Way, watching the waves crash on the rocks then wading into a sandy cove at Lobster Point. We hopped on a sailboat for a private cruise along the coast, watching the picturesque cliffs drift past as we tried our hand with the rudder and rigging. Absolutely perfect, calm, sunny weather for a relaxing time!

After a delicious Eritrean dinner in eclectic Portland, we checked in for the night at Happy Hippie Lane (the ultimate Hipcamp experience…we stayed in a bus!). This was the best “upta camp” substitute I could’ve hoped for, tucked next to a homey log cabin in the woods on rural Westport Island. Around the communal campfire, we quickly got to know our host, Cary, her little dog with a huge personality, and the other visitors staying in tiny homes and glamping tents scattered around the property. For a nightcap, I snuck away from the fire to lie in a hammock under the stars, framed by the shadows of tall pines and accompanied by the sounds of summer crickets.

We spent the next day on Pemaquid, a quiet peninsula on the coast of central Maine. While sea kayaking in the calm harbor, we spotted an osprey, a loon, and several other shorebirds out for their morning hunts – we even glimpsed a seal at close range! We explored the historic lighthouse (of state quarter fame) at Pemaquid Point. We relaxed the afternoon on the beach, poking through tide pools and collecting hermit crabs as I did as a kid. A hike through evergreen thickets near the estuaries of Back Bay captured the peaceful essence of the Maine woods, a cherry on top of a weekend of outdoor activities.

Of course, we hit a fair share of tourist checklist items along the way. Expensive but delicious lobster roll and fried clams under the Ogunquit drawbridge. Pictures from every angle of Portland Head Light. Racks upon racks of flannel at the LL Bean flagship store. But what I adore most about Maine is unrated, uncrowded, and ubiquitous – the evergreen forests, peaceful ponds and lakes, and outdoorsy ethos that pervades the culture. While it may be impossible to recreate the magic of growing up in Maine as a child, I am deeply satisfied to have uncovered some old memories along with some new and exciting experiences!

Lots of lighthouse selfies as Maine tourists!

Finding Soul in the Desert Southwest

September 26, 2021March 31, 2023 / Eric / Leave a comment

The desert has a special quality. It’s simple: at times, you may find yourself alone with the rock, sand, sun, and wind. It’s majestic: towering canyons and colorful rock formations stand tall, superimposed on a vast blue sky. It’s stark: barren of most flora and fauna, the dynamic geology and harsh environs that created the landscape come into focus. But it’s also full of life: the plants and animals that survive here have adapted a characteristic toughness, and the people native to the desert oases share a culture with vibrant color, timeless beauty, and enduring community spirit. All these elements put together begin to explain my fascination with the American Southwest, mainly Arizona and New Mexico, but also parts of Nevada, California, Texas, Utah, and Colorado. In February 2020, I traced a meandering path through the Southwest while helping my friend Gold move from Missouri to Las Vegas. A year and a half elapsed, now that the world has turned over and the dust has settled, I present my long form reflection of my trip through this marvelous part of the country.

Perhaps the challenge of getting there adds to the mystique. There are a few ways to drive to New Mexico from Missouri, all of them long, remote, and desolate, each with unique and worthwhile stops along the way. I’ve taken the northerly route, imagining cattle drives and trade expeditions along the Santa Fe Trail while stopping at places like Dodge City, Bent’s Old Fort, and Capulin Volcano. I’ve followed Interstate 40 across the Caprock, stopping at iconic Route 66 attractions like the Big Texan (famous for its 72-ounce steak dinner challenge), Cadillac Ranch, and Tucumcari. A side trip to Palo Duro Canyon State Park, the second largest canyon in the United States, is a worthy preview of the spectacular geology to the west. Farther south and you might pass through the Llano Estacado, an endless expanse of flat pasture and scrubland dotted with huge wind farms, along with tumbleweeds and windblown debris. This was the course of my most recent trip, by way of my favorite place in Oklahoma, the rugged yet placid Wichita Mountains. Lastly, if you’re coming from south Texas, you can speed through hundreds of miles of west Texas buttes and plains, making sure to see the scintillating Caverns of Sonora or ancient petroglyphs at Seminole Canyon on the way.

Texas’s Caverns of Sonora – like walking through a chandelier dollhouse

On my previous road trip west, a week in northern New Mexico when I was 18 years old, I got a taste (an accent of spicy green chile, if you will) of the Southwest’s scenery and culture. My family and I visited Albuquerque, sampling everything from rocket science at the Museum of Nuclear Science and History to the complete opposite during a dramatic ghost tour of the Spanish colonial Old Town. We rode the gondola to the top of Sandia Peak, taking in views of hot air balloons above and boulders below. We hiked into Kasha-Katuwe Tent Rocks National Monument, weaving through the peculiar cone-shaped hoodoos to the breathtaking canyon overlook. We immersed ourselves in the cultural capital of Santa Fe, exploring the old adobe buildings and visiting several museums on regional art and native heritage. We took a deeper dive into the rich indigenous history at Bandelier, climbing through Anasazi cliff dwellings that are several hundred years old. And finally, we rafted the famous Taos Box, splashing over Class 4 and 5 rapids in the beautiful canyons of the upper Rio Grande. Memories of these adventures heightened my anticipation for more of the same as I set off from Missouri with Gold nearly ten years later.

Beautiful tent rocks at Kasha-Kituwe National Monument

After a long day of driving, we arrived in Carlsbad, an oasis in the high desert replete with all the staples of New Mexico: adobe, turquoise, hatch chile, and top-notch Norteño food. The life of the high desert was on full display at Living Desert State Park, a peaceful hillside zoo with native plants and animals (including a pair of particularly photogenic, show-stealing javelina hogs). But the main attraction of the day was Carlsbad Caverns, hands down the most magnificent cave I have ever visited. We hiked in via the natural entrance, following steep switchbacks into the dark abyss from which thousands of bats will emerge on summer evenings, somewhat grateful for winter. We continued down the throat of the cave, a massive chamber the size of multiple football stadiums lined up end to end, each darker and damper. Chandelier stalactites and tentacular stalagmites and glistening dripstones became larger and more frequent as we descended two miles into the earth. Upon arrival in the main chamber, I lost my breath entirely as I took in the intricate beauty in all directions; little spotlights illuminated the majestic domes, stalactite waterfalls, and other features as far as the eye could see. Like the grandest of cathedrals, the perimeter is lined with grottoes that have their own crystalline character: delicate speleothems fanning out like needles, billowing fractals of cave popcorn, cascading curtains of cave bacon, terraced rimstones sculpting water into miniature infinity pools. The scale of this cave and its features are what’s most astounding – and what makes it exceedingly difficult to capture in words or pictures. It’s a rare feeling to be awestruck for an entire afternoon, and my soul was certainly satisfied by the time we rode the elevator 800 feet back to the surface and returned to our humble adobe for the night.

Floor to ceiling formations in magnificent Carlsbad Caverns

The following day was one of incredible contrasts. Beginning in the desolate high plains, we passed the bustling oil fields around Artesia and ascended into the remote foothills of the Sacramento Mountains, miles upon miles of beautiful ranching country dotted with ponderosa pines at higher elevations. The clouds fully dissipated by the time we reached the pass at Cloudcroft, where we stopped for a short hike and snowball fight. The view from the ridge was stunning: an old mining trestle spanning a piney canyon in the foreground, a blinding sea of white in the background. That sea of white was our destination, as maybe 30 minutes later we were trudging off into the rolling dunes of White Sands National Park, rented toboggan in hand. The sand was cool to the touch and remarkably soft, a fine gypsum powder that blows into mesmerizing ripples to erase your footsteps and sledding tracks. The sledding was enjoyable – a well-waxed toboggan can pick up good speed on the steep leeward side of the dunes, certainly enough to wipeout in a flurry of sand at the bottom. But the freedom to roam through the endless white waves was the highlight of the visit, and the fact that human traces are fleeting in the blowing sand made it feel like we were exploring this overexposed landscape for the first time. Alone with the wind, sun, and sand, we trekked across several building-sized dunes to find the tallest: there, we sat to watch the sunset transform the landscape from white to gold to purple. Another deeply invigorating afternoon, worth every grain of sand that we had to shake off of our clothing and gear throughout the rest of the trip.

An afternoon alone in the mesmerizing dunes of White Sands

We awoke the next day in Las Cruces beneath the pointy Organ Mountains, the first of many paintable scenes that day. After a quick stop in quaint Mesilla, a village featuring Chicano artisans and Billy the Kid history, we headed west on Interstate 10, dodging fleets of semitrucks making the long haul between Texas and California. Passing Lordsburg, I took a mental snapshot of my view from behind the wheel: a panorama of purple peaks fading into the distance beyond a mirage of yellow desert, reminiscent of the blending of oil paint hues from my only experience with a beginner wine-and-paint night. We crossed into Arizona and the scenery became even more beautiful – Google diverted us onto a gravel road to cross Apache Pass, a scene reminiscent of an old Hollywood western where the remains of Fort Bowie are the lone reminder of a protracted bloody war between the U.S. Government and native Apache warriors during the 1800s. We soon arrived at Chiricahua National Monument, a hidden gem of a national park that I had really fond memories of from when I came at age 6. Possibly even more astounding the second time around, the view from Inspiration Point transcends any painting: a panoramic valley of craggy yellow hoodoos, an amalgamation of shapes and shadows that shift and stretch as the sun moves toward the horizon. We hiked into Echo Canyon, aptly named as its serene quietness causes every crunching footfall to reverberate from the otherworldly rock formations. Each turn revealed a breathtaking new view, which killed both of my camera batteries but left me with vivid sensory memories of the cool stone silhouettes. While I could’ve easily spent an entire day hiking in this gorgeous rock garden, I am grateful that I was there to see the brilliant orange sunset. Due to its enchanting vistas and near-complete silence, Chiricahua is among the most peaceful places I have ever been – simply wonderful!

The golden garden of Chiricahua in full evening glow

We rolled into Bisbee after dark, a sleepy mining town turned artist community a few miles from the Mexican border. When our reservation at a haunted AirBnB was cancelled by a truly crazy happenstance, we stayed instead at the historic Copper Queen Hotel, a Victorian-era landmark that is also allegedly haunted. A cool, clear morning afforded us a nice walk around the narrow streets of the town, window-shopping the folk art galleries and dusty storefronts (including a fun music store where I test-strummed a 10-string banjo and a bass ukulele, super eclectic). This stroll into eras past prepared us for our tour of the Queen Mine, wherein we rode a narrow-gauge railcar into a tight mineshaft just as the miners did a century ago (except that they almost certainly walked, mining copper was grueling and dangerous labor). Bluish veins of copper ore were visible in the walls behind the antiquated mining equipment on display, quite a departure from the chasmic open pit mine just over the hill that effectively retired the entire underground mining way of life. In contrast to Bisbee’s raw authenticity, nearby Tombstone flaunts its western character in a more overt, theatrical manner, with its old Main Street resembling the set of Blazing Saddles. We enjoyed the drama of the gunfight reenactment at the OK Corral nonetheless, even though I struggled to explain the historical significance to Gold (kids in the Philippines don’t learn the glorified history of western sheriffs shooting upstart teenagers). At the Bird Cage Theater, a docent dressed as a period barkeep described more wild aspects of Tombstone, with performances and parties and prostitutes and more shootouts. Between Bisbee and Tombstone, you can get a vivid and unbelievable picture of life in late 1800s Arizona, quintessentially the wild west.

Returning to modern Arizona, we spent the next couple of days in Tucson and Phoenix. I had fond memories from spending a week at a resort in Tucson as a 6-year-old, learning how to swim and riding the big waterslide eighty times. But coming back as an adult, my quick visit was highlighted by Tucson’s most iconic feature: the saguaro cactus. We enjoyed a desert sunset over a ‘forest’ of these majestic cacti, with their tall, bulbous branches against a dramatic orange and purple backdrop. The next morning, we hiked into Saguaro National Park, enjoying the panoramic views of these sticky forests while observing up-close the microecosystems these cacti provide for small animals like lizards and wrens. Likewise, our visit to Phoenix was abbreviated, but we did get to take in regional art (including a fantastic exhibit of kachina dolls and ornamental spears at the Heard Museum) before a nice Tex-Mex meal with my friend Philip, another Missouri emigree who absolutely loves living in Arizona now. While city life is not the reason I came to love the Southwest, there’s no shortage of interesting and fun things to do in Phoenix and Tucson!

The following day was a washout, but that didn’t prevent us from checking out a few national monuments as we made our way north. First, Montezuma’s Castle is worth the 15-minute stop of incredulous staring, an impossible feat of ancient engineering tucked up in a sheer sandstone cliff. Flagstaff displayed a bit of everything I love: pine forests, hike and bike trails, a ski slope, college town atmosphere, microbreweries, Nepalese food, and minimal light pollution (a Dark Sky city, Flagstaff is home to the Lowell Observatory, where Pluto was discovered and important observational research on our expanding universe still takes place). Pressing on to Sunset Crater, I hiked in pouring rain through an expansive, bubbly black lava flow and around a red cinder cone, volcanic marvels only surpassed weeks later on a trip to Maui. Brief views of the ancient Wupatki settlement, dinosaur tracks, and the painted desert were unspectacular, but I can’t let the rare cold, wet day tarnish my view – I’ll just have to revisit this part of Arizona later, perhaps on a future trip to Sedona!

Montezuma’s Castle defying physics, and a lava field/forest at Sunset Crater

We awoke the next morning under a clearing sky, just in time for the early morning tour of Upper Antelope Canyon. A beautiful slot canyon cut into a featureless patch of desert, our tour included all of the Instagram views of the swirling sandstone layers above, accentuated by the golden hour lighting. Though we were herded through the narrow, highly photogenic passageway rather quickly, our tour guide was gracious and found us all the best camera angles. Tours are run by the Navajo Nation, who shares a focus on conservation with visitors while strictly supervising us to prohibit solo exploration on reservation lands. We stopped at the Cameron Trading Post to sample Navajo cuisine: a hearty beef and vegetable stew with puffy fry bread, this was a highlight! Nearby Horseshoe Bend was the first of spectacular canyon panoramas – we sat for awhile on the precipice, 1000 feet above the Colorado River, watching tiny boats navigate the giant reflective “U” below. The sandstone cliffs were partly in shadow from the mid-morning sun, making for a really breathtaking contrast with even more impressive vistas to come.

Swirling sandstone and glimmering light rays at Antelope Canyon

Wide angle lens needed to capture the enormity of Horseshoe Bend

Moving downriver, the canyon became gradually deeper and wider, a growing chasm in the vast, otherwise barren plateau, until we found ourselves overlooking the Grand Canyon. There aren’t really words to describe the scenery at the South Rim, and photos can’t begin to do justice to its size and splendor. My friend Philip may have explained the viewing experience best: “You stand at the edge for the first time and it just blows your mind, leaving you speechless for 30 minutes until you can soak it all up.” Well let me tell you that it didn’t lose its luster after a half hour, as we gazed in awe at several of the viewpoints. The view of the north rim, layers of striated rock held up by buttresses of ancient sandstone, cascading all the way to the river over a half mile below. The view in each direction along the river, where the majestic walls cast mesmerizing shadows in the depths of the canyon and fade with distance into the haze. The view in the foreground, where the snowy rim below our feet yielded to an abrupt precipice, steep cliffs of eroding sandstone interrupted by resolute monoliths that have withstood the many centuries of weathering. We watched the canyon’s face change as the day came to a close, as shadows lengthened and the haze turned the scene from tan to orange to purple. The “wow” factor was still present for me the next morning, and I would love to someday hike from rim to rim (or even float the mighty Colorado!) to unlock more perspectives of this truly awe-inspiring natural wonder.

The view from the South Rim is truly Grand!

We concluded the trip in Las Vegas, which is a famously wild place in its own right. But I’ve enjoyed Vegas more as a jumping off point for other adventures in the desert. Nearby Red Rock Canyon is a beautiful preserve surrounded by picturesque red bluffs – I love the Calico Tanks hike that climbs through a narrow rocky canyon to an overlook with a wide-angle vista of the glitzy Vegas skyline. Valley of Fire State Park offers more of the striking sandstone geology (the flowing striations of Fire Wave made for an incredible picnicking backdrop), along with slot canyons, ancient petroglyphs, and a herd of mountain goats. The Hoover Dam is a worthy detour, both to view an early 20th-century engineering marvel and see firsthand the urgency of the Southwest’s water crisis indicated by the pale ‘bathtub rings’ of the shrinking Lake Mead. In December 2018, my cousin Tom and I made a short overnight trip to Zion in Utah, hiking the breathtaking Angel’s Landing on a beautiful afternoon in the peace of the offseason. I would love to return to this area, spending more time visiting the canyonlands of southern Utah, sleeping under the stars in colorful Death Valley, watching for UFOs near Area 51 – there’s an irreproducible magic to the Southwest that makes even bizarre accounts seem possible. I now understand the inspiration that comes to many in the desert, as I was continually awed by its magnificent natural beauty and connected elementally through its stark quietude. And I hope that everyone can experience some of the inner peace that I experienced in places to where my soul longs to explore further.

One Haole’s Holiday in Hawaii

July 17, 2020May 20, 2021 / Eric / 3 Comments

As the coronavirus swept across the world, I spent the first two weeks of March in paradise. It was certainly a unique time to travel, as the impending crisis provided a window to a fragile balance that exists in Hawaii. Unfortunately, virus-related closures prevented me from visiting a few sites (including the Iolani Palace) near the end of my trip, but I am relieved that I had a safe return to the mainland. In the meantime, those two weeks provided an enduring travel high that helped me through the following months of antisocial lockdown. I spent most of my time on Oahu, getting somewhat of an inside perspective while visiting my cousin Tom. But the cherry on top was our three days in Maui, so be sure to scroll down!

Getting to Know O’ahu

Upon arriving in the open-air terminal at Daniel K. Inouye airport, I immediately felt the tropical evening breeze, fresh and damp with rain. Tom picked me up and brought me to his place in Waikiki, a modern one-bedroom condo overlooking the Ala Wai golf course, rowing canal, and cloud-capped Ko’olau mountains. While he worked the morning shift at the TV station, I would set my code on autopilot and then set out to explore the neighborhood. Just a short walk from the tourist center of Waikiki Beach, I strolled by the statue of surfing legend Duke Kahanamoku and the large banyan trees almost daily, whether on my way to the beach or just out for a quick musubi (spam and rice wrapped in a single strip of seaweed) or plate lunch. I spent several mornings doing light reading and making phone calls in the verdant Kapi’olani Park. A couple of times, I ventured beyond the bustle of Waikiki, past the aquarium and the canoe club, jogging through a magnificently wealthy neighborhood to the secluded beach beneath the Diamond Head Lighthouse – easily my favorite spot near Waikiki!

After Tom finished at the station around midday, we spent the afternoons out in Oahu’s many recreation and relaxation sites. My first day was a rite of initiation, a hike straight up Koko Head on a steep patchy railway. The view at the top was incredible, with a craggy caldera overlooking the ocean to the east and a sunset shrouded by curtains of rain to the west. Sore but eager for more, I was excited to climb Diamond Head the next day. A much easier paved trail took us up the inside of the sheltered crater to the popular summit, a ‘pillbox’ bunker built in the early 1900s as a key lookout over the Honolulu harbor. Naturally, the view was spectacular in all directions: a shimmering skyline of high rises stretching from Waikiki to downtown, a row of wrinkled green mountains along the spine of the island, shadowy reefs extending to distant wavebreaks populated with little surfer dots, blue sea and sky off into eternity. Below, a bird’s eye view of megamansions to one side and the deep green caldera to the other. And the bunker was pretty cool, a 3-story maze of concrete nooks and passageways. I think the hundreds of people on the trail would agree, it’s a must-see!

Diamond Head panorama, the crown jewel of Waikiki

Venturing farther afield, we spent an afternoon on the North Shore, which was very enjoyable despite the rain. Known as one of the premier surfing destinations of the entire world, I watched surfers take on comparatively calm 5-foot waves near the world-famous Pipeline while feasting on some delectable garlic shrimp. We snorkeled at Turtle Bay – ironically, this was the only place we didn’t see turtles, but the fish were pretty nice. Not really needing to cool down, we stopped at Matsumoto’s for Hawaiian shaved ice – boy was that a good decision, I loved the vibrant flavors of lilikoi (passion fruit), mango, and guava in that tie-dye snowball. We visited an organic coffee farm, wandering the orchard to see raw coffee beans on shrubs and trying all of the samples. We resisted the tourist trap of the Dole Plantation, though I would have liked to see pineapples growing if it was the right season. On another afternoon, we toured the Kualoa Ranch – overpriced tickets aside, it was cool to see the movie props and filming locations for many iconic scenes, including parts of Jurassic Park and Jumanji.

Over on the east side of the island, arguably the best snorkeling I’ve experienced was at the Hanauma Bay marine sanctuary. Swimming carefully within the conservation rules, I was able to watch and film sea turtles and a large variety of colorful fish within the canyons of coral. At nearby Halona Blowhole, we observed the sea spray from the rocky coast as well as an extra blowhole from a whale swimming not far offshore. One day, we relaxed in the white sand and powder blue surf at Kailua Beach. As the sunlight began to wane, we hiked up a steep grassy ridge to the Lanakai pillbox, another concrete battlement with spectacular views of the deep blue coast and lush green mountains.

My attempt at underwater photography doesn’t fully capture the colorful explosion of life in the reef ecosystem

It became my goal to climb a ridge on the central spine of Oahu, a difficult choice considering the multitude of hiking trails to panoramic viewpoints. The haiku stairs and Pali cliffs are closed indefinitely, and I wasn’t about to try a high-risk, illegal hike solo no matter how extraordinary the view. I settled on the Ka’au Crater trail, which was about as much adventure as I could handle on my own. Seizing on a gap in the rainclouds, I drove up to the trailhead and set off into the dense jungle. I muddied my shoes almost immediately, a fact of life hiking in Hawaii. Two miles of crashing through foliage and tiptoeing along a water pipeline, and I arrived at the first waterfall. This is where the trail became really fun: I climbed up a series of 4 waterfalls using rocks, roots, and anchored ropes. The trail opened up into a wide, marshy volcanic crater, and I continued up the right rim. The trail became narrow and steep, tracing the ridge between two 45 degree slopes. I failed to make it to the top, impeded by a 6-foot mud wall that I didn’t trust myself to descend safely, even with the supplied rope. But the view was incredible, a wide green crater shrouded in fog above the sunlit city and coastline below. Crazy, amazing hike just minutes from the crowds of Honolulu.

3 miles and countless rope climbs later, the view!

Honestly, some of our best times were spent just hanging around Waikiki. I visited the station for a morning show, always fun when you know the anchor. I tagged along to a few group functions (back when that was still a thing people did), meeting new acquaintances over Korean BBQ, drinks, and activities. We frequented the Shirokiya Japan Village, a bustling Tokyo-style food court where I noshed on ramen, udon, teppanyaki, katsu, and gyoza – all very delicious! We also frequented a couple of bars for happy hour, getting to know the bartenders closest to the true pulse of Waikiki. We enjoyed a hula performance from Tom’s friend Kanoe, followed by an impromptu hula lesson (it’s harder than it looks when you’re tall and stiff). I almost felt like a local when we started chatting with the accompanying band, the only two haoles in the room of tourists who truly appreciated their renditions of our favorite Jawaiian lyrical genius, Professor Ka’ikena Scanlan. It was truly special to explore Oahu through the lens of someone who lives there, and I’m grateful to Tom for enabling these unforgettable experiences.

An Excursion around Maui

For the highest highlight of the trip, Tom and I took a semi-spontaneous 3-day trip to Maui. Upon arrival, the car rental agent offered to upgrade our ride to an all-terrain Jeep Wrangler so we could see the whole island – absolutely worth it! We did see the entire island, from the frigid volcanic peak of Haleakala down to the diverse and colorful beaches lining the coast. The magic of this small island starts with its vast diversity of natural wonders, and all the unexpected little things in between cements Maui as one of my all-time favorite places.

We started our tour with a relaxing retreat to the sunny beaches lining Maui’s south and west shores. Bypassing touristy Kihei for more secluded beaches, we set up our towels below the towering lava cliff at Big Beach in Makena. I had a wonderful time riding the powder blue waves with Ryland, an upbeat grain farmer from Manitoba who started chatting with me after we both wiped out on an ill-advised body surfing attempt. Tom and I eventually wandered over the lava rock barrier to Little Beach, which had a less calming, clothing-optional air to it. Not to be deterred, I impulsively stripped down and bolted for the ocean. But the thing about a nude beach, I learned, is that no one cares what you look like when you take your clothes off. Men and women, spanning a wide range of shapes, sizes, and ages, go about their lounging, walking, or swimming without making eye contact, like they just want to enjoy a day at the beach. Once I overcame the fears in my mind, the experience was rejuvenating – there’s nothing so freeing as the feeling of swirling waves in the absence of board shorts, social constructs, and everything else!

Big beach at Makena, with a privacy wall of lava

On to Lahaina, the views along Maui’s west coast were simply awesome. Pacific humpback whales winter in these protected waters by the thousands, and you can literally whale-watch from the shore. From the driver’s seat of our Jeep, I managed to glimpse a tail fluke and couple of blowhole eruptions, a truly surreal surprise. Lahaina had a quaint, East-Coast-beach-town-meets-Hawaii vibe, with kitschy souvenir stores and crowded seafood restaurants lining the streets beyond the timeworn colonial government square (which is gradually being overtaken by a massive, lush banyan grove). Momentarily toning down the slapping of our flip-flops, we checked out a few of the art galleries: I was particularly enthralled by some vivid paint-on-metal Hawaiian nature scenes, while Tom found a fascinating 18th century map of the Hawaiian islands with rough shapes and awkward Anglicized misspellings of place names. We relaxed for a bit on Kaanapali’s Black Rock Beach, a long strip of white sand lined with golf resorts: while I didn’t jump off the titular lava rock outcropping, I did see two sea turtles and massive schools of fish while snorkeling! An excellent dinner at Down The Hatch, an elevated seafood grill featured on Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives, and our first day was in the books.

The next day we set off early on the famed Road to Hana, a 40-mile joyride that snakes along the lush windward coast, passing surf beaches, jungles, waterfalls, and native Hawaiian townships. We picked up a quick breakfast in the surf town of Paia to enjoy it on a grassy hillside overlooking Ho’okipa Beach, where dozens of surfers were catching the long wave breaks. With our Jeep’s top open, we cruised through the jungle with our heads on swivels and cameras hanging out of the windows, using every ounce of willpower to resist stopping at every waterfall, fruit stand, and barbecue hut along the way. We made it to Hana around midday, making a stop at Black Sand Beach, which as its name implies is defined by jet-black volcanic sand nestled in a lava-walled cove. It was really cool to see the fine, charcoal-like sand squish between my toes and to see the waves rush inside a nearby lava tube. The contrast between the deep black beach and the bright green tropical vegetation was positively eye-popping, even during a heavy rain. Perhaps more striking was Red Sand Beach, which we trekked across a slippery cliffside path to access. The volcanic sand was a vivid shade of brick red, surrounded by high cliffs of a similar hue. The waves that crashed over the jagged rocks created some wild currents in the protected waters abutting the beach, naturally forming an exhilarating (possibly hazardous) lazy river in its eddies. It’s hard to convey just how unbelievable these beaches are, so I hope the following pictures aid in sharing precisely how blown away I was by these unique spots:

Red Sand Beach, like swimming on another planet

Black Sand Beach, like entering a photo negative

Our adventure intensified on the road past Hana, somehow, making the whole afternoon one of the purest, wildest travel experiences I’ve had to date. After refueling at a delicious Ethiopian food truck, we continued down the road as it turned to gravel and eroded to potholes of increasing depth and muddiness. We passed a few miles of pastoral countryside, making a quick stop at a powerful 80-foot waterfall gushing next to the road, of course; then we arrived at the secluded lower part of Haleakala National Park. The earlier rain had turned the Sacred Pools of O’heo into a roaring brown rapid and the first mile of our hike into a slippery mud hill, but that didn’t deter us from hiking the Pipiwai Trail in its entirety. We were rewarded with a series of massive cascades, culminating in a horseshoe-shaped valley surrounded by 400-foot cliffs and ribbon waterfalls. On the way, we walked under the largest banyan tree of all and through the highly Instagrammable bamboo forest, an impassably dense tangle of thick stalks in which we were shrouded in mist but perfectly top-lit. All in all, it was a fantastic hike with quite the variety of Maui vistas.

These 400-foot waterfalls felt even more like Jurassic Park!

As the sun began to set, we left the remaining tourists at the national park for our return drive through the remote backcountry of southeastern Maui. The road became a two-tire-track adventure that traced the rugged contours of the coast, at times winding along a sheer cliff face directly above the ocean. Being so far from cell reception we unfortunately missed Charles Lindbergh’s seaside gravesite in the village of Kipahilu; in a way, we made up for it by stopping at a picturesque church in the middle of nowhere, strolling around its beautifully landscaped but eerily silent grounds. The hollow stone buildings and creaking metal turnstile were the first hint, but the whole area evoked the imagination of a world without people, far removed from the crowded tourist developments across the island and the loud bustle of civilization in general. Alone on the road, we made frequent stops to experience various angles of the countryside: a windswept grassy knoll with a view up the moorland slopes of Haleakala and down to the post-sunset sea, a panoramic point overlooking the rocky coastline and a natural arch faintly illuminated by gold afterglow. As our last moments of daylight faded away, we found ourselves stopped in the middle of a herd of free-range cattle, waiting about 15 minutes for all 20 or so cows and calves to nonchalantly amble across. I can imagine the road continued to offer astounding views as it wound upward from the coast and into the night, but what we saw beyond Hana was more than enough to justify the Jeep rental…the sights were unforgettable!

Sights along the road past Hana, an off-the-beaten path adventure

On our last day, we woke up even earlier in the hope of seeing the storied Haleakala sunrise, an ordeal that required reserving a ticket two days in advance to drive up the 10,000 foot summit two-plus hours before sunrise. It became even more of an ordeal when we were turned away at the national park gate: yesterday’s mud splatters, which coated every door and wheel well of our vehicle, posed a hazard to the delicate fungal microbiome at high altitude, we were told. Pulling over just out of view of the gate (hey, we weren’t going to miss the best sunrise in the world for that), we used Tom’s oldest beach towel to scrub every little spot of mud from that Jeep as drizzle turned to downpour. We switched drivers, cleared the gate, and raced up the mountain. Unfortunately, we arrived to a summit draped in a blowing cloud, dismal and damp at a chilly 40 ^oF. With no sun, there was no sunrise, and we couldn’t even see any of the multicolored volcanic crater that makes Haleakala’s panoramas so legendary. After huddling in the Visitor Center for a little while, we drove back down feeling cold, wet, and dejected. Those feelings wouldn’t last, however – after all, this is the land of Aloha – as we descended below the cloud line, the sky opened up into a beautiful, full-arc, double rainbow. Whether it was a consolation prize or a parting gift, I left Maui feeling lucky to have experienced such an abundance of the island’s natural beauty in such a short visit.

Holy Haleakala, I never knew it could be so cold in Hawaii…

The legendary Haleakala sunrise, as viewed by other people

Some societal quirks aside, I loved Hawaii and yearn to return. I would love to visit the Big Island to see the active lava flows: after oozing semi-continuously from 1983 to 2018, the activity at Hawaii Volcanoes National Park is bound to pick back up in the future. The epic hike along the Na Pali coast in Kauai is high up on my bucket list, as is catching a true Haleakala sunrise. The Molokini Crater off the coast of Maui also beckons, as a one-of-a-kind volcanic haven for underwater life. Then there are a few places that I’ll likely never experience, that seem like they can’t exist in today’s world, like the leper colony on Molokai or the exclusive invite-only tribal settlement on Niihau. Hawaii is truly a unique destination, isolated from the world but also a vibrant world of its own, and I hope to make it back someday.

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