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.

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.

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.

A parting gift of Aloha, appreciated in full with a wide-angle lens

Sightseeing in Sydney

January 12, 2019January 3, 2024 / Eric / Leave a comment

En route to New Zealand a few months ago, I had a three-day stopover in Sydney, a city defined by its iconic harbor but harboring a vibrant blend of nature, architecture, and culture. To get there, I only took the second-longest flight currently in operation, a 16-hour hop from Dallas to Sydney (which wasn’t nearly as bad as it sounds, having 2 adjacent seats to myself). Surprisingly well rested upon arrival, I set straight off for sightseeing. After the double-decker subway ride into the city, I popped up in the central green, right at the base of the landmark Westfield Sky Tower. Immediately, I was struck by the abundance of life in the park: beautiful spotted ibis puttering around like pigeons, a few colorful parakeets fluttering in the trees, and bright white cockatoos screeching in a flock. These loud birds would serve as a wake-up alarm the following mornings, a brutally Australian way to ward off jetlag.

I checked in at the East Sydney Hotel, a modest Victorian-era bar and inn in the quiet neighborhood of Woolloomooloo. I could have chatted with the proprietor, Sam, for hours — the Aussie old guard are so friendly, spinning casual conversation into the inexplicable feeling that you’ve known them for a long time. But I was mad hungry, so I walked down to the wharf and picked up a couple of meat pies. This would become a daily routine for me in New Zealand: breakfast pies have a range of savory fillings — from traditional mincemeat or chicken soup to Indian-style curry chicken or decadent lamb and mint — that I had a tasty and filling breakfast every day on the cheap. I sat on the wharf while I ate, just meters from a line of active duty battleships, as uniformed naval personnel passed in one direction while wealthy brunchgoers passed in the other.

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It was a positively beautiful morning, and I enjoyed taking in postcard views of the downtown skyline and opera house while walking around historic Macquarie’s Point. The Botanical Gardens are quite nice, though decidedly not peaceful on that Saturday with all the cockatoos, sprinklers, and other noise from the youth science festival that was happening on the lawn. I finally made it around to the iconic Sydney Opera House by late morning. It’s quite different than I expected: first off (and maybe this is the jetlag talking), its silver surface was blindingly bright in the sun, making it hard to take pictures or even look at. Built in the late 60s/early 70s, the iconic shape is supported by thick concrete girders, so the view from below looks a bit like a highway underpass. The ‘opera house’ is actually a complex of three separate buildings, two adjacent opera halls and a smaller bar/restaurant in front. Something I did expect: the plaza was packed with tourists from all over the world. Standing on the steps of this world famous landmark was a bit underwhelming, to be honest, in part because I didn’t take the tour of the inside. But the views of the opera house from afar are just exquisite, and I spent the next three days taking pictures of all its best angles.

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I was hungry again, so I set off for Chinatown. Slowly, of course: one of my favorite parts of wandering through a city is “window shopping.” But I’m not much of a shopper, I’m mostly looking for fun things to do or interesting things to eat. Through the first door was a colorful escalator up to the National Opal Collection, a large jewelry store with a mini-museum of Australian opals of all colors and sizes. Most intriguing were the opalized fossils: dinosaur bones, trilobites, and petrified wood encased by an opalescent silica sheen. Moving further along, I peeked into the city hall and St. Andrew’s Cathedral, two Victorian brownstone landmarks with Gothic-style accents and prickish security guards. Brief forays into a record shop and a dusty used bookstore, each lined floor to ceiling with a mostly familiar but distinctly Australian spread of media young and old, then I finally arrived at my destination.

Chinatown: it’s like another world within Sydney, overwhelming to all the senses but also a gastronomic paradise. Over the course of 2 days, I had a total of 6 meals here, some adventurous and all exceptional. Chinatown Noodle King served up an incredible lo mein with thick homemade noodles stir-fried with vegetables in a savory brown paste. I followed it with a small plate of fried gyoza and a boba tea from one of the many indoor “street food” vendors. A plate of Indonesian hot chicken that started a blaze which spread quickly from the mouth to bursting throughout my entire head. A soothing bowl of pumpkin soup from a Peruvian breakfast cafe across the street. Cambodian curried chicken fried rice. Malaysian spicy peanut chicken skewers. I did my best Anthony Bourdain and noshed away my jetlag, pensively observing the throngs of people, diverse in ethnicity and life experience, partaking wordlessly in a large-scale cultural exchange. An unbelievably satisfying time, and perhaps the best string of meals I’ve had in any city I’ve visited!

Beyond a strong Asian influence, Sydney also celebrates a rich maritime tradition, best captured by its Maritime Museum on Darling Harbour. I explored the history of Australian seafaring in chronological order, from a life-size replica of Captain Cook’s Endeavor to a World War II-era naval patrol boat to a modern submarine. Sydney Harbour is dotted with a range of watercraft — sailboats, ferries, tugboats, tour boats, and more — and I imagine the summer months bring more water traffic to this boat-friendly city. Sydney evokes many elements of San Francisco and Seattle, most notably in its warm winter climate and multi-generational wealthy class. The old Aussie elite may prefer their lawn bowling clubs while the younger up-and-comers favor progressive fashion and an Instagram-able lifestyle, but Sydney’s visible high cultures give the city an unmistakable air of opulence.

After falling asleep early on Saturday evening, I awoke to the sound of helicopters circling my little neighborhood inn. Turns out that just a few short blocks away was the starting line for the City2Surf half marathon, a huge city-wide event with over 10,000 participants running from downtown to Bondi Beach. So rather than going to Bondi as planned, I set off opposite the flow of runners toward the central green, stepping into the brownstone St. James Cathedral just in time to catch the entire catholic mass. Then a couple hours at the Australian Museum, featuring a two-story world anthropology exhibit from the 1800s and a very impressive collection of minerals and crystals. I tried a ‘hopper’ for lunch, an elevated Sri Lankan entree of spicy curried meat served with a runny egg in a flaky bowl-shaped pancake. While the Indonesian hot chicken was more of a ‘controlled burn’ lighting just my head on fire, the black curry lamb was a raging conflagration from entry to exit, hands down the spiciest meal I’ve eaten (and enjoyed, unexpectedly).

After that fire show, I ventured across the street to where Google Maps showed a curious landmark labeled “Australian Museum of Magical Arts.” Intrigued, I looked around the perimeter of the unmarked building, where the dusty glass door displayed a few fliers for old magic shows and a sign with plain type reading “Tours daily at 1:30, by reservation.” I reserved my spot, waited, then at about 1:40, a man materialized in the doorway, dressed in black and with jet black hair that hung like curtains around his face. This was James Karp, the resident magician, and he led an exclusive behind-the-scenes tour of his magic show. I took the Magician’s Oath, which means I can’t share his tricks, illusions, or diversions. But I know them! And I met his disappearing dove. It was really interesting learning from this guy, who trained in Las Vegas 25 years ago and has been a full devotee to the magician’s craft ever since — but he may have ruined magic shows for me forever, a possible side effect of enlightenment.

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Late in the afternoon, I decided to take the bus down to the famous Bondi Beach, hoping the crowds had since subsided. Due to…the language barrier maybe, I mistakenly boarded the wrong bus for another part of the coast. I passed the expansive Centennial Park with the national rugby stadium and finally got off at UNSW-Sydney. Across the campus and over a large hill and I soon arrived at the coastal neighborhood of Coogee, with a beautiful seaside park full of Instagram dogs and their owners enjoying the last hour of a beautiful Sunday. I bought a Thai tea on the main drag (even the suburban commercial streets in Australia and New Zealand feature small businesses run by immigrants from all over the world) then set off on the Coogee-to-Bondi walk, a beautiful 3.8-mile trek along a picturesque coastline of sandy coves and rocky peninsulas with high cliffs. It was a long walk, though, especially with the delays. First, I got chased off of a movie set not once but twice — without even catching a glimpse of the actors, I’m so disappointed in myself. Second, the path was diverted into the historic Waverley Cemetery, a large hillside with an ocean view packed wall-to-wall with marble tombs and statues, made even more eerie by the orange glow of sunset. Third, I lost the last 20 or so minutes of daylight when an EMS helicopter landed right in front of me as I approached Bronte Beach — it was unclear whether there was an incident or rescue, but the Aussies and I sure tried to glean that information! It was pitch dark when I finally arrived at Bondi, which was oddly deserted with several blocks of empty event tents. I ate Colombian comfort food in one of the few open establishments I could find then boarded the correct bus back to my hotel.

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For my last morning in Sydney, I woke up before dawn and ran to the Harbour Bridge in order to catch the sunrise over the Opera House, which was just spectacular as pictured above. I continued my run along the north side of the harbor, passing by the sailboat marinas of old wealth neighborhoods as I stopped at practically every beach for a new vista of the downtown skyline and the iconic bridge. Around Cremorne Point with its quiet park and adorable little lighthouse, over the steep hills of the San Francisco-esque neighborhood of Mosman, and past the Taronga Zoo, several miles later I ended up at a quiet sandbar in the Sydney Harbour National Park, where I took my shoes off and relaxed on the beach. My feet hurt from all the ground I had covered, but I had a wonderful time in Sydney. It’s a dynamic city with no shortage of fun activities to do and new things to try. Feeling satisfied, I took the ferry back to downtown, refueled on a couple more Chinatown meals, and headed to the airport, certain I will return again to the city that has it all.

Adventures at the Edge of the Earth

September 9, 2018January 3, 2024 / Eric / 2 Comments

August 31^st was the longest day of my life. I woke up at 4 o’clock on Friday morning in Christchurch, New Zealand, crossed the International Date Line on the longest of my four flights, sat on a runway in Colorado Springs for 4 hours, then wound up stuck in Denver on Friday evening. After a spontaneous visit with cousins in Boulder, two more flights finally returned me to Springfield on Saturday night. This gauntlet of a journey has given me plenty of time to reflect about the trip, and boy, was it one for the ages. Two weeks of high adventure touring in a place known for its extreme sports and remarkable variety of scenery, from snow-covered mountains to magnificent coastlines to unique volcanic and geothermal features. Fasten your seat belt low and tight across your hips, and I’ll try my best to take you along for the ride.

North Island

Clayton and I started our journey in Auckland, New Zealand’s largest urban center. Heavy rain prevented us from taking a ferry out to one of the nearby volcanic islands, but we saw the Maori art (from fascinating 19^th century portraiture to eclectic modern works) at the Auckland Art Gallery and absorbed the Seattle-like vibe of the downtown harbor. We then set off in our rental car for the North Island countryside, which was both pastoral and rugged, an inspiration for Middle Earth in The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings. In fact, the first place we visited was Hobbitton, the actual movie set in The Shire. Clayton, a more avid LotR fan than I, was positively brimming with childhood excitement as our hobbit-like guide Dan led us around the 40 or so meticulously landscaped hobbit holes constructed for filming. My excitement was tapped too as we partook in the evening feast, a smorgasbord of woodfired meats, vegetables, New Zealand desserts, cider and ale served on long tables at the Green Dragon. Honestly, the whole experience was otherworldly, it was very easy to imagine we were in the Shire that night.

We had some ‘party business’ at the Hobbitton movie set.

The next day, we participated in a wild caving tour of the Waitomo glowworm caves with the Legendary Blackwater Rafting Company. The adventure began with a 120-foot abseil (cooler version of ‘rappel’ used in NZ) down a narrow limestone shaft. A short zipline then flung us through a chamber with hundreds of glowworms, like stationary stars dotting the cave walls and ceiling. Unique to New Zealand, these glowworms are the larval form of the fungus gnat, but it’s way cooler to gaze at their starry patterns than to think about their biology. Grabbing an innertube, we proceeded to jump off a ledge into the frigid water. The blackwater rafting portion of the trip was a gentle float along a subterranean stream with hundreds of glowworms up above. At one point, our guide yelled some incantations in Maori and loudly slapped the water; this disturbance provoked the glowworms to luminesce several times brighter, an instinct to attract insect prey. Under the light of a thousand glowworms, our guide waxed poetically about his spiritual connection to the cave, ascertaining the meaning of life – you just had to be there. We floated over a couple of rapids and a short waterslide before free-climbing two 12-foot waterfalls to ascend back into the New Zealand rainforest. Spectacular and very New Zealand experience overall!

Abseiling into the Waitomo cave system.

That afternoon, we stopped by the Otorohanga Kiwi Centre, a top-tier conservation facility for brown kiwi, the most common yet still endangered kiwi species endemic to the North Island. Kiwi can only be observed in pitch-dark nocturnal exhibits, and it was cool to see the strange bird running on its stout sticks of legs and digging for food with its spear of a beak. Several other bird species unique to New Zealand were on display as well, including kea, kaka, kakariki, several varieties of teal, wood pigeon, and oystercatcher; a highlight was watching the oystercatcher pick up a mussel, crack it open against a rock, and toss back the meat, all within about 15 seconds. The freshwater eels were numerous, lifting their heads out of the water to feed on a mixture of meats. We also saw a tuatara, a large, iguana-like reptile older than many dinosaur species that has only survived in New Zealand.

Our next stop at the Hamilton Gardens was surprisingly a trip highlight…arriving 20 minutes til close, Clayton and I ran through the maze of intricately designed meditation spaces. There were surprises at every corner: an Italian courtyard designed to Medici blueprints, an English tudor garden with a distinct Alice-in-Wonderland feel, a Maori farming terrace centered around an ornate food storage tower, a tropical oasis, a larger than life sculpture garden, and more…never have I had so much fun in a botanical garden with someone my age. Hamilton proper was a pretty cool city, and we splurged on beer and salted oysters in a trendy nosh spot downtown before capping off our evening with a drive through the Waikato plains under a vast starry sky.

Maori-style kumara plot at Hamilton Gardens

The next day, we woke up for a Pacific sunrise on Hahei Beach before walking the scenic path to Cathedral Cove. The Coromandel Peninsula is one of the most beautiful areas on the North Island, and we were treated to a series of desktop-background views. Arriving to the secluded cove at high tide, we heard the waves thundering as they broke in the cathedral-like natural archway, steadily carving away at the towering limestone walls. On the other end of the beach, a cold spring waterfall trickled out of the canopied clifftop 50 feet above. I could have sat in the soft white sand all day, taking in the views of Sphinx Rock and the surrounding striated bluffs. Instead, I dove into the icy clear water and breathlessly swam into two limestone caves, where I was completely alone with my echo and a small strip of sand. An incredibly peaceful place to spend a warm spring morning.

High tide at Cathedral Cove didn’t stop me from walking beyond the magnificent archway.

Just 5 miles down the road, we stopped at Hot Water Beach. As the name suggests, digging in the sand in certain spots reveals geothermally heated pools of water, ranging from lukewarm to downright scalding. Clayton and I rented a shovel in town and got to work on our ambitious earth-moving project: a spacious beach-jacuzzi with the perfect natural water temperature. We staked out a spot on the border between hot and cold, just a few feet from a steaming stream that was unbearably hot to stand in for more than a second. After a solid 20 minutes of digging, we perfected the temperature by diverting a small channel of this hot stream into the cool side of our pool. Then we sat, relaxed and content, chilling in a large hot bath. When I started feeling overheated, another dip in the ocean was just what the doctor ordered. I left the Coromandel with every nerve and muscle in my body relaxed, completely pruny but rejuvenated.

We spent the night in Tauranga, a peninsular city in the Bay of Plenty. Looming over the city is Mt. Maunganui, a solitary volcano at the end of a sandbar. Though completely deserted on our misty morning stop, the beach is steeped in history, from arguably the most important Maori treaty in 1840 to historic surfing competitions in the 50s and 60s. Tsunami warning information was posted everywhere, instructing visitors to run up the mountain when they feel an earthquake. New Zealand’s position on the Ring of Fire means there is a high risk for seismic/volcanic activity throughout the country, and nowhere was the urgency of this risk more evident. We climbed on the lava rocks, narrowly avoiding the sea spray from natural blowholes. On the way out, we passed through Te Puke, the center of the agricultural belt and kiwifruit capital of New Zealand. Naturally, we had to stop at Te Puke Diner, and we were rewarded with the best meat pies of the entire trip. The power breakfast was important, as our stomachs would soon be tested by some insane whitewater rafting.

Bracing for impact at Tutea Falls, Kaituna River gorge

The Kaituna River is most famous for Tutea Falls, which at a height of 7 meters is the highest commercially rafted waterfall in the world. But the other 13 class-5 rapids combine to make this the most intense, action-packed hour of whitewater you’ll find anywhere. Anticipating the possibility of a flip, we received a “crash course” on how to get down in the ‘brace’ position, including the unusual command to curl up in a ball if we found ourselves in the water (normally you’re supposed to float along with your feet pointed downstream, but the high water volume ensured that the main risk was getting caught in a ferocious eddy). In the brief moments between rapids, I caught some glimpses of the spectacular scenery: fern trees and jungle vines hanging off the sheer brownstone walls of the steep canyon. We nailed the first few rapids, but no amount of forewarning could have prepared me for what happened at Tutea Falls. Clayton and I braced ourselves to the front of the raft as we sailed over the 2-story drop and plummeted into the swirling whitewater below. But rather than completing a graceful dive as planned, the raft reversed course and launched itself straight up the waterfall. While Clayton gently fell over the side of the raft, I was knocked out of the boat by an avalanche of bodies and oars pummeling my head and shoulders. When I tried to surface, I kept bumping against other flailing people and the pontoon: it wouldn’t be a good story if the raft didn’t land on top of me too. That’s when I remembered to ball up, but I kept hitting obstacles on the way up so abandoned that plan immediately. I gulped in two breaths of water before finally surfacing just as the guides were flipping the raft back over. Winded but flush with adrenaline, I climbed in and proceeded to pull in our raftmate Kev, an older Welsh man with a bum knee, while Clayton adjusted his GoPro. I’ll be honest, the experience seemed a bit scary and dangerous to me, but Clayton had a grand time. In the immediate aftermath, our team couldn’t remember how exactly we flipped, but once we pieced it together, it makes for one hell of a war story, right?

We survived! (This is the driest picture of our raft.)

After drying off, outside and in, we continued around the ancient crater lake to the city of Rotorua, the epicenter of Maori culture in New Zealand. We were treated to an extensive introduction to Maori culture at Te Puia, a living museum situated in a steaming geothermal valley. Our tour guide was a distinctively Maori man (with dark hair in a ponytail and sleeve tattoos peeking out from the edges of his jacket) named Paul McGarvey…no joke, like many Maori, he has at least one line tracing back to the British Isles. Anyway, he helped bring the reconstructed tribal village to life as he explained the Maori social customs, detailing strict traditional gender roles; for example, women were forbidden to carve wood because the process of felling a tree was dangerous, digging and burning out the root system until the tree comes crashing down. Thus when we toured the on-site national institutions for traditional carving and weaving, men were demonstrating the various carving arts while women worked on intricate weaving. The evening was capped with a Maori cultural show and hângî: a barbecue feast of lamb, beef, chicken, and native vegetables cooked in an in-ground, geothermal oven. We reenacted a customary greeting with the village leaders (a show of force followed by a conciliatory touch of foreheads) then were treated to a magnificent song and dance performance. After the delicious buffet feast, we learned how to do the haka, the war dance of the Maori. So the next night when we watched New Zealand’s beloved All Blacks annihilate the Australian Wallabies in a rugby match, we recognized every move of the haka, which the All Blacks famously perform pregame to intimidate opponents.

Professional Maori dancer demonstrating the Haka

Rotorua is also New Zealand’s geothermal center, boasting hundreds of hot springs around the Maori sacred ground of Whakarewarewa. Te Puia had its fair share of boiling springs, none more spectacular than the Pohutu geyser, which was actually two geysers. The smaller geyser, nicknamed the ‘indicator’, continuously sprays to a height of a couple feet. As the pressure builds underground, the ‘indicator’ increases in intensity until a 40-meter jet erupts behind it. This steaming fountain of near-boiling water persists for 15 minutes and erupts at least once per hour, so we went back to watch multiple times it was that cool. I could also watch the mud pools for hours, as superheated gas (water vapor plus minerals including sulfur) bubbled up to create regenerating ring patterns, like a pond of self-molding clay. On a rainy day, one of the mud pools was belching gas angrily, shooting globs of mud several feet in the air and obliterating its circular striations. A short drive up the road lies the quieter yet just as steamy Waimangu thermal valley, a hotspot for geothermal features in a rift created by the (geologically recent) eruption of nearby Mt. Tarawera in 1886. Located in a blast crater is the largest hot spring in the world, Frying Pan Lake. Here, steam rose from the 130 °F surface in mesmerizing swirls…it was like watching a miniature weather simulation, and I geeked out as the steam congregated in fronts and occasionally formed mini-tornadoes above the water. The blue pool spring and steaming cliffs were also impressive. We fittingly capped off the day by relaxing at Rotorua’s historic Polynesian Spa, a complex of naturally heated pools built on two hot springs featuring different blends of minerals. Sure my dry skin flaked off and my shorts now irreversibly smell like sulfur, but it felt sooo nice.

These particular mud pools were protected from being mined and sold as sought-after women’s facial products.

Pohutu Geyser, too tall to fit in the frame

Wonder why they call this Frying Pan Lake…

The next few days flew by, with Clayton succumbing to a severe sore throat and exhaustion finally catching up to me after that action-packed first week. The saying that “it’s only fun until someone goes to the hospital” held somewhat true; fortunately, New Zealand’s healthcare system gave Clayton the appropriate care/antibiotics within an hour and we continued on our way. We spent an afternoon in Taupo, stopping by the gushing Huka Falls and taking a relaxing boat cruise on Lake Taupo to see the impressive (but notably modern) Maori rock carvings. Looking to the far side of New Zealand’s largest lake, we could see the majestic snow-capped volcano Mt. Ngauruhoe garnished by a few low clouds in an otherwise clear sky. The sunset across the lake was simply spectacular as well. However, these would be our only views of the volcanoes within Tongariro National Park, as the next day was a complete washout. Our guided trek of the famous Tongariro Alpine Crossing was canceled for the rain, and I instead hiked alone through lava flows and alpine marshes. Normally, I would have seen 3 large volcanoes looming over the trail, but the dense fog and driving rain convinced me I’ll need to come back during better weather. We pressed on to Wellington, New Zealand’s capital with big-city entertainment and a small-city feel.

The Weta folks made this wonderful piece of public art for the Wellington airport.

Tucked in one of Wellington’s hilly neighborhoods is the Weta Cave, an internationally acclaimed studio for special effects. They’ve had their hands in a number of blockbuster movies, and the workshop is packed full of costumes, props, and scale models of characters (some smaller and even some much larger than life) used in past films. Our tour guide was a chain-mail specialist, which means he spends his days linking rings of steel or leather to create armor for movie stars to wear on set. Pretty unique job. While the Lord of the Rings creations steal the show, I was particularly impressed with their materials and robotics section; in this day and age, seemingly any texture or effect can be created using advanced polymers and robotically driven movements. We also visited New Zealand’s national museum Te Papa and the botanical garden/space observatory. Finally, we treated ourselves to a few great meals of Asian food, headlined by my guy Steven Adams’s favorite Malaysian noodle place. Our enjoyable day in Wellington was a nice way to get our legs under us before our flight to the South Island, where taller mountains and even higher adventure would await.

South Island

We began the second half of our journey in Dunedin (pronounced dun-EE-din), an industrial city on the south Pacific coast known for Cadbury chocolate and Speights beer (we had plenty of both!). Our first stop was Baldwin Street, recognized by Guinness as the world’s steepest street at a slope of 2.86:1. Not trusting our economy rental car, we walked up the 1/4 mile hill, and was it steep! The sidewalk was literally a staircase. The houses were obviously built on a level foundation, but the slope created some pretty funny illusions of tilted buildings. We ate lunch on the Octagon — as the capital of Otago, Dunedin’s city center was cleverly designed on an octagonal street layout. Then we spent the afternoon on the Otago peninsula, an incredibly beautiful countryside with steep pastured hills and vistas of both the harbor and the open ocean from Highcliff Road. Our main stop was at Allan’s Beach, a secluded beach accessible by a one-lane dirt road hovering precariously over the bay (driving it felt like I was in a car commercial) then stepping over two fences to cross a private pasture. Clayton nearly stepped on a sea lion, the highlight of our mostly futile search for wildlife. Turns out it was all just farther along the peninsula…

Standing at the top of the world’s steepest street like it’s no big deal

As evening approached, we visited the Royal Albatross Centre, a conservation facility around the only mainland breeding colony for albatross. There was no shortage of shorebirds surrounding the cliffs, as I counted 3 albatross soaring high above the clutter of gulls. When night fell, we took a guided walk down to an illuminated viewing platform to watch the blue penguins, the smallest penguin species in the world. Twenty minutes of waiting in the cold wind for pitch darkness, then a ‘raft’ of over 30 penguins arrived on the beach. Communicating with one another through audible ‘qwok’ vocalizations, they waddled as one mass up to the rocks, where they clambered clumsily over each other to their nesting burrows. Soon, trills of happiness echoed around the bay from mating pairs thrilled to be reunited: after all, penguins can spend weeks at a time fishing in the open ocean. A few stragglers later arrived on the beach, in much less of a hurry to get home–these were likely bachelor penguins, shooting the breeze and surfing the waves like they had nowhere to be. It was really fascinating to see penguin social dynamics, particularly the anthropomorphism of a daily commute (with order and communication) returning to a monogamous household. Especially knowing that conservation efforts on that particular beach make it all possible.

March of the little blue penguins

The next day we drove across the island to Te Anau (via Gore, the country music capital of New Zealand, who’d’a thunk…), our gateway to Fiordland National Park and the Southern Alps. There we hiked the Rainbow Reach track, which features key settings from Lord of the Rings and the Two Towers. Though I didn’t really remember the movie, I knew immediately when we entered Fangorn Forest, as the mossy trees and billowy ferns looked very Middle Earth. Also, orcs kept popping out, it was weird. Anyway, we continued to the Gladden Fields, a wide fen with a fantastic echo where we could hear our voices bounce in a triangle off of the mountains. The end of the trail coincided with the end of the movie, where we stood on a gravel beach looking off at a fiord at the far end of Lake Manapouri. With that, I can say that I don’t need a Lord of the Rings marathon, because I walked one! We finished the day with pizza and beer in town, serenaded by a country-western (or reeeeally southern?) cover band. Say what you want, I thought they were really good!

One of the temperate rainforests of Middle Earth

We set off for Milford Sound early in the morning, just as the clouds gave way to a beautiful clear sky. Even the cop who nabbed Clayton for speeding (13 kph over the limit on the only straight road we drove all day, mind you) couldn’t put a damper on how great this day was. The 360° panoramas from the alpine meadows in Eglinton Valley were just awe-inspiring. The sky was completely cloudless during our cruise on the Sound, a rare occurrence in a place that receives 7 meters of rain annually. The boat ride took us beneath the cliffs, which were hundreds of feet tall and dotted with dangly fern trees. I learned that Milford Sound was Rudyard Kipling’s inspiration for the Jungle Book, which was hard to picture considering the snowy peaks that stretched above the green-brown cliffs. But imagining the usual rainy conditions, the cliffs would disappear into dense low clouds, giving the illusion that the waterfalls continued infinitely into the sky and that the Sound is walled in by jungle. We saw brown fur seals sunning on ‘seal rock’ and a yellow-headed Fiordland crested penguin swimming circles in a quiet inlet. The return voyage gave us a long look at the majestic Mitre Peak, cementing how incredibly lucky we were to have such ideal weather. On the way back, we hiked Key Summit, where once we climbed past the treeline, we were treated to a spectacular 360° vista of as many snow-covered mountaintops as we saw on our entire week-long trek in Peru. We finished the drive to Queenstown after sundown, but fortunately the moon illuminated the snowcaps on the surrounding mountains — the views were just as surreal at night, somehow. It was a day full of indescribable, you-just-had-to-be-there views…New Zealand at its absolute finest.

Mitre Peak towering over Milford Sound on a beautiful day

Key Summit, no description needed

Queenstown was our base camp for skiing, as we spent the weekend on the slopes of Mt. Cardrona. Now, I hadn’t been downhill skiing since I was 8, so there was a steep learning curve. For one thing, they let me use poles this time, which was essential with my balance having fallen off some. As the least experienced among my adult beginners class, I had to use my poles to fake like I knew how to stop and steer at first. 3 runs on the green (beginner level) slope later, I was confidently cutting my lines by lunchtime, albeit slowly. But it’s not a ski trip — and certainly not a trip with Clayton — without some “Oh $#&%!” moments, and I got some when Clayton took me out on an “easy blue run” after lunch. I stopped in my tracks at the top: this slope was steeper than Baldwin Street and booby-trapped with moguls (because it was actually an advanced run…oops). Clayton went over first, but his skis immediately fell off. Thinking I could help him reattach, I inched my way toward his position in the middle of the steepest area. Before I made it, he ran off on foot in frustration (turns out he had mistakenly grabbed someone else’s skis after lunch, but he was ready to go full attorney on whoever tampered with his pair), leaving me stranded on what felt like a sheer cliff. I ended up inching down on my butt, falling a few times, then rejoining my lesson with a renewed sense of humility for the rest of the afternoon. But hey, by the end of the second day, I was carving up the intermediate blue slopes like they do in the Olympics — at least that’s how it felt, skiing is exhilarating. Clayton and I took turns filming each other with the GoPro, nabbing first-person footage of the two best runs of the day. I must say, Cardrona has some really good skiing, especially for August!

Look at those snowfields! The skiing was terrific at Cardrona.

Clayton had been anxiously anticipating our nights in Queenstown, and the town delivered. The legendary Fergburger lived up to its billing and then some: I wasn’t expecting a burger from a tourist town in New Zealand (a venison burger with caramelized onion and boysenberry compote, to be exact) to be possibly the best burger I’ve ever had. We also had a [situationally perfect] meal of pizza and beer at The Cow, an old stone milking shed converted into a rustic tavern. Queenstown is better known as a mecca for adrenaline sports, so we made a stop at the AJ Hackett bungy center on the historic Kawarau Bridge. Since being the first in the world to commercialize bungy jumping at that very spot in 1988, adrenaline junkie AJ Hackett has become famous worldwide for enabling over a million people to bungy jump. Not to be outdone or left out, Clayton added his name to that list — after signing away his life, they wrapped a bath towel around his ankles, secured him with a harness and three lifelines to the big bungee, and told him to jump off the bridge. My friend swan-dived into a 5 second free-fall, grazed his head and arms against the river below, bounced around like a yo-yo for another 30 seconds, then was untied by the crew in a raft below before all his blood rushed to his brain. While watching it confirmed that bungy jumping is not a sport for me, it also reassured me that the structural engineering of the bungy connection is well-reasoned and highly safe, having seen the series of pre-flight tightenings and checks firsthand.

I did get a taste of the free-fall at our next destination, as we went skydiving in Wanaka (rhymes with Hannukah). The fear didn’t hit me until I read the waiver that explicitly outlines the “risk of being killed” should the parachute malfunction, they didn’t sugarcoat it at all. But I was encouraged that the man who would be strapped to my back, a big Maori guy named Apiate, has worked in skydiving for 8 years. Liking my chances, I put on my orange jumpsuit and harness then was loaded into a small plane with no seats, only two rubber beams to queue up the jetsam. The anticipation built as we rose in our unpressurized cabin above the surrounding mountaintops — everyone had to work to suppress their nerves and their gas. When they yanked open the door, Apiate and I were immediately on deck. I couldn’t have backed out even if I wanted to, since Apiate was the one who launched us out into the sky, followed by a cameraman. We did one somersault then righted so I was face down, 12,000 feet above the ground and dropping like a rock. The free-fall was insane: you reach your terminal velocity of 100+ mph within seconds, and it feels uncontrollably fast. Then, you get used to it and the speed becomes a thrill. Then, you pass through a barrage of baby ice crystals trying to form clouds and realize your cheeks skipped over being cold to becoming numb. Before you know it, your guide pulls the chute. This was the best part, soaring like a bird over the beautiful mountain valley that I didn’t have the wherewithal to soak in during the free-fall. He even let me steer for a couple of minutes, which was just surreal. When it was time to land, Apiate maneuvered our chute so that it set me down like a baby onto the soft grass. I don’t want to try my luck with another jump anytime soon, but my first skydive was an incredible rush, and felt surprisingly safe!

Taking aim at the hole in the clouds from 12,000 feet

After a series of clear days, we were due for some rain. We snapped photos with the iconic Wanaka tree, a rickety willow standing alone in the cold lake. We enjoyed the mind-bending illusion rooms at Puzzling World, where even my science-wired brain was impressed with some of the effects. I went mountain biking in the Sticky Forest, a hillside pine grove with a vast selection of (mostly difficult) downhill bike trails. We skipped rocks on the shore of Lake Hawea, where every stone was round and flat. We drove through Mount Aspiring National Park, whose ranges of snowy mountains viewed across expansive lakes and glacial valleys provided some of the best scenery of the entire trip. We hiked to the base of Fox Glacier along a valley that was ice-covered until recently, walking about a mile from where the glacier ended around 1960 to a viewpoint that had been under ice until at least 2008. We stopped at a rocky beach on the Tasman Sea, with a backdrop of pine forests and snowy mountain tops (and sea spray from violent waves) that reminded me of the Pacific Northwest. As night fell, we hiked from our hostel in Franz Josef Glacier up to the Tatare tunnels, an abandoned mine shaft with glowworms inside. We extinguished our lights at the end of the tunnel, revealing a few hundred glowing lights surrounding our heads. Really a unique hike…even the little activities we did on a whim were memorable in their own special way.

Power team exploring the Tatare tunnels at night, feat. glowworms on the ceiling

As a grand finale for the trip, a helicopter dropped us off on top of Franz Josef Glacier for a guided ice hike. I had never ridden in a helicopter before, which was a thrill in itself. I was surprised how far the chopper leans forward when you are flying, which gave us great views of the glacier as we ascended the valley at a low altitude. Once we landed on the ice, we strapped steel crampons onto our boots then set off with trekking poles. Because of the inherent dangers presented by live glaciers (and several tourists in our group who couldn’t understand our guide’s English commands), progress across the ice was slow and measured. Every few minutes, a chunk of the glacier would calve off, clattering down the pile of rock and ice. We trekked around the lowest tier of ice formations, through a small ice cave, and over blue cascades of melt water. The views of ice all around us were definitely the highlight, though, and it was special to know that we were standing on one of the world’s most active glaciers (in terms of calving at the bottom and being replenished by snow fields at the top).

Heli-hiking on Franz Josef Glacier as it rapidly recedes

To finish off our last day in New Zealand, we did one more epic drive through Arthur’s Pass National Park, replete with more unbelievable vistas of the Southern Alps at sunset that served as a sort of sendoff. A late dinner in Christchurch, a city that is still in scaffolding after devastating earthquakes in 2010 and 2011, and it was a wrap. It was truly a trip for the ages. I could spend months traveling New Zealand, between the many backpacking treks over the diverse terrain and the other activities spanning all seasons. In case I never go back, I feel like our two week journey gave us a comprehensive taste of all New Zealand has to offer. That’s part of the fun of traveling: seeing the sights on your itinerary while discovering more exciting aspects that might not have made the guidebook. If I was into comparisons, this adventure would be hard to top…but that’s not the point of traveling, in my opinion. What brings me the most joy is learning about the world, and I hope I was able to convey my experiences in a way that shares that fervor with you.

A Day in Panama

April 7, 2018January 3, 2024 / Eric / Leave a comment

One 24-hour layover. Two UNESCO World Heritage Sites. Lots of great food, drinks, and conversation. A wonderful tour of a beautiful city. Oh, and the Panama Canal. Here’s how it all happened:

When Clayton and I saw that our budget flights to Peru required an overnight stop in Panama City (Panama, not Florida, for you americanos), we looked at each other without a moment of consternation and said “let’s do this!” It was a no-brainer: Panama doesn’t require a visa for U.S. travelers, he already had a friend who lives there in Ana Gaby, and they have a canal that’s, you know, pretty famous. A couple months later, here we were on a muggy Friday evening, readying for a night out in the city with the tallest skyline in Latin America.

Panama City’s modern skyline, as viewed from our hotel atrium

After our very affordable 4-star hotel on Punta Paitilla welcomed us with complimentary rum cocktails, we headed to the historic Casco Antiguo district for the night. Built over 300 years ago, the colonial town center now houses a world-class restaurant and bar scene reminiscent of New Orleans’s French Quarter but with an air of Spanish imperial toughness and sophistication. We dined on “new Latin” cuisine, a variety of exquisite tapas with Central American, Caribbean, and European flavor influences. In the street, we witnessed a procession of the Virgin Mary with costumed followers and a marching band. We caught cursory glimpses of the old town squares, government palace, and the Victorian-era national theater as we made our way to the other, slightly less esteemed Teatro Amador: a discoteca where we danced forgettably (there was an open bar) to mostly American music.

We started the next morning with empanadas, a Panamanian specialty stuffed with a variety of savory meat and vegetable fillings. Then we headed to the Panama Canal, which you can see very well from the visitor center at Miraflores Locks. The museum entertained us until two boats pulled up to the locks, which were built along with the original canal in 1913. It was really cool to see these two massive cargo ships lowered over 50 feet as 100 million gallons of lake water were released to the Pacific, just 2 of over 10,000 ships to annually traverse the canal responsible for around 5% of all shipped goods worldwide.

A cargo ship moving through the Miraflores Locks on the Panama Canal

Our friend Ana Gaby took us out for an authentic Panamanian lunch, where I tried ropa vieja (decadent stewed beef barbacoa) and Panama beer (just beer). A driving tour of the rest of the city brought us out on the causeway to Punta Culebra, where we passed the distinctive, colorful Biomuseo designed by Frank Gehry as well as magnificent views of the entire skyline across the bay. In the spirit of enjoying all things Panamanian, we drove around with the radio playing music from Panama’s own Comando Tiburón and Llevarte a Marte. We finished the tour at Panama Viejo, a charred ruin of the 16th century city that could have been the oldest continuous settlement in the New World if it weren’t preemptively burned to the ground under the threat of a pirate attack in 1670. Crazy bit of history, and crazier to think about what could have been there.

Panama Viejo, where even the cathedrals were burnt to the ground in 1670

Before we could leave for good, we made an obligatory stop for shaved ice, a delicious refreshment of passion fruit puree, condensed milk, malt, and ice that the man physically shaved from a giant ice block…so authentic! All in all, it was a wonderful visit, and I feel like I got to know Panama City quite well for a day’s visit. While carefully preserving pockets of history and culture, it is ultimately a modern, international city, and I now understand how a foreigner could live there for 4 years without feeling compelled to learn Spanish (true story, apparently). Shoutout to Ana Gaby – and Manuel and Stephanie – for making our short time in Panama incredible!

Friends and shaved ice are essential for a fun time in Panama

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