Sri Lanka

February 7th - February 22nd

My February winter break was fast approaching and I had still made no plans. Becky and I had different breaks, Europe was cold and I wanted to get out of the country. I did a Google search at work one day about the best places to go on holiday in February. The islands of Thailand came up first, Goa next, then Rio. I had already been to Thailand, if I were to go to Goa, I would want to go when I could see more of India, and the plane ride to Brazil would be too long and expensive.

“Ok,” I thought, “What about best places for January? If it's good then, it would have to still be pretty good in February, right?” Sri Lanka was on the top of the list.

I was able to talk a couple of other friends into joining me on this 2 week trip through Sri Lanka: Co-workers Kirk, Duwane and Sylvia. They all needed very little convincing, Kirk least of all who agreed to come pretty much before I got the entire sentence out inviting him along.

We flew in to Colombo on an overnight flight with Arabian Airlines. Despite what visions of luxury, grandeur, or customer pampering you may think Arabian Airlines elicits as you roll it off your tongue, let me just say that Arabian Airlines is a flying piece of shit. At every available avenue the airliner was trying very hard to convey that they were a budget airline that you will never want to travel on again. They were looking for some way to tack on some sort of tax here, a baggage or meal fee there, or even a “please-do-not-raise-your-voice-to-the-flight-attendant” fine somewhere – but we'll get to that.

There were two things that caught my immediate attention as we collected our bags and exited through the doors of the airport that ushered us into this new country:


1. The humidity. As soon we walked out of the door we were met with an inescapable wave of wet air washing over us, drenching us like a warm bucket of urine on a cold day. At first it is amazingly refreshing but feelings of relief quickly ebb as the discomfort and knowledge wash over you and you realize that this, is here to stay.

2. A sign that read: Anyone caught smuggling drugs in or out of the country will face a punishment of death. This is the type of sign that catches your eye I suppose.


After circumventing the usual melee of taxis trying to take us into town, (“All the buses are broken, I will give you a good rate!” “The bus station is four kilometers walking distance, uphill!” or “I will show you Colombo tour for free!”) we found the bus station (20 meters from airport entrance) and made our way into town.

Kirk and I desperately tried to enjoy our day in Colombo. We walked through the markets, the seaside and the downtown quarter but it just was not worth doing. I was very happy with my decision to book a train that night to take us to the beach as soon as possible.

We woke up the next morning, clear on the other side of the country in a place called Trincomalee. Trincomalee is a tiny little sea village known for its fishing and, apparently, not known for its tourism. Kirk and I stayed in a bungalow right on the beach which was nearly void of any other travelers or tourists. Itineraries tend to take people to the southern beaches and not the eastern ones, I would later find out. This worked for me. I spent two days laying on the beach, watching fishermen haul in massive catches of fish by hand and reading my book. Nights were spent at various watering holes and beach side bars.

At the base of Sigiriya Rock

After leaving Trincomalee, Kirk and I headed south to meet up with Duwane and Sylvia who had flown in a day later than us. We met up in Sigiriya at one of the most important archaeological sites in the country. In the center of beautiful Sigiriya is this enormous column of rock towering nearly 700 feet in the sky. The steep climbed is interspersed with ornate, well preserved frescoes and remnants of buildings, amphitheaters and various signs that this area was once heavily populated. The climbed was well worth it. At the top were beautiful gardens and a 360 degree birds eye view of the surrounding area.

The next few days were spent in the mountains of Kandy. Kirk and Duwane stayed back one day while Sylvia and I braved the public transportation and headed out to the neighboring villages to hike along a path we had heard about and to visit different temples and monasteries in the area. That was the highlight of my time in Kandy, an area of Sri Lanka that we did not see again.

The four of us were enjoying an evening beer at the only bar in town (we struggled at times to find a place to sit down and have a drink) when someone overheard us talking about our plans to grab the train through the hill country and head out to Adam's Peak for the sunrise hike.

Adam's Peak: One of the main attractions for travelers in Sri Lanka is climbing up Adam's Peak at 3 in the morning to witness one of the best sunrises Sri Lanka has to offer. Travelers make the trip out there just for this – sacrificing a night of sleep for this amazing experience of watching a sunrise high atop Adam's Peak. But Adam's Peak isn't just any 'ol peak, it is the very place that Adam touched down, leaving his footprint in the side of the earth for all to marvel at, or so the legend says. Except, depending on who you talk to, it might have had something to do with Buddha's left foot indenting the ground, or again, if you talked to a Hindu, it was the footprint of Shiva. For some reason, deities really liked this goddamn mountain.

Getting back to the woman in the bar...as you probably know, deities really like being worshiped by people: songs, gatherings, ESP, and on special occasions, pilgrimages. Poya days (Adam's Peak pilgrimage days) were every full moon during the dry months, and tomorrow, as it of course turned out, was a full moon. We thanked the girl for the heads up and thought about what to do. We didn't have time to stay another day in Kandy and none of us (except Duwane, he couldn’t give a rat’s ass about climbing up some big ass mountain in the dark just to see something that happens every day. Why don't we care about every sunrise of every day in every country we travel to?) wanted to miss out on this experience. We decided to go there early, climb the mountain during the day, be there for sunset, then climb back down. If the things people were saying were true, we did not want to be anywhere near that mountain in the middle of the night on a Poya day.

We took a beautiful bus ride through the rolling hills of the high hill country and finally made it to the base of Adam's Peak. We checked into our pension, dropped our bags and started charging up the hill. Duwane took a separate bus to the next destination muttering something derogatory about religion and wishing us luck on our hike.

Hiking outside of Kandy

We started walking up the hill at 3 in the afternoon. The mountain rose high and beautifully out of nowhere, thousands of feet from the base of the village. It was a daunting task from the bottom and it would only be made more difficult by the expected tens of thousands of pilgrams that night. The three of us made good time walking up the hill. The mountain was very lively and jovial. Every few steps, we could hear a different group of people chanting, cheering and singing as they climbed. This was obviously something that they relished doing. They would stop on the stairs for food, drink, conviviality and for the occasional dry heaves. The stairs got steeper and steeper as we climbed higher and higher into the clouds. One hour turned to two and two to three. Dads were carrying toddlers on their backs, pairs of women were heaving massive bags up the stairs, each of them holding on to one strap and all the while people were singing, laughing and carrying on. This was not a labor for anyone, this was something they were all happy to be doing, and no one was alone.

From the base of Adam's Peak

As we neared the top, I could tell that we were almost there with plenty of time to spare when all of a sudden, the wall of people trudging up the stairs came to a standstill. No one was moving up anymore. People were still singing and dancing, but they were doing it in their stationary location now. I looked back just to see more and more people lining up behind us.

After about an hour in a line that moved a few stairs every 5 minutes, it was apparent that we were not going to make it for sunset. The chants got fewer and farther between and what once was not a laborious task, became a laborious task. We contemplated turning back but didn't, having spent so much time already invested in this damn mountain, we persevered. Towards the top we realized what the hold up was, everyone was lining up through this tiny little door frame to ring a bell at the apex of the mountain. People were becoming antsy, pushy and in every way irritated. Every time we thought we were going to turn a corner and reach the top, another top would crop up. Finally, we made it with the last glimmers of sunlight showing over the furthest mountain tops in the distance.

“Well,” I said, “That's that.”

As the pinprick of remaining sunlight faded, there was nothing else to see besides our own tired faces, so with little pomp and even less ceremony, we began our decent of over 6,000 stairs. I found the entire experience incredibly fascinating (and at times, a little irritating). We estimated that there might well have been 100,000 people on the mountain that night. As we descended the mountain, we passed the ever-growing wall of people stretching miles and miles from the top, snaking down the side of the mountain; everyone at a standstill. They were all singing, dancing and happy to be on this pilgrimage on this clear night. Whether they were Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, or Hindu they climbed the mountain together, letting people pass by or helping others up, indiscriminate of who that person might think is the owner of the footprint at the top. For all of my thoughts on religion, I found this to be a very touching sight to see.

Sylvia and I at the top

A long time ago, I read a book called 'Fury' by Salman Rushdie and as I stumbled down the mountain on my wobbly legs, I remembered something he had written that for whatever reason,came to me at the time. Rushdie wrote:

“If fraternal love held all men bound, how beautiful life would be.”

I feel like I almost caught a glimpse of what he was talking about on this mountain. In our lives, we all have agendas in one sense or another. Things we plan on doing, need to do, strive towards; promotions we are seeking, girls we are courting and money we need to save. In a lot of cases, and in a lot of ways, it would be easy to accomplish these things on the backs of others - pushing others down as we give ourselves a leg up, putting our needs over others' , regarding what we need as superior, more urgent and less trivial. On that mountain, whether it be Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, or the occasional atheist in the crowd, hands were offered, songs were sung and eventually, the lined did move and people did get to ring that bell.

Our jello knees made it down the hill and the next day we made it down the mountain and over to Ella. Now, for the whole trip, I had been in charge of the accommodation - calling everywhere a few days in advance, asking about accommodation, negotiating prices, making sure that everyone in our group was happy and I was a little apprehensive about this place we were staying at in Ella. It was the most expensive place on our trip, but from everything that I had read, this was a place where we should shell out some extra cash. So, I took a risk and booked it, asking everyone to pay a little bit above their budget but telling them it was going to be worth it. It was.

The place we were staying at was breathtakingly gorgeous. We stepped out onto the terrace overlooking an endless canyon of lush green with towering mountains on either side. It was perfect and exactly what we all wanted for our sore legs and feet after our hike.

View from our balcony in Ella

The day progressed and we concluded it down in the town with a Sri Lankan curry and a few beers. The sun disappeared quickly and so did our energy. Duwane, Sylvia and I were headed home but Kirk, not ready to give up his drinking session, opted to stay at the bar and make up for lost time. We left him to his devices, paid our bill, and set off for our hotel. It wasn't two semi-strided steps before all three of us, in near unison, said that there was no chance in hell that Kirk was making it back to our place by himself. It would be a difficult task for him stone cold sober, in the middle of the day, with clear visibility, but as it was, he would be stumbling drunk, in pitch blackness, after a dense fog had rolled in.


We made it back to our place, but couldn't tear ourselves away from the balcony. We sat there, watching the fog roll in and roll out, ethereally, changing minute by minute as if controlled by some sort of massive flume, manipulating the night sky, obscuring one thing and showing another at its will. We sat there for hours talking about this and that until at one point, we glanced at our watch, realized the time and then realized that our jokes from hours before were now something we had to deal with. Kirk was still not back.

We figured that if he got into any trouble he would likely ring either myself or Sylvia on our Sri Lankan SIM cards that we had until we realized that:

A: Sylvia's phone lie at the bottom of her purse, battery fully dead and turned off, and B: Kirk never took down my number.

Just as I had started to put my shoes on to retrace my steps to the bar in hopes of finding a frightened Kirk walking aimlessly in the woods (we had to walk through the woods to get to the town), Kirk was stumbling up the trail to the hotel, following a nice Sri Lankan man whose help he had enlisted in this arduous task of getting back to where he would need to pass out.

Kirk was not holding this guys hand "per se", but you could tell that he needed to be hand-held, a babe in the (literal) woods who could not offer this motorcycle taxi driver enough information for him to help him adequately in this seemingly easy task.

We later learned the story of what transpired once Kirk left the bar, made an immediate mistake in orienteering himself back to the hotel and then approached someone for help:

Kirk: Hello, I can't seem to find my hotel. Do you know where I am staying?

Motorbike Driver: Huh? No. Well, what is the name of it? I will take you there.

Kirk: A name? Why, yes, it does in fact have a name. I suppose that would have been something very useful to have jotted down before setting out alone on a piss up this foggy, disorientingly dark evening. I would even like to say that the name, in fact, escapes me, but I do believe that I never bothered to learn it in the first place.

Motorbike Driver: Hmm, are you staying alone?

Kirk: No, I am not. Ah, yes of course! My friends! I'll call my friends! I'll call Sylvia! Shit! It's turned off...I know! Nick! I'll call Nick! Let me look here through my contacts in my phone...N...N is for....Nick...Nick...hmmm...I don't seem to have taken down these valuable details either. Oh man, I am really blowing this aren't I?

Motorbike Driver: Yes, you are. Well, can you say anything useful?

Kirk: Um...we have a view?

Motorbike Driver: A view of...?

Kirk: Oh of course, silly me...a green mountain.

Motorbike Driver: (audible sigh) Get on.

A half hour later, Kirk was being led all the way down the trail to the doorstop of his hotel room. We had heard Kirk's voice off in the distance about 30 paces ago saying:

"I can take it from here, seriously. You don't need to lead me any further. I got it now, thanks a lot. I remember where I am. I appreciate your help but I have now become self-reliant."

But apparently, Kirk’s behavior and demeanor up until that point had proven to the contrary and any slurry protestations he might have been sputtering were met with disbelief and discard. It was not until the man was standing in front of Kirk's hotel room that he was willing to leave him be.

As Kirk and his new friend approached the hotel, the three of us took in the situation, watching our hours ago prophecy be fulfilled. We vowed in our inebriated state that Kirk's antics, although embarrassing, would not go forgotten and we would make sure to bring them up at every subsequent avenue. And we did. And now I writing about it.

We left Ella and the hill country, ending the first phase of our trip and starting the second: beach and booze. We got a ride all the way from Ella down to the coast where we would be staying at Tangalle. Again, stressing over where we would be staying, we elected to err on the side of swanky and booked ourselves into a nice place right on the beach.

Restaurant on the beach in Tangalle

Now accustomed to the humidity, the southern beaches of Sri Lanka were a welcome reprieve to our ruin walking, hill-climbing bodies. We had grand aspirations of sitting on beaches, drinking beers, reading books and throwing the frisbee.

The beaches of Tangalle rivaled those of Thailand. Beautiful sands, crisp blue and green waters, and groves of trees providing shade from the hot afternoon sun. The beaches we went to were unlike any I had ever been to before. As you waded into the water, the sand quickly disappeared underfoot as the tide ripped your feet out from under you. When you wanted to exit the water, it was tricky business. You had to make sure you were wading with your feet under you as the wave catapulted you from the sea onto the beach, as if the wave was a giant throwing hand and you were in its palm. This skill was far from innate to me. The first time I tried to exit the water in a doggy paddle position, I was picked up by the wave and quickly and firmly deposited on my face in the sand. As I tried to stand up and pick the sand out of my ass crack, the strong tide swept me back out to sea and re-catapulted me once again onto my face, like a soggy rag doll in some sort of painful washing cycle. Instead of rinse, wash and spin it was rip, wave, and pummel Nick-on-his-face-in-front-of-everyone. Eventually I got the hang of it, planted my feet below me and let the wave throw me on to the beach where I landed on my feet to the sounds of Duwane, Sylvia and Kirk laughing hysterically at me and my pasty, sand-welted body.

I spent the days reading, swimming and working on my sunburn. Nights were spent exploring different restaurants in the area and drinking beers to the sound of crashing waves. My favorite meal of the trip was at a restaurant right on the water. The menu consisted of fresh, made-to-order seafood that changed day to day depending on what the fishermen were able to catch. The place had no electricity so as not to take away from the ambiance of the starry nights, the crackle of the sand rolling up the beach with the tide, and the reflection of the rising moon on the still water.

Before the week was over, I was even able to treat myself to my new found hobby: scuba diving. The water was beautiful, clear, and I was even saw an octopus! Scuba diving is almost like a drug. The rush you get from being down there is nothing I can even begin to describe. All I can say is that if you are thinking about getting your certification, do it!

I wish I could tell you the flight home was as uneventful as the flight to Sri Lanka. The planes were late at every terminal, I was uncomfortably sunburned while sitting in my seat, and everyone around us was speaking Russian and Arabic in elevated voices. The rink-a-dink, nickel and dime airline wouldn't take my Turkish Lira so I couldn't even buy a water and for some reason, the air-conditioning was not working.

As the night progressed, people started to drift off to sleep and Kirk took the opportunity to find a free row of seats to lie down on. I spread my legs out, trying to get as comfortable as possible right when someone from the back of the plane joined the girl sitting in front of me, presumably to chat her up. I laid there for some time, listening to the probably stupid conversation these people were having in front of me in Arabic until I had to get up and move myself. Irritated, tired, and parched, I went to the back of the plane in search of a free row. Nothing. I walked back up the rows again, past my original row, and headed to the front. Perfect, the first 5 rows were unoccupied. I began to lay down and tried to get comfortable when I received a tap on the shoulder.

"Excuse me sir, you are going to need to go back to your seat. These seats are reserved," the miserly, haggard-looking woman who had previously denied me a small, plastic cup of water because I didn't have 3 euros said.

"Reserved?!? Reserved for who?". I asked, as I sarcastically and over-dramatically craned my head left and right looking for the potential reservee, "We are an hour into the flight, will someone be joining us for the second half?" (I am sure kept the indignation out of my voice not even a little bit.)

"No sir, but anyone wanting to sit in the first 5 rows of the aircraft must pay an additional fee of 20 US dollars," she said, matter-of-factually.

"Oh really? And I suppose it's your charming demeanor that has so many people pushing others out of the way to sit up here which would be closer to you then right?", I opined. There was not a single person in the first 5 rows.

Miserly skelator started reiterating the exact same robotic script about paying an additional fee if I wanted to sit up here when I cut her off mid sentence.

"Oh, you know what? Just shut UP. Just SHUT up! I'll go back to my seat.”

I went back to my seat emboldened enough by my boiled-over ire to address the suitor in the seat in front of me who was still yapping away in Arabic.

"Excuse me, sir? Is this your seat?", I asked sternly.

"What?", he said, glancing from me to the woman then back to me.

"Your seat? Your seat? The number on your ticket. Is this it?", I asked, pointing to the seat he was currently occupying.

"Uh, no, no it's not," he said. Now I was noticing that the girl was looking at me in a very thankful way. She was as done talking to this guy as much as I wanted him to be done talking.

"Would you mind going back to your seat? Everyone around you is trying to sleep," I said, pointing to everyone around me who was now looking at this man, willing him with their eyes to listen to my request.

"Well, maybe it is time for me to go to sleep I suppose."

Glad there was no air marshal on this flight to take me down. I have lived to fly another day, just not on Arabic Airlines.

Books Read:

Divergent - Veronica Roth

The Accursed Kings: The Royal Succession (Book 4) - Maurice Druon 

The Golem and the Jinni - Helene Wecker

Trincomalee in the morning

Frescoes of Sigiriya Rock

Kirk, Sylvia, and Duwane atop Sigiriya Rock

Seafood restaurant by candle light

Sigiriya Rock

Beaches of Tangalle

Read More

Portugal: An Ambiguity for Happiness

October 12 - October 19 2013

Ever since we had gone to Spain, tackling the other part of the Iberian Peninsula had been something that we wanted to do. Friends would come back, raving about Lisbon and Porto, its food, and of course, the wine. We had booked these flights months in advance and were very excited about the trip. We had 9 days to spend making our way along the length and breadth of the country to see why everyone loved it so much and to imbibe its famous libations.

We had to book separate flights on the way there so I got in 6 hours earlier, checked into our hotel and walked around the beautiful promenade streets and waited for the Beckster to fly in. Parts of Lisbon were very new and chic, ripe with boutiquey outlets and department stores while others, in neighboring areas, were incredibly old; rich with cobblestone streets, small houses and laundry strewn about on every available portion of every balcony we saw.



One of our favorite neighborhoods of the city was called Al Fama. Stretching down the steep slopes of the city, Al Fama is a gorgeous area full of picturesque labyrinthine streets, narrow staircases and small squares which were incredibly lively and vibrant with the people living in this community. You would turn a corner and find some secret bar or cafe tucked away into the side of a building, turn another corner to see some ornately designed fountain, or another corner to get a glimpse of the ocean between two buildings, just barely wide enough to catch a glimmer of the sun reflecting off the water. Al Fama was also famous for its Fado, a Portuguese style of music, being played.  Becky and I walked the area for hours, being totally mesmerized by its colors, sounds and people. Because of its small, compactness perched up on the hillside, it was one of the only neighborhoods of the city that was left more or less untouched in a massive earthquake in the 18th century. The area evoked beautiful images of the city's history and left us never wanting to leave.

The streets of Al Fama

Before heading up north, Becky and I took a day trip from Lisbon to Sintra. Sintra was a town 45 minutes outside of the city up in the mountains known for its beautiful architecture, palaces, gardens and Moorish castles. We spent the better part of an hour climbing this massive hill to reach the Moorish outpost, climbing higher and higher through beautifully turned foliage, old stone staircases and fortified walls and archways. Having finally arrived at the top of this enormous hill, we were asked to pay a ridiculous entry fee to walk the grounds of the castle. We did so, irritatedly, and then once inside, instantly regretted our decision. The Moorish castle, from the look of it, dated back to 2008. Although beautifully perched on top of this massive hilltop, the faux-castle left something to be desired. The best part about the castle was being able to eat the salami sandwiches that we brought for the walk up.


The highlight of Sintra though was the estate of Quinta da Regaleira. Quinta da Regaleira was this beautiful lush green estate with romantic style churches, chapels and a central palace. The expansive area also featured lakes, streams, grottoes, fountains and wells. Above ground, the huge area can be walked with interconnected pathways, zigzagging around the area. Below ground, the wells, grottoes and buildings are all connected by a myriad of tunnels, allowing you to get from one end to the other without ever going above ground. The place was as beautiful as it was enigmatic, with its gargoyle statues, spired-buildings and spiral designed staircases. It was a true pleasure to be able to see this architectural masterpiece.

Exploring the tunnels of Quinta da Regaleira

From there we rented the car and headed north up to Porto. Becky had gotten in contact with a friend of hers a few weeks earlier and he had told her that his mom lives in Portugal and urged us to give her a call and stop by for a visit. The area that she lived in was conveniently in the direction of Porto so we stopped in for the afternoon. We met Becky's friend Gill in the city center of a tiny mountain village and she then took us to her sister's home where she was staying. Gill and her husband were a British couple who had retired and moved to Portugal. They had bought a plot of land in the same village but were staying at a relative's house in the meantime. The house that they were staying at had been an old manor house that was restored. The house still retained its original foundation and on the tour, Becky and I were in awe at how amazing the place looked. Old wooden I-beams, brick walls, and stone archways had been incorporated into the house giving it a very interesting feel. Gill even showed us where the original chapel of the house had been and how it still contains pews and an altar.

Gill was incredibly hospitable, friendly, and side-stichingly funny. She lived there with her husband and uncle. Her uncle Reggie was a very old, frail man who spent his invalid days watching television, being fed, and complaining about aches and pains he thought he had. We didn't speak to him much but Gill spoke of him to us. He had always been an odd duck, complacent with not doing much with his life, shirking any sort of ambition in work, life or love.


"He never even had a shag," Gill said about him in a voice that told us she really didn't understand the guy.


Reggie had never been abroad besides the time he spent at his station in World War II. He seemed to have spent his entire life doing what he was currently doing, waiting around to die. As the night went on, Gill and her husband invited us to stay for an amazing roast dinner, and Becky was invited to drink copious amounts of wine. I, being the driver, stayed with juice. We finished our delicious dinner, thanked our generous hosts, and jumped in the car towards Porto. On the drive up, with Becky being less concerned with conversation and more concerned with drooling on herself in the passenger seat, I found myself thinking of Reggie.

Death will find us all in the end. Hopefully later rather than sooner but it's something that cannot be avoided. Reggie and many others like him are at a time in their lives when all they can do is reflect on the time they have spent walking this earth. The things and people they loved, lost, didn't love or the things that never found a way into their lives but they wish had. I do not know what the cards hold after we make the giant leap from this current precipice of life; I am of the opinion that when I die, I will think about my life in a similar capacity to how I thought about my life before I was born. So on one hand, there is not much to worry about. Whatever regrets one may or may not have will cease to exist as soon as you shut your eyes for a final time, making everything a moot point. But on the other hand, I can imagine nothing scarier, more pitiful, or more wretched than those last final minutes before shutting your eyes where one might reflect on a life unfulfilled to the best of one's abilities. If anything can help alleviate that fear, I want to do it. My own way of managing the shadows I create, I suppose.

Whatever our beliefs may be, we all contain an enormous capacity for happiness and unhappiness alike-- the type of happiness and unhappiness unaffected by the hazards of life and the perceived hindrances that stifle us. It’s about the way we regard ourselves in relation to the world we live in and the people we share our lives with. We are all destined for happiness, just so long as we provide ourselves with enough ambiguity for said happiness and understand that one day, it will all come to an end, never to appear again in the consciousness we currently possess.

Porto at night

A few hours later, the GPS in the car told us that we had reached our destination so we parked, checked into our hotel and spent the night walking around Porto. Becky and I were both just getting over a cold so we didn't spend too much time walking around and turned in early.

The next day we spent walking around the very hilly yet beautiful Porto, sampling Port wine at every chance, and we even had time to take a boat cruise and see the city from the river that serves as an artery through the city. We ate steaks topped with runny eggs (that seems to be a thing in Portugal - whatever the food may be, put an egg on it!), sipped wine overlooking the river and viewed the gorgeous churches and old buildings of the city.

From Porto, we drove north in search of a town called Braga. For whatever reason, the GPS wasn't able to find Braga so I had Becky use my tablet. The GPS on my tablet worked fine so I showed Becky where we were, where we were headed and had her guide me to Braga through the streets of northern Portugal. I was hesitant to task Becky with this orienteering endeavor because she usually can be quite directionally ("I thought north was up!") challenged but she seemed to be quite capable at the task at hand. Whenever I asked her where to go, she gave me a perfect answer and she said we were right on target. She kept telling me what to do, I kept listening to which she would keep saying, "We are on target."

Wondering what she meant by that and under the impression that we should have been in Braga long ago, I pulled over to the side of the road, took the tablet and realized that we had been going in the complete wrong direction from the moment she started opening her mouth and telling me which way to go.

"Becky, we are nowhere near Braga, what are you doing? Why weren't you guiding me?" I asked, annoyed.

"What do you mean? The blue dot was flashing so I followed the blue dot!" Becky shrugged back, inferring that there must be some other reason for our erroneous navigation.

"The blue dot, Becky? And did you notice that whenever we turned, the blue dot turned with us?" I said, no longer annoyed just dumbfounded.

"Yeah, we were on target."

"No, Becky. We were not on target and we were not following the blue dot. We ARE the blue dot."

I watched as this wave of new information washed over her. She acted as if she was forming words with her mouth, thought better of it, then slumped in her seat and fiddled with her hands.

"Maps confuse me," she said, quite unnecessarily.

So we righted the ship, back-tracked our steps, and finally made it to Braga and to what we came to see. The Bom Jesus do Monte. High atop the mountains on the outskirts of Braga is the enormous and beautiful Portuguese sanctuary. An old pilgrimage site with an elaborately decorated staircase mounted with statues of saints and arch bishops that zigzags its way up the hill for nearly 500 feet. On different levels of the zigzagged staircases are different fountains to symbolize different senses of the human body and virtues of the human spirit. The baroque-style churches reached high into the air and allows for beautiful views of the surrounding area down below.

Me at the base of Bom Jesus do Monte

With bad weather closing in on us and our time in Portugal coming to an end, we jumped back onto the highway and made our way back down to Lisbon to catch our flight. The economic situation in Portugal was quite dire we found out. We had inquired to someone along the way as to why we were pretty much all alone on the highways we were driving on.  We were told that it was a simple answer: no one could afford to use them.

Portuguese drivers preferred to take side roads and old highways to avoid tolls that we only realized at that moment we were incurring. Another observation we made went hand in hand with this one: very few people were fiddling with smart phones. People watched where they were walking on the street, talked to each other in restaurants, and took zero selfies. Most people simply couldn't afford it.

We stopped over in Obidas right as the torrential rain set in. We had lunch, waited for it to subside, then wandered the old city walls and watched the remaining drizzle cascading off the coned roofs. The rivers of water also sprayed over the sides of the stone ramparts and fortified towers of the old city. Heightened by the rain, Obidas was a beautiful little village with the rolling green hills of central Portgual in the backdrop.

We jumped back on the road and headed for Lisbon. Hours later, we waited with bated breath to see Lisbon city limit signs. I was very careful not to alter my acceleration too much, opted to coast down declines, and clinch my teeth during inclines. For some reason our bullshit budget rental car's policy is to charge you for the tank of gas when you pick it up but then tell you to just bring it back empty. Indignant, annoyed, and determined to not be ripped off, Becky and I made hasty calculations at the gas station in Obidas to ascertain the minimum amount we could fill up with and still make it to Lisbon. Our petrol was depleting fast and we were on a barren highway in the middle of a rainstorm but our calculations came through in the end. Becky may not know her ass end from a compass heading but she did get us to the airport with a few fumes to spare.

The streets of Obidas

And as our fantastic trip to Portugal came to a close, so commenced the most hellish and enraging airplane travel experience we have ever encountered together. What was meant to be a 6 hour travel day ended up being a very irritating, sleepless, and deliriously long, 28 hour travel experience which I promise is not worth writing about.

Something that is worth mentioning though is Reggie. A few days later, Becky saw a post on Facebook from our host Gill saying that Reggie had in fact just died days after we met him. The news was shocking and sad, but not unexpected given his age, health, and frailty when we last saw him. I can only hope that I am lucky enough to slip away one day, reflecting on my life, the choices I made, the people I knew and the things I have done with a big smile on my face.

When I first started this blog, I looked around for guidance and inspiration and I found myself on a friend's blog reading past stories and looking at pictures, entertained by what he had to say. His blog is called MookFish and the main quote at the top of his blog reads:

"Most of us go to our graves with the music still inside of us."

This beautiful quote encapsulates Reggie's tragedy better than I possibly could so I will leave you with that and that alone.  


Books Read:

Little Women - Louisa May Alcott

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Zanzibar

The view from our tiny tiny plane as it swayed through the air

Rabbiel's words echoed through my head, reverberating through every petrified fiber of my being.

“Oh yes, an airplane to Zanzibar. The airplanes have not crashed for many years now. It will be good.”

I sat on the 13 person plane, tensing every muscle in my body and clutching both hand rests. I had given up the notion of trying to read my way through the trip long ago, deciding that clinching my teeth until I got gum rot was a better avenue to take.

The plane ride was 2 hours of utter terror. With every mild breeze, the plane would swing and sway through the air, bouncing up and down as it caught different gusts of air pockets. I thought that at any moment, the plane would tip and careen itself into some sort of dive that it would be unable to correct itself from. Becky lay next to me in a drug-induced slumber; I hated her for it.

We landed in the center of Zanzibar, starting the second part of our three part Tanzanian vacation. Part one (as I hope you have had the chance to read about) was our week long safari adventure through the Serengeti and the areas surrounding Mt. Kilimanjaro, part 2 was a week long beach-side holiday, and part 3 would be back on the mainland trekking through villages of Northern Tanzania.

We quickly jumped in a cab with another couple who was headed in our direction and made our way to the northern tip of the island, where we would be staying. The ride was through the interior of the island, jungle greenery interspersed with bareback villages here and there. We passed farmers atop donkey-drawn carts, carrying whatever crop they were farming for that season.

We finally reached the tip of the island and checked into where we would be staying. Our balcony was directly on the beach which faced west. We arrived on the first day as the sun was setting, allowing for a magnificent sunset from the seats of our balcony with beers in hand and my shirt already disrobed.

Everyday was a different variation of the same beautiful chorus: walks on the beach when we wanted to take breaks from our books, tomato and avocado salads for lunch alongside a lobster, shrimp or red snapper main and playing volleyball with other people staying on the beach with us. This place was paradise.

Nights were spent on the beach with a bonfire, making friends, telling stories, and drinking beer. The temperature was perfect with a very comforting breeze coming off of the water. Everything was amazing, except for the touts. Days and nights alike we had to fend off touts and trinket sellers that were always around, thinking that they were selling the kitchy African gift that you just couldn't live without. Shell necklaces, tapestries, key chains, and wooden-engraved name plates. We disliked all the items equally and had no interest buying any of them, no matter how many times they asked. A very persistent guy would come around day after day, trying his hardest to sell Becky and I a name plate that he would engrave.

Happy Hour cocktails near our hotel

“It will take me a day, but it will be very nice. This is my promise,” he would say. The examples that he brought to show us his aptitude and handiwork said otherwise.

“No thanks,” we would respond, day in day out. His pitch would always change, the reason why we needed to buy this novelty, but our response was invariably the same: “No thanks.”

He would go away, undeterred by our apparent philistine ways and would approach us later on that day or somewhere else on the beach.

“Hello, sir. Have you changed your mind? Do you want me to carve your name? What about you miss? Do you want to remember Zanzibar the best way? What is your name, miss? Tell me and I will make you the perfect gift for your perfect holiday.”

I decided to change tactics.

“Can I see the plate?” I asked, outstretching my hand to take one of the many shoddy engravings he had in his possession. Becky looked at me, wondering if I was actually considering buying one of these things.

I turned it over in my hand several times, put it up to the sun, and rubbed my fingers along the indentations of the name plate - marveling at its handiwork. Jason and Jennifer it read, surrounded by (oblong) hearts and (not fish looking) fish.

“It's very beautiful and well done, but I am afraid we can not buy one,” I said, obviously dejected by the thought of not having this enriching gift in my life.

“But why? It is the perfect Zanzibar gift,” he said, his voice surging at my interest in his craft.

“Yes, I agree with you. But our names are too long. They cannot fit on your name plate,” I explained, saddened by this unfortunate fact.

“Oh yes, this is a problem. What are your names?” he said, wondering what sort of crazy foreign names couldn't fit on a wooden plate.

“Well, my name is Michaelson Christofferson and this is Mrs. Manuella,” I said, pointing at Becky who finally understood what I was doing.

“Yes,” she chimed in after a short pause, “Mrs. Rubella Manuella. Two L's in Rubella. Very long names.”

“Oh yes,” he concurred, retracting his hands that held the name plate, conceding the idea of a sale. “Michaelson Christofferson and Rubella Manuella,” he repeated, agreeing with us.

“We are very sorry, but we wish you luck with other names,” I said as I grabbed Becky by the arm, turned her around and smiled victoriously. I felt very clever. I had gotten rid of one of the many irritating touts without making him feel bad, myself feel bad, and without having to buy something that I definitely would not buy in a million years. Now it was time to reward myself with a happy hour cocktail and a shrimp salad.

The next day, Becky and I were walking down the beach, taking photos of the setting sun with the fishing boats in the fore-ground when I hear someone screaming, running down the beach, flailing something in his hand. With no one in pursuit we wondered A) why he was running down the beach and B) what he was saying. 

Well, it was not until we could make out B that we understood A. B was my name. He was screaming my name. He was running down the beach screaming “Michaelson,” trying to catch up with us with something in his hand.

“Oh great, now what does he want?”, I said to myself. “What sort of brilliant scheme will I have to come up with next?”, I pondered, as we waited for him to catch up with us on the beach.

“I was looking for you today!”, the out of breath wooden plate maker said, bent over at the half, not yet ready to show us what he was holding. He caught his breath, took in some air and then stood up straight.

“You were right, Michaelson. Your name is very long, but I worked very hard last night and I finished your names.” As he finished, he then showed us what he was carrying. He held out his hand and show us the wooden plate with our names on it:

With my strike of brilliance shot down and my plan totally blown up in my face, all I was left to do was lie about how much I liked the craftsmanship and tell him how much his renderings of a heart and a dolphin actually looked like hearts and dolphins. He was, of course, very happy to receive the accolade and to proceed onto the next part of the conversation.

“So my friend, how much do I owe you?”, I asked, trying to scrape together at least a shred of dignity from this situation I had gotten myself in.

“Well, normally it is cheaper but your names are very long. I worked very hard for you.”

I sighed, reached for my wallet, and paid the exorbitant amount of money he knew he could charge me. To this day, on our mantle you can still find this ugly plate, complete with a barely recognizable dolphin, a heart that looks more like a circle, and our fictitious names. Becky still laughs at me about it to this day. 

Well the days went by quickly, and I had succeeded in not wearing a shirt for one whole week. Becky's volleyball skills graduated from abysmal to piss-poor and for some inexplicable reason, the cocktail happy hour time seemed to creep earlier and earlier in the day. Becky and I were lying on the beach, reading our books, when I posed a question to her:

“So, when do you want to make our way back to the city tomorrow to head back to the mainland?”, I asked, sad by the mere thought of leaving this amazing place.

She poked her nose over her book, gave it a thoughtful few seconds, glancing between me and our beach side paradise before saying, “Yeah, I don't want to do that.”

So just like that, it was decided. A 1 week long, shirtless, lobster eating, cocktail drinking, hedonistic, beach side vacation had just been extended to a 2 week long, shirtless, lobster eating, cocktail drinking, hedonistic, beach side vacation. I couldn't have been happier.

To not feel like total bums, we checked out of our hotel and decided to spend the next week on the other side of the island; the Indian Ocean facing side of the island with a pool and some other guests that we would befriend and hang out with for the entire week. We laid poolside and beach side, taking in every beautiful bit of this amazing place willing it to never come to an end but, like all things, this too came to an end.

We made it back to the main city of Zanzibar, had an amazing beach side dinner at a swanky upscale hotel that we belonged at not at all where I ate warthog for the first time. It was the most delicious piece of meat I have ever had. It looked like and had the texture of pork, but tasted like succulent red meat.

Sorry Pumba, you were delicious.

Books Read:

Fall of Giants - Ken Follet

Invisible - Paul Auster

The New York Trilogy - Paul Auster

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