Barefoot in the Jungle

Something about not needing to get up early and having no agenda makes the body rise with ease as does the sun. I am up to see the early morning light through my blue tinted glass sliding door and though a bit sweaty, as the fans turn off with the electricity at day break, I feel pretty good. 

I know I need sustenance and there is a dining area a few bungalows down that sits over the water at (Matt) Saracen Resort, last time, I promise. 

I order an "American Breakfast" for a change and pray my funds hold out until I am back on solid land.

My camera is behaving tempormentaly and I fear I won't have a functioning one for all, if not some of the remaining trip. I do, however, take this in stride. My legs are so insect bite ridden that Helen Keller could read my fortune and I only have $40 to last me while I am here. I believe there is a point when Murphy's Law is so deeply ingrained in your life that it is ALMOST amusing. I am choosing here to be amused.

The waitress who brings over my cutlery and orange juice needs to make sure that I'm alone for some reason, as so many people in this country seem to need to. Never before have I had so many inquiries into my solitude. It's like I have an open wound and they are all own stock in Mortons.

I don't care what anyone says about Americans being loud and brash and obnoxious. Mix that with no regard for others on the road and no sense of personal space and you have the Chinese tourist, impervious to cultural acclimation or volume control.

My American breakfast is American priced and subpar, but food is food and I move on, down the beach as I resort hop. Please note that resorts on Koh Rong Samleon are not "resorts" any other place you've ever been. Resorts here are accomodation and it would seem that most house their own restaurant or bar and, along with beautiful temperatures and access to the beach that is what this island offers.

Around 4pm I decide to head to Lazy Beach. The remote beach on a remote island, located a few kilomteres through the jungle on the West side of the island. A quick nature hike through the jungle in my chucks, a Yankees hat and a bikini - I can hear Helen Reddy amongst the screaming monkeys and the squealing crickets.

Once the jungle parts ways there is an oasis; there is Lazy Beach.

It is breathtaking.

I essentially run to the sea, sticky from my hike, drop my belongings and plunge in. It is me, and the bay and no one else. 

I have become so spoiled by the beauty of the world. So used to seeing new, far off places that every so often I do try to take a moment and really soak in that I am out in the Gulf of Thailand on a beautiful afternoon swimming in the sea. It is a palpable moment for me, and one I savor.

As I drag my drenched body back up to the shore the Lazy Beach resort - a series of huts on the beach with a main lobby that is an outdoor-hammock-chill sort of getwaway presents itsself and I immediately see the British bloke, Gary, from the night before.

I ask if I may join him and we settle in to listen to Bonobo on the soundsystem and watch the sun sink beneath the clouds. I order a Lazy Sunset, the girliest drink on their menu and later fish and chips because I am pretending to be adventurous and eat fish caught just outside but also getting it fried so it mostly just takes like fried. The cocktail is ok and remains half drunk, as is the marlin, when my British bud and I have covered everything from childhood trauma to cycling in France and make our way back to the East side through the jungle.

The moment I saw Gary in this particular gin joint I knew I would later be using him as accompaniment through the jungle. I was uneasy walking through during the broad daylight, but it is now dark. The sun is long gone, but the creatures are not and CalTrans has yet to set up any roadside spotlights for tourists here. I am scared. Legitimately scared and the fact that homeboy thinks every stick is a Boa Constrictor is not helping.

Half way through I realize that this city girl does have some country in her, or at least some iPhone in her...bag. Thank you Steve Jobs for putting a flashlight on your iPhone. It only took me 5 years to figure out how to use this feature, but man is it helpful when traversing the dark unknown.

We exit at the beach, lit up blue by the moonlight and make a right at Octopussy bar back to Blue Green, where Gary is staying and I am using electricity before returning to my hovel. Some approximation of iced tea is served and some more opposite of small talk is had before we both walk way out to the ocean, the cosmic pull having brought it what seems like miles from shore and bathe our feet in the warm night before saying out goodbyes. Two kisses, one on each cheek, just like the French do it and a sincere thank you for sharing your time on this tiny island with me.

iPhone flashlight

Another hike back. A quick shower and a revisiting of Noah's Arc, a little show on Logo 10 years ago and the only videos I have on my phone. Who doesn't like watching a situational comedy about 4 black gay men in Hollywood before nodding off?

And again, early to rise.

I check out of Freedom, not knowing exactly what my next move is but knowing my camera is working occasionally at best and my funds are rapidly dwindling - you try PMSing on a budget!

This time at Saracen Resort I opt for a more traditional Asian breakfast and I am not disappointed. With excellent Wifi I chat with a friend back home, the kind of friend that makes you feel at home even when you're 9000 miles away (yeah, thats you, Holly) and I plot my course of action. 

An arbitrary booking for a room at the Orchid Resort a mile down the beach is made and I have made my choice - to stay in Koh Rong Samleon, for at least another day.

The morning consisted of a chat with one of my oldest and dearest friends Holly and my internal calculator working overtime while figuring out whether or not the cash I had on hand could get me through another day.

This island is a place so quiet the insects omit a deafining noise.

Dexter, Frank, Zak and Gary.

No, these are not the new fangled members of New Edition. These are the four man who helped me through my journey.

This trip has been a particularly tough one for me and the kindness of these strangers, whether for a plane ride or just a walk on the beach helped me survive. Helped me in ways they will never know. And for that I am grateful.

I love this place. I love the magical beach. The sea filled with fish just like the ones I used to own and name and become fond of right before they took their final swim down the porcelain shoot in my father's bathroom.

Having waited a bit too long to traverse the island back to my humble abode it is dusk and the monkeys are squawking - and I am scared.

The evening is spent PMSing on a huge fruit plate at the Orchid while writing and watching 'The Voice - Cambodia' - or so it sounds.

That night I am met with a hot shower - for what feels like the first time in ages. Hallelujah.

As wonderful as my room for the evening is with all it's rustic charm, the walls are thing and the sext door neighbors rowdy. I couldn't quite tell what they were doing from the noises emitting through the wooden slats separating us. But I can attest to the fact that they kept me up - and made me sufficiently uncomfortable.

Luckily I slept. Luckily I survived.

Few things in life or more powerful than listening to Leonard Cohan on a white sand beach at sunrise.

The morning offered an amazing sunrise and a moment of peave.

After checking out the morning is spent watching the proverbial pot boil or, as is the case here - waiting for my boat to come. Just when I think it never will I am directed several hundred yards down the beach where a refugee dinghe is schleping visitors to shore.

Travel at it's finest.

This means I had a couple more hours to luxuriate, check my internet goings on and figure out where I will be spending the evening at the Blue Green.

I almost book a dorm at Otres Beach, then think about shared bathroom. Getting older is a beautiful thing in many ways. Not physically sure - but it does allow you some perspective and often a few extra sheckles to spend on a private commode. Decision made. Pineapple juice consumed and my LL Bean bag and I board the dinghe headed back to the mainland.

As the ship about faces I was truly sad. 4 days ago now seemed like a lifetime and I have grown to love this tiny island upon which I only spent a few days of my life. By sometimes that's all you need

I mount the stairs to the top level of the boat - trying to get every UV ray possible to permeate the outer layer of my epidermus and who do I happen upon than a nice looking fellow sporting a brightly colored LA hat.

The hour or so boat ride back goes by in a flash as I chat with this amiable man in his mid 30s who lives in the UK but claims South Africa as his home - creating an interesting accent and an interesting perspective on life.

We make dinner plans and as he boars the shuttle bus, I hop on my own personal tuk tuk out toward the beach. Along the ride we putter past the police hut where I was incarcerated for many moments and I am forced to relive this painful experience all over again.

After a long and winding ride I land at Footprints Hostel at Otres Beach 2 which will be where I will be living - at least for the night.

Perhaps it is aftershocks from the hallucination I had last night where a man came to my window banging in the middle of the night only to wake me, rouse me from my bed and, when I reached the glass door disappear, leaving me shaken and disturbed, but this day has been exhausting.

As I settle into Footprints one thought meanders through my mind. My Dad was right, beauty fades with happiness, not with age.

Fuck The Police And Fuck The Hookers.

Oh my goodness, where to begin. In the past few days I have become a civil rights activist; I have had my first halluciation; I've hiked through the jungle at night an irate monkey would tear my face off like that lady on Oprah who has to wear a bee catchers hat at all times and my camera has broken.

It is Saturday in Sihanoukville, but my guess is every day operated pretty similarly. A few motorbikes are making noise as they gradually ascend and descend the hill that runs from downtown to the sea. The Corner is open and currently serving several foreigners, but I like to try new places so I make a lap, tie up my hair that I always try to keep down, at least for a few moments to be clean in the breeze, and locate and eatery that just happens to share real estate with a mechanic. 

Cambodia jams waft through the air, as do some peculiar smells, but several people seem to be enjoying their meals here - my guess is they are all members of the family that owns the place - and when the proprietor and matriarch sees me she simply says 'noodles, mamma?' - Sold! 

Shortly thereafter iced tea and meatball soup are served.

Traditional breakfast seems to be a sweet ramen served with a variety of meats. Sometimes I am adventurous enough to tackle, others I am not.

Breakfast complete, I pay $1.50 with one American dollar and 2000 riels. I have not seen a single coin while in this country, but their paper currency seems to function quite the same and with American currency readily accepted it seems appropriate to pay most places with both.

I go to a few places that offer to rent motorbikes, but all seem to want to hold onto my passport which makes me exceedingly uncomfortable so I compromise by doing so at the hostel next door to mine. The helmut doesnt fit, the gas gauge says empty and the speedometer doesn't read so I figure I am good and hit the open road. After taking several wrong turns I find myself in the city center with large plainly stated signs leading me to Otres Beach, my destination for the day.

Just as I am coming around the roundabout, a large golden Lion in the middle serving as a major landmark in these parts, two police officers waive me over. My initial thought is good god - I still have a ticket to pay in New York state and I don't even have a car there. I literally cannot get into a motor vehicle (or in this case on) and not get a ticket, regardless of whether or not I am actually piloting.

I pull over.

The police officers inform me that the chin strap on my helmut is not snapped.

Initially I pay the proper amount of reverence one does to an officer, snap it, apologize and make moves to continue on the road.

They persist.

This shocks me because, if you've ever been to Southeast Asia, or any third world country is it totally normal to see a 2 year old at the helm of a motorized vehicle, sometimes with several oxen tied to the back. From time to time they will be drinking a local beer while doing so.

As I stand there many many people drive by with nary a helmut in sight.

They inform me I will have to pay. Being terribly American I exhale and prepare to be handed a ticket or something remotely official to pay a fine. Then as they proceed to list I can buy them a bottle of water, or some food I am in complete and utter shock.

I have been racially profiled. Pulled over for no good reason and now I am being blackmailed.

The public defender who lives not so deeply inside of me instantly comes to action and instead of handing them a buck and continuing to the beach I continue the conversation. Repeatedly telling them I will not be paying them anything and I will not be getting off my bike.

Now I am getting angry.

And so are they. The chattier of the two officers repeatedly reminds me that he is the POLICE, pointing to his uniform that says so just in case I am confused by my native tongue.

To be perfectly frank - I don't give a fuck. How dare you attempt to extort me for money, pulling me over only because I am a foreigner and you know it. 

We go back and forth for 10 minutes or so and he keeps gestering behind me telling me to talk to his boss. He says in no uncertain terms that I need to get off the bike, but my body won't let me.

At first he puts his hand on mine, a clear sign of authority. Then he physically attacks me, pulling me off the bike with all 150 lbs of his brut strength, hops on the bike himself and speeds away.

I am in disbelief. Stunned. And livid.

I have to return that bike to get my passport and I have to have my passport well, to pass back into the United States so I know I at least need to address this.

Not 3 minutes later I am at the "Police Station" which consists of two men sitting at a card table under a tent with what appears to be the sort of cash box used as school carnivals.

Now the boss man is confused. There are a handful of caucasian people, heralding from all over the globe. The German couple pays immediately and the French couple gets away with the we are French and don't understand. But I have not attempted to kill these motherfuckers with kindness. They have the audacity to request bribes, loudly in daylight and aren't the slightest bit ashamed. I go back and forth with the police chief for maybe 30 minutes before he becomes so irritated with me he begins to yell at me and his henchmen "escort" me back to my bike. 

My motorbike prowess is limited and I cannot get the bike started, to which they yell more. At this point I am so angry and upset, tears are sliding down my freckeld cheeks which only makes me more angry because they no doubt think I am some scared little girl, but really I want to clock them in their smug faces. 

With only one pass to the famous beaches down here I am landlocked, as the police set up shop there for just these sorts of incidents, though I would imagine usually less violent. 

I begrudginly drive back to my hood, crying the whole way and return to the Queenco which has a small if unimpressive strip of sand and Wifi so I can call back home and speak of this injustice, ironcally enugh, to a black man who seems to have a grasp on my indignation.

I will never pretend I know what it is like to be a black man in America. It would be foolish and insenstive for me to do so. But I do believe that an experience like this gives me just a taste. And let me tell you, it doesn't taste good.

After several hours of lapping waves and sunshine my resting pulse has lowered below apooplectic levels and I am able to relax, a little. 

Japanese male tourists are here in droves, maybe for the local industry of local girls, maybe to take a leisurely dip in the Gulf of Thailand and then bask in the sun at the outdoor restaurant in their still wet boxer briefs, spread eagle, leaving very little to the imagination. But leaving a whole lot to wonder about whether or not those stereotypes we've all heard are true or not. Never having seen an Asian penis, I casually glance from time to time looking for signs of life but fruitless and a bit "To Catch a Predator" of me I decide instead to return my attention to the beautiful blonde woman to my left with the beautiful body and the beautiful baby (I hate her) and my main man - Mr. Chuck Klosterman.

After an American priced meal on the beach I head back up the hill where a Dave Gahan lookalike informs me of his gig at Club Mojo around the corner from the girly bars while perched upon his hog. My interest is piqued, but I have to return my motorbike, to a woman who hands me a burgandy passport, crack staff they have here. And besides - I think I have Sihanoukville - hookers and crooken cops. I'd rather stay in tonight and hop on a boat outta here tomorrow.

Luckily the staff at Out of the Blue hostel can facilitate both. The ticket is $25, which seems wrong, but what are you gonna do, so I buy a Sun Tours ticket to Koh Rong Salmeon, a small island off the Southern coast of Cambodia and hope for the best.

I spend the night looking for accomodation for the folliwing evening, there is a $110 a night gorgeous yurt that would transport me to Santorini, but I am in Cambodia, so I pay $16 for Freedom Bungalow and call it a day. This trip is already becoming more expensive than I anticipated, but they always do.

My bag, now barely containing same amount of stuff I brought with me, perhaps my sweatsuit just takes up too much room in 90 degree weather, is slung over my shoulder as I exit room #2 and head down the holl to the dock. Today is absolutely the kind of day I wish I had my standard issue backpack currently still residing in California, but for now its just me and this duffle, and we're making due.

It is always interesting wonce you've spent a few days in a place how it changed and I can now see a much more efficient way to get from point A to point B. When I arrive at the pier in minutes flat I wonder why I was ever so discombobulated. 

I have, of course, arrived at the pier early, a mix an inability to sleep and wanting plenty of time to figure things out. A number of speed boats are docked alongside a huge white ship seemingly rented out by the country of Japan. None of these watercrafts are my overpriced Sun Tours so I sit, and I wait.

It is as I am waiting in the morning sun I hear an 'excuse me,' and as I turn around it is the young woman from my hostel. Apparently I left without paying my balance. The women at the front when I left just stared at me blankly so I took that as a sign we were good to go. I hand her a 20 and in exchange she offers me some valuable information about Snake Island, a lot of snakes used to live there, and a tiny island just beyond that illegally acquired by the Russian government. I am grateful for the info as well as her assurance that I am, in fact in the right place and we say goodbye.

Sitting on the pier only enforces my 40/60 theory (thanks again, Lorelai Gilmore) about this town. I would venture to guess that at least half of the Sihanhoukville population is a 60 something Caucasian male with a 40 something Cambodian bride. I hate that the cynical side of me questions the hand holding and gold bands as somehow fake or inauthentic. Maybe they are realy in love. Maybe marriage means different things to diffierent people. Maybe my concept of passion, love, commitment and conflict resoultion is puerile in it's conception.

Maybe.

Finally Sun Tours 3 decker, Staten Island Ferry inspired ship docks and I happily board the monolith for some classic rock and modern pop tunes, a provided meal and 2 hours on the open water.  

The thought of eating and shipping at the same time is a daunting one and it is my earnest hope that the boat just rides steadily enough that the included meal doesnt include me losing it over the side. Motion sickness is a terribly affliction from which I have always suffered and one a former boyfriend used to insist was all 'in my head' until one bumpy cab ride uptown literally turned me green.

Our first stop is a tiny island. A patch of pure vegetation an hour off shore and immediately the backpackng crew of young twentysomethings began to leap from the top level of the shop. This while the throng of old Chinese ladies, replete with life vest and blow up floaties I witnessed them inflating while on board - stood idly by, not even attempting to get wet. 

I was content to sit and read and hopefully get some quiet if everyone was out in the sea - but then I thought - when is the next time I will get this experience, so I put the book down, disbrobed, and lept. Feet first into the salty sea, riding me of any nasal congestion as well as the top to my bikini almost instantly. The current was strong and steady so my childhood award winning swimming skills came in handy bobbing in the sea. I took the time to chat with some fellow travelers briefly and a thickly accented man immediately said, 'American?' to which I, of course replied yes. I asked the perfunctory and you. He was Norweigan. Then I took a beat.

Not one to leave any stone unturned I said - do I look America or sound American.

And his reply was simple and concise. "The confidence. It's nice."

I chose to take him at face value and choose to say here, thank you strange Norweigan man for some unsolicited kind words. 

As the boat rocked along lunch was served and the line to dig in wrapped around the bottom deck. I insinuated myself amongst the young folks and, as it happens, right behind a friendly old soul from New Zealand named Zack.

He was suffering from motion sickness and, being a lifelong member of that club I offered some friendly suggestions and we began to chat. He felt like the elder statesman of his tour group at 28 and when we docked just a short time later neither one of us wanted to end the conversation so we sidled up at an outdoor eatery, and I use the term eatery loosely and decided to grab a drink.

Electricity is limited on the island and I am going to blame that on the fact that when we were told a mojito and pina colada were all that was available today on the drink menu that Zack received grass trimmings in a highball and I got a cup of cream of coconut with a splash of rum. Needless to say they were disgusting and replacement Klangs were ordered immediately following.

As we sat and talked movies, books and travels I told Zack that I was a photographer, but fancied myself a bit of a writer too, though these entries may prove otherwise.

Not being shy I admitted to Zack that life had been rough, though not going into detail and that I was a bit of a crier. Though we had just met he told me he was surprised, because I seemed to strong. My response: You can be both.

He told me I spoke like a writer.

I enjoyed the comment immensely.

Being the almost gentleman that he is, I was walked to my accomodation for the night, Freedom Bungalow. As we travereed the beach each and every business, of which there are few, simply pointed further down the beach and exclaimed something along the lines of all the way.

It turns out when booking my room the night before I passed up on plenty of perfectly good prospects to choose the cheapest private room I could find on (Matt) Saracen Bay in exchange for convenience. Freedom Bungalow was not only at the far end of the beach, there was construction, so you had to hike up into the jungle, take a right at the shantytown and decend again before you located this perfectly lovely, if hidden, gem.

The irony in my decision to unknowingly choose the place that required the most dangerous and arduous route was not lost on me.

Perhaps some of my decision making acumen needs adjustment.

I bid adieu to my new Kiwi homie Zack and handed him my business card in the least obnoxious way possible as I would be here, in Koh Rong Samleon for a few days and he was heading back to Thailand to get his Muy Thai on.

Once check into room 23 there was no sign of any B. Or any wifi. Or any electricity before 6pm. And no access to the main beach. With less than 100 pages left in my book I panicked, if only mildly.

In all honesty though, this place is beautiful magical, otherworldly and if I were not concerned with first world needs like an available meal before 6pm, or were with a paramour or, I were very very high, it would truly be heaven.

Cambodia, if I am doing the math correctly, is country #37 for me and it has been pretty rate in my experience thus far to feel like I am in a world so different from my own. Renting a thatched roof cottage on the beach for 20 American dollars to enjoy white sand beaches and clear blue waters miles off of the Southern coast of Cambodia feels pretty far. 

I really have been to some of the most romantic places on earth. Alone. 

Blue Green offers a reprieve from the heat of the sun with its outdoor patio and happy hour specials.

I post up at a table for 4 with my book and a Coke when a little orange kitty comes to say hello. I am always hesitant to touch animals in these parts of the world, but I say hello and take a couple of pictures. Then, out of nowhere his white friend decides to get in on the action and both are now atop my table. 9000 miles away from home, in a country I am sure doesnt share the same stereotype and I have become a cat lady. It is pointless to resist. I may as well buy an arsenal of house dresses, throw on some chancletts and put rollers in my hair and call it a day.

The kitchen opened about an hour later and a bowl of delicious green curry is served to me by a shirtless, nipple ringed young Spanish man who may or may not have been smoking a doobie when delivering said meal.

Once the Wifi is turned on I am an a roll and when I hear a familiar language being spoken behind me I make fast friends.

Gary is a pilot currently flying out of Siem Reap who popped down for the weekend to get some sun and some apparent food poisoning. After a few minutes of friendly conversation I ask if he is Liverpuddlian and he seems equal parts surprised and impressed by my adept accent determining skills. When he asks how I knew he was from the North my answer is simple, accurate and predictable: The Beatles. If you don't know what Paul McCartney's accent sounds like you've either been living under a rock, or you're an idiot.

Once a friendly German traveler from a table over joins the conversation its basically a full fledged party.

Dinner and internet have both been consumed and it is time for me to take the long walk, down the latnern lit beach, over the river and through the woods, barefoot mind you, to Freedom.

A Hazy Shade of Winter - The Fat Girl Edition

Up early thanks for a text from a fellow traveling friend (thanks Brandon!) - in a time zone far far away, I was able to make it to the provided continental breakfast downstairs at Hotel Milano which, in this country seems to include deli meat and cheeses. Not my steez.

A bowl of bland cornflakes and a couple tapped keys on the lap top and I was prepared to check out, say goodbye to Punta del Esta and make my way to Minas.

I had miscalculated when I was heading back to the states and realized I had a whole extra day in which I could head back to Montevideo and gaze at the grey skies and sooty city streets or I could take those 24 hours and visit someplace new.

Not having been able to locate a Lonely Planet for just Uruguay, likely due to the size and relative importance of this country, I bought a Brandt guide weeks before leaving and according to the middle-aged white man who wrote it if you're only in Uruguay for a short stay Minas is worth a gander.

Packing up all of my stuff has become a more and more arduous process each day and with all of my gifts purchased and food stuffs tucked away for long bus rides I am no longer so pleased with my less is more approach to packing.

Sherpa'ing my shit back to the bus terminal I remembered just in the nick of time to stop in at el correo to send my obligatory post cards. Having created so many traditions of my own on these journeys I am finding my trips are less wandering and more organized chaos. This is merely part of the reason I never say I'm going on vacation and always say I'm traveling.

Trust me, if you could see me right now. Dirty hair, dirty clothes, bags strewn about, sitting on the roadside waiting for my 12:45 bus to Minas you'd agree - I don't make this look luxurious or relaxing. But if you look closely enough, it just might resemble living.

Bidding adieu to this beach resort destination on a grey and hazy day made me particularly grateful that my Sunday here was so idyllic and that I'd decided to leave this morning and keep my lovely memories in tact.

Sitting on the roadside, which happens to face the beach, I am brought back 10 years. I'm in the South of Spain and I've been traveling with a girlfriend for weeks through early spring in Europe. It's been so cold I've been layering jacket upon hoodie upon t-shirt (some things evidently never change). Once we reach Cadiz it isn't hot, but it's warmer than any place we've seen in far too many days and we run down to the beach, enormous backpacks strapped to our bodies in painful and meticulous ways. Without hesitation we drop our bags, and then drop our tops, and lay in the sun. It is the only time I've ever sunbathed topless and I can't help but think how much has changed in the past decade decade. 10 years, 3 cities, 2 heartbreaks, one loss of a parent, a handful of grey hairs and 32 or so more countries.

Deciding it was far too cold and leggings are not nearly enough insulation to sit outside and ponder my youth I crossed back over the street, and decided to spend the next 90 minutes in Cafe Pecas, which seemed all too appropriate for this freckle face. Inside Good Morning South America plays on the flat screen and the heat was turned all the way up. An amiable man with a glass eye and sunny disposition served me green tea and a cookie and I watched the world go by as I waited for my Bruno bus departure.

Making certain to get on the right bus this time I interrupted the driver's phone conversation to confirm and the plopped my ass down in lucky seat 13.

Though when I boarded it was just me and a slumbering woman, as the bus wound it's way through the countryside it began to fill up. 

Navigating the suburbs of Piriapilos I nearly decked a woman seated across the aisle who took this ride as her opportunity to 'catch up on correspondence.' Only problem was, instead of taking the Rachel Green approach and writing letters, she chose to make call after call chatting with, from what I could gather, loved ones of all ages and comprehension levels at a very audible volume. Technology, like many things in life, really is such a blessing and a curse. This being an example of the latter.

The deeper inland we drove the more at peace I felt. Modest homes, candy colored with chickens running free in the yard. Vast stretches of unscathed land, rolling into the distance. And, for good measure, a smattering of senior citizens pushing bicycles and carrying baskets, dressed in wool sweaters and knit caps. This was the Latin America I knew well. This was the Latin America I love.

Sneaking bites of the baguette and peanut butter from inside my bag helped curb the nausea I tend to experience when in any sort of moving vehicle, if by land or sea. I repeat, helped. I was determined to stay awake for this midday ride and take the opportunity to watch the world outside the window, motion sickness be damned!

Finally! Terminal Minas. Realizing I had seen calle 25 de Mayo, the street upon which Hotel Minas is located, when pulling into town, I figured it would be easy enough to locate. I was wrong. After walking in concentric circles for 20 minutes or so I asked for assistance from a sweet young man clearly using all of his youthful determination to sprout a mustache. With a couple sentences and gestures I was able to easily navigate my way to the hotel, climb up the almost hidden stair well and ring the bell.  

After sharing nearly all of my personal information with the kind, if downtrodden, woman at the front desk, barring measurements and blood type, and dropping my bags off in room 23 I took a moment. I took a moment to stare, perplexed, at what 60 bucks a night buys you in this town. Moment had. Money is, after all,  just paper and there were sights to be seen, so I hit the streets, draped in every article of clothing I brought, including the mustard yellow leg warmers used to help me complete the 2010 NYC marathon, for photos and food. I'm afraid I not terribly successful with either.

After marveling at the interesting lined faces, none of which I properly documented, on the streets and beautifully weathered walls, I began my quest for a meal. Evidently butchershops are plentiful here, yet an actual restaurant, where you can sit down and eat a mixture of protein, carbohydrates and vegetables, is not. Is it that people eat at home here unless in need of deli meat or ice cream? Locating an expansive eatery with a sign boasting it's specials outside and housing an adorable elderly woman inside, I figured I'd take a chance.

What I ended up with was a bottle of room temperature Coca Cola and a cold, condiment-less sandwich of indeterminate origin and indecipherable taste. Luckily it was served in a completely empty, marble floored room with no central heat. In the dead of Winter. The poor old woman was mainlining cafe con leche just to stay alive! Not in the position to negotiate or wanting to be rude and leave, I was left to sit by the window, cold, hungry and terrified I would not be able to eat the rest of the day. Feeling like I was left with few options, I took a bite. Still not able to identify the meat of which this was made or what sort of rippling batter in which it was covered I began to pray. 

And then I began to exit.

I just couldn't do it. With the hope that I could find a mini-mart somewhere close by I left the barely touched sandwich and paid up. The barkeep was friendly and asked if I was Brazilian, so the 90 Pesos ended up being well worth it, as I associate Brazilian with Victoria's Secret model. It's pretty much the same thing - is it not? When I corrected him with the appropriate 'no, Estados Unidos' he and his friend replied 'Mr. Obama!' It never ceases to amaze me how little we know about so many others, but how much they all know about us...

Spotting what looked like a place to dine, due to the disproportionate amount of elderly couples sitting in the window, there seemed to be a light at the end of the hunger tunnel. Always drawn to the olds I entered the double doors and discovered it was a butcher shop and a bakery with a small frozen foods section. What the hell! Pringles and strawberry galletas for dinner it was. Having made a summer resolution, after my body instructing me in no uncertain terms to do so by way of paralysis and cellulite, to take better care of myself I was hesitant, but hungry.  I never thought I'd be this unable to eat well here. Though I'm not sure why, this is certainly not my first rodeo and I have found in many countries it is either home cooked meals from scratch or total shit in brightly colored packaging from the corner store. New York has spoiled me with it's constant access to ... well, everything.  Accepting that my pubescent skin and saddle bags would just have to wait it out for a few more days, I devoured salty and sweet and watched the sky turn golden.

It's cold in the valley here. Really cold. And I was operating on equal parts sugar, salt and fat - so hibernation seemed in order. Moving from one town to the next, each one earlier to bed and later to rise, I'm afraid I'm not getting much late night action,  so tonight it me, David Brooks and my heater. Sounds like a threesome made for the books, literally.

Buenos Noche!