Adventuresam

Rachel and I were ready to leave Ho Chi Minh City.  The plan was to rent a motorcycle and hit the road!  South central Vietnam!  I was to drive and she, along with our backpacks, were to be strapped onto the back.  I was super excited.

The trip: Oh yes, it’s colour coded.

Minor change:  Unfortunately, the day we left Tét was still ramping up and we hit waves of traffic.  Rachel and I both felt strongly that this wasn’t the safest move and we returned to our favorite guest house, The Link, deciding, instead, to leave first thing the next morning #safetyfirst

Rachel and I were determined to beat traffic!  This was going to work.  We left at 3:25AM.  I repeat, we left at 3:25AM.  With our bags strapped down and our plans in order, I was ecstatic.  Rachel and I drove off into the dark, wee hours of the morning and encountered our first problem; a cracked muffler that sounded like a gunshot going off every 5 minutes.  We pulled over to google if this was going to be an actual problem or just disruptive (the latter), and continued on our way, sounding like total bad-asses.  Things were going well until about 6AM when, to our shock and dismay, we were once again engulfed in bumper to bumper traffic. This wasn’t just Saigon traffic –  which is notoriously some of the worst in the world — This was Saigon traffic, during Tét, on a motorcycle, with a pretty girl holding onto the back.  Honestly, it’s the hardest driving I’ve ever done.

Everyone, and I mean everyone, was heading into the countryside for this national week-long holiday.  This drive was too risky.  Feeling deflated, Rachel and I found a roadside stop, pulled over, and made the difficult decision to forgo the motorcycle portion of this trip.  It was hot, dangerous, and neither of us felt safe.  Plus, returning the bike in HCM was tough on our budget.  We had paid in full and, of course, since the mistake was ours, we forfeited all of the money, about $80 each. Ugh, Tét.  For the rest of our trip, Tét became the answer for whenever things weren’t going our way.  Oh, they’re out of green tea kit kats?  Must be Tét.  Why did that Swiss guy keep bothering us? Tét.  That road is closed? Well of course, it’s Tét.

Once again, Rachel and I showed up at our favorite guest house in HCM, The Link.  Nga, the manager was surprised and happy to see us.  We told her what had happened and she consoled us by help organize a two-day tour down south along the Mekong Delta.  We were to leave the next day.  Starting at 8AM seemed like a well-deserved sleep-in.

On a boat: We saw the famous floating markets!

Drank hot coffee on the river.

Saw a huge sitting Buddha.

Went on a a gorgeous river trip.

Sampled warm, coconut candy at a coconut candy factory, bought some, and spent the rest of the trip trying to keep it safe from the ants.

Slept in a homestay.  (This photos makes the bed look soft.)

We saw plenty of above-ground graves in rice paddy fields (so that when they flood farmers can identify which farm is theirs).  We cracked up seeing turtles slapping each other repeatedly at the temple Jade wooden temple.  And admired the hammocks on the side of the road for motorcycle drivers to stop and rest (brilliant).  It was a great trip.  Made all the better by not having to drive ourselves.

There are some rusty nails on that child’s see-saw.  Probably because of Tét.

When we finally left Vietnam, after our successful bus tour down south, we had a layover in Singapore, the nicest airport in the world. We ate ramen, walked around multiple gardens, and wished we could spend more time.  But alas, our flight was leaving.  Next stop?  Thailand!

The Year of the Rooster,
‘mi

The Vietnam War is called The American War in Vietnam and I was in need of a history lesson:

The American War lasted approximately 20 years, finishing in 1975.  Fourteen million bombs went off in Vietnam but there are 800,000 bombs that are still missing.  Three million people died in Vietnam.  And now, tragically, the number of US Veteran suicide’s, following the war, has officially exceeded the total number of US fatalities during the conflict.   I took a tour of the Cuchi tunnels, a place where some of the fighting took place, to learn more and see more.

Our guide making his already small body smaller, before he entered the claustriphobic Cuchi tunnels. It was so hot inside people came out drenched in sweat.

There are 100 kilometers of tunnels preserved from the original 250 kilometers.  And on location was a place tourists could shoot big guns, loud guns, machine guns, and other guns, so that during the tour we would hear constant gunfire in the background, adding to the drama.

The ground was hard and difficult, which made digging the tunnels arduous.   I saw many Viet Cong traps with various debilitating implementations.  I saw horrific photos of agent orange’s impact and shuddered at thoughts of becoming a prisoner in any communist prison.

I learned that Viet Kong was not the name of the people from the North.  It was the name of the communist people who were from the south but fighting for the north, against the Saigon government agency.  The people who were fighting from the North were called the North Vietnam Army.

The Viet Cong were very resourceful:

• Sometimes, when a bomb wouldn’t go off, The Viet Cong would recover it, take it underground, and saw it open with a wet saw.  This was so that the sparks from the metal saw wouldn’t explode the bomb in their confined space.  The Viet Cong would then recover the gun powder and use it to their own advantage.
• During rainy season, the Viet Cong wore their shoes on backwards to trick enemies into thinking they were walking the opposite way.
• The tunnels went deep down into the earth and the Viet Cong stuck bamboo straight through in order to draw in fresh air and help them breath easier.
• The Viet Cong also built underground kitchens with steam chambers that dispersed the steam smoke much farther away from where they were actually cooking.
  • And then they would start to cook only at 5am so to hide the kitchen smoke with fog from the morning ground.

The Cuchi Tunnels were an incredible education.  I took notes (clearly) and felt humbled by how little I knew before I went.  In my defense, it’s much easier to learn about history in the place where the history event happened.  This blog post is so I can easily review what I learned.

Feeling slightly more educated but still have a lot to learn,
‘mi

Coming back from Cambodia, Vietnam felt like a developed metropolis.

Goooooooooooood morning, Vietnam!

A tangle of electrical wires.  The electrician, like the moped driver, is wearing a helmet for protection.  And I’m assuming bamboo is shock resistant, right?

I based myself on Bui Ven Street, the backpacker district of Ho Chi Minh (HCM), reading books, doing research, and planning an ambitions motorcycle trip to southern central Vietnam.  I met up with Audrey, a friend from college who’s currently teaching English in HCM; Luis, a Portugese friend of a friend; and Tony Giusti, who shared his friendship and knowledge of the Vietnamese countryside as well as The Vietnam Coracle, a very impressive website, which I consulted daily.  Shout out to Paula and Dan Malone for making these connections happen.  And to Victoria, who was with us in spirit ❤

I picked up a friend of mine, Rachel, from the HCM International Airport late night when she was tired, jet-lagged, and acting silly.   We took public transportation to our hotel and read street signs as best as we could.  Some were written with English letters but phonetically spelled in Vietnamese.  My favorite was “Naimabank” which we pronounced as “Nah, I’m a bank” and used as an answer for questions such as: “Would you like to go out tonight?” “Nah, I’m a bank.”

We stayed at the Link Guest House with a woman named Nga.  The hotel was clean, safe, and the bed was fine but up 5 flights of stairs.  We got an early start the next day.

Oh, the places you’ll go in Ho Chi Minh City!

Rachel, a local restaurant owner, and me.  The tree in the background is in honor of Tét, the Vietnamese New Year, which lasts for an entire week and happened to be the week we were in town.  Tét ultimately gave us a headache, created traffic in a mass exodus of HCM, and altered our itinerary substantially.  But this photo is from the beginning when we thought Tét was cool.  And the tree in this photo, like many we saw, had both real and fake flowers glued on to it in order to maximize the amount of good luck this restaurant would receive.  To be clear, in Vietnam, gluing flowers on a tree for luck is NOT cheating.  Yellow flowers are for South Vietnam and pink flowers are for North Vietnam.

One of the first orders of business was to get Rachel’s phone unlocked.  I watched Rachel hilariously, albeit unsuccessfully, try to bribe an employee at Samsung with an American $5 bill.  She (ultimately) fixed the problem and the two of us went on a self-guided walking tour around the city while consuming as much food as we could find.  Almost every corner had something new and exciting.

Vietnam nam nam nam

What’s this? I don’t know but we ordered one and drank (half of) it.

The extra food we would give away to beggars.  One particularly memorable moment was with a delicious fruit called soursop which we had already opened.  It didn’t seem like anything edible went to waste.

Rat meat. Tastes like chicken but with more bones. The rats in Vietnam are about the size of a small cat #MEAT

The Soup Lady.  Actually, the soup country.  If you’re a soup lover, this is the place for you.

Oh, the things you can do with rice.

Dog meat.  Prepared three different ways.  We didn’t accidentally stumble upon it either, Rachel and I sought it out.  After consumption, my heart hurt for days.  I don’t think I’ll do it again.  As a side note, cat meat is illegal in Vietnam.

My favorite restaurant: The Loving Hut.  Not pictured: The exquisite banana leaf salad.

Noir: A dining in the dark experience.  We couldn’t see anything but if I’d known that my hat was going to block my blindfold, I might have cheated at this matching game that I found difficult and the restaurant insisted we play before we were allowed to eat.

A midnight flower market.

When we were tired of walking, Rachel and I jumped onto the back of motorcycle taxis, the cheapest and most efficient way to get around.  Grabbike (a Vietnamese motorcycle version of Uber) became our favorite app.

Motorbike madness. Moves like Jagger a school of fish.

More tales (and history lessons) to come!

Still full of food 8 months later,
‘mi

Ah, glorious, sunny Cambodia.

Cambodian; a beautiful written language.

I had a bit of a fever *cough Noah cough* crossing the border from Vietnam, and Ben and I were mildly worried that I’d get quarantined.
“Be cool”, said Ben.
“Cool?!”, I exclaimed! “Cool?!!!!?!” I went on with the air of someone trying waaaay too hard to be cool.  “You’re talking to the Queen of Cool.  You should have said cool before.”

View from the bus at the Cambodia/Vietnam border.

I didn’t get quarantined, but we did end up in mild trouble (not fever related) exiting Vietnam.  A customs official at the airport had apparently written something wrong on our visas.  Neither Ben nor I saw where the mistake had been made, but then again, we don’t speak Vietnamese.  The bus driver suggested we pay off the customs officials with two hundred thousand dong ($4.50USD each — as I alluded to, we were dong millionaires) in “coffee money”, which included an actual hot coffee that our bus driver delivered to border patrol with the rest of the monies hidden underneath.

Boom, problem solved. Less than one minute later we were handed back our passports, documents in order, and allowed to continue on our way.  And the most surprising part was, we didn’t have any problems returning into Vietnam from Cambodia several weeks later.

As we crossed into Cambodia, the person checking our passports was a woman, which felt like a nice change of pace from the very male dominated border crossing we had just experienced in Vietnam.  This trip was happening at the same time Improv 201 in Pittsburgh, was starting and I was sad to miss my friends but I knew, even before I got here, that I was going to want to stay in this country.

Gorgeous Cambodia.

Some initial observations:
— Cambodia is less developed and more rural than Vietnam; the highways often abruptly turn into dirt roads.
— The main currency in Cambodia is the US dollar.  Some of the grossest US dollar bills I’ve ever seen in my entire life call Cambodia ‘home’.
— Cambodia also has it’s own currency — which, like Vietnam, doesn’t use coins.
— There are lots of outdoor volleyball nets in Cambodia.
— The English spoken is surprisingly better than in Vietnam, and the Cambodians themselves come across as kinder, sweeter and somehow less harsh.
— In general, the food is tastier.  Except for the fruit, which seemes to be the same.  In both Vietnam and Cambodia, they enjoy their fruit at a different level of ripeness (less ripe) than I’ve been raised to prefer.

Panda ears and puppy hearts.  You never know in Asia, it could be.

A photo of the generically Asian cuisine I found here.  The instant noodles were my favorite.

The urban third world: A family of 6’s mode of transportation.

According to Lonely Planet, “Cambodia has some of the best roads (read worst roads) in the world for dirt biking…. If you have never ridden a motorcycle before, Cambodia is not the ideal place to start.”  Bridges are made of treacherous, wooden slats.  Entire highways turn into dirt roads.  Off-roading is unavoidable.

Ben and I decided, again, to rent bikes.   Bigger ones, dirt bikes, 350cc’s.  I was confident that this kind of challenge was exactly how I’d get to be a good rider.  After a few false starts with sufficient time spent checking the brakes (important), we were on our way up the dirty Mekong Delta, which starts in the Himalayas and is home to the elusive, endangered river dolphin.

Sammi, modeling the safer helmet style which they sport in Cambodia.

A house on stilts. One room for everybody.

Cambodian style temples, closer to Thailand’s style and nothing like Vietnam’s.

As we traveled, I received a welcome history lesson:
During 1975-1979, Pol Pot and the Khmer rouge came to power.  Twenty percent of the population — specifically educated people with glasses — were executed or, more likely, starved.  Families were separated and forced to remarry.  No one but Pol Pot’s army was allowed to eat protein, grow their own food (despite being a farming society) and “you could count the number of rice grains in your bowl.”  Almost every village we passed had a Killing Field (exactly what it sounds like), and I visited an eerily serene torture museum at an old high school that had been converted into a communist prison. Shudder.  The interrogation techniques there were horrific, and involved chemicals and it didn’t matter whether you confessed or not, they killed you slowly.  It was unsettling to say the least and reminded me of what’s happening in modern day Syria.  I cried, of course.  And from then on we looked at everyone we saw over the age of 40 — they’d lived through it — with a new lens.

Ben and I discovered a local movie playing at a nearby hotel called The Killing Fields, based on Pulitzer Prize winning journalism.  We continued our education in the air-conditioning (which I’ll admit, made it enjoyable).   The movie clarified how Pol Pot came to power (brute force and violence) but I’m still unsure why the Khmer Rouge would want to starve their people in pursuit of a communist, farming society.

In the interest of learning more about Cambodia as well as shaping our trip logistically, Ben and I purchased a guidebook written by Matt Jacobson.  It felt like Matt was with us on our trip but we teased him because one of his favorite lines was “zero your odometer” and neither Ben nor I had a working odometer, so we had to make some guesses.  Also, Matt had an uncanny ability to spell everything wrong which is fair enough because this was Cambodian translated into English, but also not fair because it was impossible to find these places on Google Maps  We didn’t have an odometer to “zero” and thus every day we got lost.  One memorable time was on the way to “How Waterfall” — spelled “Ka Tieng Waterfall” on Google.  You see how we got confused.  We persevered, though, and when we finally made it there we were rewarded with a local family celebrating a Cambodian holiday with home cooked chicken, rice, and fish and inviting the exhausted two of us to dine with them.  Of the dozen family members hanging around, only one sweet college-aged daughter spoke any English  (for which we were super appreciative). We filled our stomachs and expressed our gratitude as best we could.

A modern, camera weary Cambodian family.

Matt, our guidebook leader, was a hardcore dirt biker and we learned to take his advice seriously.  Forty kilometers of dirt road meant not to go that route.  Hindsight.  I fell twice on this trip.  I’m okay, but the second time I ripped my pants and cried.  Ben helped me to upright my bike and walked me into the shade.  A Cambodian family whose house we were in front of rushed over to take care of us, bringing me into their yard and rubbing tiger balm on my wounds.  Ben urged a tear-streaked Sammi to “get it together”.  Queen of Cool was super uncool.  After 30 minutes I felt steady enough to continue but only because I didn’t have a choice.  I did not want to be outside after dark.  And the forecast called for rain.  Gulp.  I insisted we find paved roads.  “Exclusively paved roads”, I said.  But I was out of luck because, unfortunately, we still had a *four hour drive in front of us before we reached any hard surface.  Ben said it might have taken *two hours if I’d been willing to drive faster but fear prevented me.

Sometimes it’s a little better to travel than arrive. But when we’re talking about dirt biking, sometimes it’s a little better to arrive than to travel.

The blue dot was my location in middle-of-nowhere Northern Cambodia.

Not very much shade.

Civilization!

There are an estimated 800 landmines in Northern Cambodia that have yet to be disarmed, and we’d seen dozens of people with amputations and scars over the past weeks reminding us of this very real danger.  I was in a part of the world where, if you take a casual walk through the countryside, you might explode a bomb.  Yeesh.

“Danger!!” with two exclamation points.  Landmines were a legitimate fear.

And I got sick.  So sick.  Like, “I need to stop right now, I’m sick.”  We pulled over, but I wasn’t allowed to go hide in the bushes to relieve myself because…landmines.  Like a miserable animal, I lay on the side of the road writhing and moaning, unable to have privacy.  There was no denying that the “Queen of Cool” had fallen off of her throne.  We made slow progress as I wasn’t able to keep anything down and three hours later when we got into town Ben found us a hotel room with air-conditioning!!!!!!!!!  And then, because he’s a gentleman, promptly left the cool air to allow me much needed privacy.  I was a sick, noisy puddle.  He came back with medicine and that night we watched our favorite show, Firefly, with Kaylee and The Alliance.

Luckily, it was a 24 hour bug and the next day I felt better.  Alas, not well enough to go and visit Ben’s favorite temple first thing in the morning.  I slept in, and then back on my bike.  I made some slow progress towards Siem Reap and the iconic Angkor Wat.  I’m not sure what made me sick, but I do have a theory:  In Cambodia, at every roadside restaurant, chopsticks are placed in a cup of where-did-that-come-from-water.  I reckon that I didn’t shake the chopsticks dry enough and inadvertently drank some of that mystery water.

Siem Reap felt more touristy than Phnom Penh, Cambodia’s capital.

It was hot and humid in this part of Cambodia; the kind of heat where you sweat when you’re sitting.  Hen would have been fried.

Awake before the sun to beat the crowds at Angkor Wat.

Not much to look at. (Practicing my sarcasm.)

Doesn’t look to be a day over one thousand years old.

Ben and I saw as much as possible; climbed endless stairs to see temples, visited a hundred pillar pagoda (vs. the one pillar pagoda back in ‘nam), and ate crunchy, expensive pizza potato chips walking across sacred ground, leaving a trail of laughter as we went.  We also visited a worthwhile turtle rehabilitation center attached to a monastery and witnessed Pick, the skilled, brave, religious mechanic, tow Ben’s motorbike through the street-river with his feet.

The beauty continues.

The exploration continues.

Taking the long way home; that’s my bike through that doorway.

Adorable monkeys.  They love cloth items and bananas.

One of our last days in Cambodia, after we returned the bikes, Ben and I subjected ourselves to an excruciatingly long bus ride where I got motion sick (I won’t travel by bus without Dramamine ever again) as a violent torture movie played on the television screen.  From then on when I became uncomfortable, Ben reminded me, “at least they’re not playing a torture movie”.

We arrived in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, for one final night before Ben had to head back to the States for school.  I remained in-country and took several days to rest and recover from Cambodia.  During that time I read, researched, and planned an entirely different Southeast Asian trip.  A friend of mine, Rachel, was landing three days after Ben departed and I was gathering my energy in order to be vibrant for the adventures that still lay ahead.

Not all who wander are lost.

Ice cream, if you can find it, to beat the heat,
‘mi

I’d been preparing for this winter’s trip for a month.  My friend and I started in Northern Vietnam, Hanoi, with intentions of heading even farther north to iconic landscapes; three weeks of remote mountainous motorcycling through rice paddies.  And yes, to answer a question that you didn’t ask, the Vietnamese currency is named “dong”.  😂

The Vietnam government required us to have all of our documents in order before we arrived so weeks before our flight I applied for a visa online and printed out our letter of invitation.  Four months earlier, Vietnam had changed this process for US citizens making the visas year-long, multiple entry and more expensive, $155USD each.   For comparison, both Cambodia and Laos are 30 day $30USD, visa on arrival, and Thailand is 30 days free.  As an added feature, our Vietnam visa came with the custom officers not recognizing the new format and requiring a bribe payment for “coffee money” at one of our border crossings.

Welcome to Vietnam!  — An ornate temple in Hanoi.

An artistic photo of a student.

A photo of other people’s children.

I had to filter Ben this colour to make my under-eyes less dark.  Travel is all about compromise.

We spent time exploring Hanoi, drinking Weasel coffee (beans that have been partially digested by a mongoose relative, fermented, excreted by the animal, and then roasted. Ben said it was delicious, I had trouble getting past the facts.), visited a one pillar pagoda, made observations about Vietnamese money (they don’t have any coins in Vietnam), and laughed about how every single bed we slept in felt like a slab of sheet rock.

I have this idea that if you learn to do something in a harsh environment you become good at it.  It’s a working theory, but I thought that by learning to ride a motorcycle in the mountains of Vietnam — plus that one lesson from Dey —  I’d be able to ride anywhere.  No matter that it was going to be winding, cold and isolated!  Adventure and a new skill awaited!

We rented our bikes and checked the brakes at least four times.

After getting comically separated in the first 5 minutes, spending hours familiarizing ourselves with a manual bike in a sea of Asians on mopeds, and finally getting out of a hectic Asian city, it was time for lunch.  We picked a roadside stop that looked delicious.  As soon as we pulled over the owner pointed out a nail in my tire. — Uh-oh!
Turns out, it was literally no big deal.  I had conveniently broken down in front of a restaurant/skilled mechanic.  Ten minutes later, lunch and my bike were ready simultaneously.  For 80,000dong (less than $4USD) we’d eaten and gotten my bike fixed. We felt like real big spenders handing over 80,000 clams to our waiter/mechanic. Dong dong bills, ya’ll!

The best restaurant we found in Northern Vietnam.  Unfortunately, most of the other cuisine was disappointing and bland.

A misty outhouse.

We quickly realized that almost every other man in Vietnam is a seasoned motorcycle repairer.  Any problem we had with the bike was fixed cheaply and (literally) meters from where we had broken down.  It was very impressive.

Posing, when what I should have been doing was looking at the weather forecast.

It wasn’t supposed to rain.  Everything we had read said it was cold, sure, but also dry.  January isn’t the wet season in Northern Vietnam.

A hint of gorgeous scenery that alas wasn’t to be.

It poured!
We pulled up at a street-side restaurant to find shelter, talk about what to do and as always, eat. I gestured for some water to drink. The cook seemed to understand and brought over a plastic water bottle.  I took a big gulp…. and immediately ran outside to spit it out.  What I’d mistaken for water was actually rice wine, whoops.  In hindsight, I realized that it was not sealed and accompanied by a tiny glass.  Eventually I got regular water but not before the incident brought smiles all around.

Rainy day activities involved taking photos with the locals. Even in rural Vietnam, the women seemed to dress better than I do.

As the rain lightened up we continued back on our bikes but even gentle rain feels like hail at 50 kilometers per hour.  The conditions were dangerous; water filled up potholes and we could no longer see how deep they were.  And then another deluge.  We pulled over again.

Not pictured: Crazy locals speeding through on mopeds wearing flip flops.

Reexamining his vacation decisions.

Days and days of endless rain forecast; a change of plans was in order.  So, armed with a dry lunch spot, google maps, accuweather.com, and SkyScanner (a hit to our budget we hadn’t been expecting), we bought a plane/bus ticket to Vietnam’s neighbor, Cambodia. Forecasts for sunny skies and debilitating heat!

We stashed our bikes onto a bus and paid for a ride back to Hanoi where we had a flight to Ho Chi Minh the next day and, because we felt like we deserved it, got a massage.  I chose an adorable spot on Bui Vien.  The room was perfect with soft tables but Ben’s masseuse had a different idea of what we were looking for. While I was getting the stress rubbed out of my neck and back, he was violently flung around the table. The finale we dubbed the “airplane” where the masseuse held Ben in a wrestler’s hold and shook him while his spine cracked.  It wasn’t relaxing for either of us but I did get to laugh so hard I cried, making it one of the best massages I’ve ever had.

Early the next morning we said goodbye Northern Vietnam and hellooooooooo Cambodia.

Eager for adventure,
‘mi

These vibrant pictures are replete with reminders, and as I look at each one I think, ‘Yup, I remember exactly what was so special about that moment.’

Straight from Croatia to be with Katie and Dan Diamond for their exquisite wedding at PNC Park. ❤

“You’re a good driver,” said my dad.  Is there a better compliment?!

6am at Brittny and Rickys reception — I was in heaven.

Ecstatic girls, full of cake.

My hilarious best friend on team Level Up!

The famous Gab Bonesso!

Aunt Joan and Aunt Betsy in the fall. ❤

The fairy cottage. ❤

Cousins. ❤

Louis C.K. ❤

Proud to call Kendra and Eli my friends!  They’ve taught me so much about love. ❤

“Realizing it’s the good ol’ days while it’s the good ol’ days.” ❤

Jake and Colleen. ❤  We learned bar rules that night in Ithaca. And poor Hen was the sickest she had ever been.

Enzo snuggles after a night out with Rachel.

Deal me in!

Brian and Andrew, my wonderful friends, on their wedding night. ❤

“There’s joy inside of us.”

On a break from my office job volunteering for downtown Pittsburgh!

My role model, Vanja.

Empire’s first Christmas.

“Live a little!”  “I’m living a lot.” “Yeah, I’m trying to subdue you.” –  Hen

Pearl.

Happy Hanukkah!

An esoteric paragraph, because I don’t want to forget:
When Hailey and I played laser tag, Lou’s Little Corner Bar, framing Myanmar art with Emmy, Falling Water, Adam Day!, “Raping them over coals” — Colleen misspeaking to my parents re: pickle ball, Yom Kippork chops, Friendsgiving, Ben’s birthday, a cat-lady-bug on Halloween: a compound word for a girl, Election Night tacos and a sparkler for Virginia, capital laughter, when Helen ate a rose, Max and Art, Improv 102 with Chris, Kevin, Lori, Walter, Courtney, Ramsey, Joey, Nia, and Ben Mayer.

My 2016 travel summary:

6 weeks in Portugal — Telmo, Paula, and Iryna.
2 weeks in Spain — with my darling Colleen.
1 month in Morocco — and my first time in the desert.
8 days in Nicaragua — that will stay with Hen and me forever.
1 weekend in Mexico City.
6 weeks in the Balkans — year 4 with Katie Kuhn.
1 week out west; Colorodo, Vegas, and California.
And on December 25th, I leave for Vietnam.

I am ultra blessed to have a flexible job, and once again I’m ready to uproot myself; this time I’m heading to Asia.  I am taking a short break from Pittsburgh in order to rearrange my mental furniture, broaden my perspectives, and remind myself how little I actually need.

For the first time ever, I’m legally AdventureSam.
Happy?
Happy!,
‘mi

In October, I visited my bestie, Patrick, in Colorodo.  We camped in Crested Butte(iful) during a film festival and hung-out with incredible people.  The first day it rained; we watched a movie about Katie Lee, ate momos, laughed until we cried, and considered buying property.  The next morning I awoke to the sound of every different kind of zipper unzip, zip, zipping; sleeping bags yawned, jackets came off, backpacks got resituated, and tents were ventilated.  I took a deep breath of fresh, mountain air — the weather was idyllic.

I was left with no words but all the feelings.  Patrick brought everything we needed. ❤

Alex introduced me to the fashion term “power clash”.

Fly fishing, trout for dinner.

“Helping” Abe cook.

Catnip for humans.

“You’re not Patrick” — Nate, to me, proving that he is good at compliments.

The colours of the wind.

Those yellow butte(ies) are Aspens, connected underground, making them the largest organism in the world.

We ate a smorgasbord of s’mores, went for a hike, chatted about cowboys, warmed ourselves by the fire, ate fresh fish, and learned astronomy.  It was an amazing trip and I absolutely can not wait to go back.

From Colorodo, I visited the “Bay Area” where I saw the hilarious Ben Mayer and Tracey Morgan.

We drove a scooter across the Golden Gate bridge!

“Find a protest, join a protest, start a protest.”

I walked around UC Berkley campus, tried to pet squirrels, went on a scavenger hunt, and saw the movie “Seven”.  It was perfect.

Then! It was straight to Vegas for Brittny and Ricky’s wedding:

Epic location with epic people.

Beauty incarnate.

We saw Cirque de Sole on The Strip and I was elated to meet Scott, Michelle, Kelly, Doverspike, Jamie, Cassandra, Brandon, Natalie, Cheese Curl, moms, dads, and the rest of their crew. ❤

Scott: “Laughing so hard you cry while reading a menu?! Now there’s a happy girl.” ❤

To be fair, I’d never seen “pasta with fruit” listed as cuisine.

A few days later, I landed in LA LA land with my forever friend Molly and her boyfriend Brett.

All you can eat sushi.

My sojourn to the western US of A was busy, rich, and joyful!  I relished every second and wanted to extend it ALL.  I’m grateful to Ricky and Brit whose love was the inspiration and to all of my good friends for making me feel so welcomed!  I met wonderful, hilarious folks — an extension of Patrick, Brittny, and Ricky.  I hope that this post will enhance my memories and not overwrite them.  Next time, I think we should take more pictures. 🙂

Missing the Wild West,
‘mi

Randall and Pablo joined us for the last few days of our road trip as they had a few days off for Easter weekend. We decided to spend Good Friday in typical Nicaraguan fashion – a relaxing day at the lake. The plan was to find a secluded place to cross skinny dipping off of Hen’s bucket list.

We hired locals with a boat to take us to a private part of the lake.  They dropped us off and were to return in two hours.  We had fun in the sun and cooled off in the water.

A Good Friday indeed.

But then things took a tumble.  Specifically, Hen.  While she was getting out of the water she slipped and fell — naked — and face-planted on a rock. Hen was plucked.
Though she didn’t make a sound, I knew it was serious when I saw blood dripping down her face.  We urgently called the boat back – “MUY RAPIDO POR FAVOR!”
Helen tried to fall asleep but we wouldn’t let her, we were worried that she had a concussion.  She countered that the only way she could stay awake was if we sang.  So Randall accompanied her in a duet of “Love is an Open Door” from Frozen during the boat ride back to land.

I drove us to the hospital at a frantic speed and thankfully was not pulled over. Randall sat in the back and tended to Helen. We kept her awake the only way we could, by participating in her sing-along.  I can’t remember being more scared.

In the hospital corridor.

Getting an x-ray.  That’s not Helen’s blood. Better or worse?

The hospital was busy but competent.

Local anesthetic. Before the bruising set in.

Brave girl!

The doctor masterfully stitched Helen up, wrote out prescriptions, and TOLD US SHE WOULD BE OK!!! (That’s me being excited. We were genuinely terrified.)  That night we slept on a bed at La Biosfera, courtesy of a couchsurfer, a Colombian named Sebastian who had befriended us the night before and offered up his treehouse for recovery.  The next morning, he and his housemate performed Reiki on Helen to help her heal while I went into town to pick up stronger meds.

My view every hour when the alarm would go off: Time to give Helen more pills.

View from Sebastian’s on our last day.

“What’s more blue: My eyes or my spirit?”

Our final day was spent finishing our drive to Estili and exploring briefly before returning to Managua to pack for our early flight home the next morning. Hurt on Good Friday? Returning home on Easter? We call it Jesus style.

Before: Bright-eyed.

After: Customs Officer: “So….. what happened?”

Nicaragua will always hold a special place in our hearts and on Helen’s nose scar.

We received a lot of warnings about going to Nicaragua:  Don’t eat the street food. Dye your hair to blend in. Everyone will be out to get you. We can’t emphasize enough how safe we felt. Here are the caveats we would give to anyone going to Nicaragua:
Bring bug spray.  Ice cream is really hard to find. Leave your umbrella at home. And watch out for the rocks.

NicaROCKgua. Get it?

‘Mi and Hen

Helen and I were having a blast in Nicaragua. What a beautiful country full of lakes, volcanoes, and impossibly friendly locals. Our 8 days in Nicaragua were full of laughing to tears, meeting wonderful people, and trying new things. We set our sights on hiking two vastly different volcanoes: Telica (TELica?) which is currently active and Cerro Negro which last erupted in 1999 and tends to erupt every 16 years. Eek! We started with TelICa.

A hot-bed of volcanic action. The sound, heat, and olfactory stimulation at this crater were palpable.

“This is already the best day Hen’s ever had”

Jose Carlos, the tallest of all children.

This hot-bed of volcanic activity was miles from the base of the volcano itself. There we met these adorable children, who safely showed us around the bubbling earth. After a wonderful tour (we think, it was all in Spanish), Jose Carlos offered to be our guide for a much longer hike up Telica. TELica. TelICa. (Every time we said it, we were corrected on the pronunciation. Every time we changed it. Every time we were corrected again.)

Since Telica (TELica) is an active volcano, we asked child-guide Jose Carlos if we could go at night in order to look inside and see the lava. He was eager to be our leader and asked us to meet him at 3PM to start what was allegedly a 5 hour hike.  We met at his house and found his entire family waiting outside to meet us. They were beaming with pride. To our relief, his father Emilio, joined us with his machete in hand. Neither of them spoke a word of English.  No problem-a.

Emilio. The most patient man on Earth.

And so it began.

Hitting the trail or is the trail hitting us?

1 hour in, not a volcano in sight. Clues were abundant.

It proved to be an incredibly challenging hike, both physically and mentally. We spoke solamente en espanol. Hen and I brought a gallon of water to share. It was heavy, cumbersome, and not enough for two people. What was supposed to be 5 hours of adventure turned into 8. Nightfall came less than 3 hours into our hike and we were only equipped with our iPhone flashlights.  Gulp.  But not of the water (we’re saving that for later).

Optimistic, before the rationing.

Say “QUESO!”

Everything the light touches is our kingdom.

Clothed and Afraid: Nicaragua Edition:

On my belly looking into a volcano at night.  The lava rushed loudly beneath me. I army crawled on warm, soft ground. The night air smelled like sulfur. Heart palpitating. Jose Carlos wouldn’t get close.

We returned to their house at 11 PM, filthy and exhausted.

Joking aside, we never felt unsafe at any point on our 8 hour hike. Emilio was a skilled laborer who knew the area well. He and his son were perfect guides. We were effusively grateful. At the end of an exhausting day, Emilio said it was an authentic experience.  At least we think that’s what he said.
“I feel like I know enough Spanish to ask questions but not enough to hear the answers.” — Hen

The four of us were exhausted. They graciously offered us their beds to sleep in but they had already done enough. We were filthy and opted to sleep in our own adorable car in their driveway but not before we spent an hour using every baby wipe we had to get “clean” before entering our “home”.

When the sun came up a few hours later, Emilio and his family greeted us with coffee and let us use their shower.

Hen hanging in our new friends’ yard while Bam showered.

Hen learning how to use Emilio’s shower.

Post showers, Emilio proudly showed us around his yard. These are his animals:

“Some pig!”

Ask me how I got bird flu.

It was time for us to bid adieu. The whole family said goodbye.

Saying our Adios’.

For our next volcanic adventure we chose Cerro Negro, a volcano covered in black ash, infamous for volcano boarding near the northern town of Leon.

We’ve got volcanoes in different area codes.

“I guess when we signed up for this, deep down I must have known that that would mean carrying a board up a volcano. But somehow, it didn’t hit me until now, half way up.”

We chose a polished tour company this time but were still unprepared for how windy the volcano was. Imagine trying to climb up the type of rocks that are infamous for being easy to slide down. Yikes. We struggled to maintain footing while carrying 35lb boards on our backs.

Laughing to tears. Tears that were instantly taken by the wind.

The warmth of our friendship rivaled by the warmth of the ground.

Sammi: Helen, do you have pockets?
Helen: Yes, why?
Sammi: Be cool but I’m going to fill them with volcanic rock.
Helen: Wait… what?
Sammi: You’re going to want this, trust me. Try not to draw attention. I’m going to stuff them as full as possible because you’re going to lose some on the way down the volcano.

Started at the bottom now we’re here.

The Dark Side.

Where are the brakes?

Hen’s best ride.

Are you serious??  “I haven’t made a joke since our layover in Atlanta.”

Erupting with fond memories. Saving the best/worst for last,
‘mi and Hen

Helen Wildy, one of my best friends, turned 30 this year and to celebrate WE TOOK A TRIP!!!!!!!!!!!  Within 30 minutes of saying “Let’s go somewhere!”, we’d booked our flights. Destination:  Nicaragua!!!!!!

When we tried to check in at the PIT airport, we noticed Helen’s name was listed as “Hen”.  Uh-oh.  We were instantly panic-stricken; already running late for the plane, who the HECK was Hen?!  We spoke to the ticketing agent who had apparently never seen a typo.
“Is Hen a nickname? Does ANYONE call you Hen?”
And just like that, Helen had a new nickname.   

We decided that the best way to see as much of Nicaragua as possible would be to rent a car and use it as a hotel/car combo. We asked for the ugliest car so that if it were damaged or dinged during our travels, we wouldn’t be penalized by Budget for returning it hurt. We requested the “carro mas feo” and to our delight and surprise, we got THE CUTEST CAR IN THE WORLD.

We went to visit an old friend, Randall, in Nicargua’s capital Managua.  Randall and Pablo picked us up from the airport and took us home to make us dinner – those angels. That evening, I learned something new about Helen after 10 years of friendship: she is not her best self in the heat. Managua was unbelievably hot. Hen was cooked.

The hottest part of Nicaragua?  Randall.

We started our days at 5:30AM to beat the Nicaraguan heat. Our first morning, we made our way south to Catarina, which our tour book described as “a city with an obvious love of potted plants.” We happen to be people with an obvious love of potted plants so we HAD to go there. It was on the way to Laguna de Apoyo, a lake in a volcanic crater, where we had our hearts set on swimming. No really, it was SO hot.

We were teasingly close to the Laguna. We could see it from above. But we couldn’t figure out how to drive down to it. We kept seeing signs that frustrated us: “Mira Lagos!” No, queremos TOCAR lagos.  Como?

When we finally got there, we were nervous about jumping in only to discover that it was the MOST PERFECT WATER we had ever felt. We had ambitious goals to tread water for an hour nonstop. I set my timer. 12 minutes in, we changed it to 30 minutes. 20 minutes in, we called it a day. Good hustle.

That first day the passenger acquired many jobs:
1.  DJ.
2.  Helping switch lanes because the windows were so tinted.
3.  Choosing the route and then being the GPS.
4.  Looking out for stray animals (mostly emaciated horses and dogs) on the road.
5.  Reading the tour book about cities on the way.
6.  Watching for police cones of terror.
7.  Finding safe places to park the car to sleep in at night.
8.  Keeping an eye out for tasty looking street food.
9.  Distributing snacks.
10. Translating road signs.
11. Taking pictures.
In contrast, the driver had one job: Driving.

Passenger’s job #12: Be aware of evacuation routes for volcanoes.

Helen…. where does the black road on the map lead?  “…..Oh.”

Frutas.

Desayuno tipico Nicaraguense.

Typical colorful houses.

A rodent pet.  Not to worry, our hand sanitizer killed 99.9% of common germs.

On our first day, we discovered an important lesson:
We had just come out of a roundabout when we noticed orange traffic cones in the road and a police officer waving us (and a few other cars) down. We pulled over immediately.  An officer approached our adorable vehicle and told us in rapid Spanish that we had broken a driving law and we were in trouble. We tried our best to communicate, racking our memories for both any possible driving infraction and for as many car/road/vehicle vocabulary words that we could think of. We didn’t understand everything she said, but her plan was to take away my driver’s license and make us pick it up in a bank the next day. Confused, we pleaded with the officer in broken Spanish:
“Pero… la necesitamos. Porque estamos viajando por Nicaragua… y es importante. Por favor?”

Eventually we realized we could just pay the “fine” of 800 cordobas (about 35 USD) and carry on our journey with license in tact. Literal highway robbery.

We were in shock about what had just happened hours into our trip and couldn’t wait to get back to tell Randall! What a crazy once in a lifetime experience! Except it wasn’t.  Ten minutes later, we were stopped again, further down the road by another police officer. This time we approached with a new strategy: We don’t speak any Spanish. Lo siento. We listened and smiled politely as the police told each other in Spanish that we didn’t understand them and asked what they should do. We were sent on our way, thrilled that we had gotten away without having to pay a fine, but flabbergasted that we had been pulled over twice for crimes we didn’t commit.

We learned that cones in the road meant police and we expected to be pulled over.  Finally, the driver had another job!  Do not make eye-contact with police officers as you pass.

This was day one. We had many more lessons to learn in two more blog posts.
More soon,

‘mi and Hen (Cluck cluck)