stories
a tale or two from the road and home
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DAYS 235 - 286: SPAIN, FRANCE & A TRIP BACK HOME
In eight months we had traveled over 51,000 miles. Boarded thirty-seven planes. Twiddled our thumbs through twenty-five bus rides. Collected sixteen passport stamps. Slept in one hundred and eight different places. Exchanged money in dollars, baht, kip, rupees, dong, pesos, sols, bolivianos, marks and euros. Learned to say ‘hello’ in nine different languages. We had savored thirty cent beers. Devoured exotic curries. Adventured through remote jungles. Gazed at impossibly tall mountains. Become accustomed to doing laundry in hotel pools. Survived food poisoning in extremely inconvenient places. Mastered the art of successfully carrying a dozen eggs four miles down a dirt road in the back of a tuk tuk without the luxury of a carton.
SAINT JEAN DE LUZ, FRANCE
In eight months we had traveled over 51,000 miles. Boarded thirty-seven planes. Twiddled our thumbs through twenty-five bus rides. Collected sixteen passport stamps. Slept in one hundred and eight different places. Exchanged money in dollars, baht, kip, rupees, dong, pesos, sols, bolivianos, marks and euros. Learned to say ‘hello’ in nine different languages. We had savored thirty cent beers. Devoured exotic curries. Adventured through remote jungles. Gazed at impossibly tall mountains. Become accustomed to doing laundry in hotel pools. Survived food poisoning in extremely inconvenient places. Mastered the art of successfully carrying a dozen eggs four miles down a dirt road in the back of a tuk tuk without the luxury of a carton.
And while I’m pretty sure we both agree that it was by and far the most amazing experience we could have ever hoped for - eight months that changed our lives, altered our perspectives and allowed us to collect more beautiful, insane, once-in-a-lifetime moments than we’d ever dreamed possible - by the time we got to our final month abroad…we. were. tired. Pretty over the long days spent in transit. Qualms of navigating foreign travel sites. Perplexities that arise whilst trying to ask directions in a foreign language. Having to constantly figure out the who, what, where and how-to-get-there was starting to wear on us.
Thankfully we had saved some of the ‘easiest’ countries for last - and had a few visits from friends scheduled to lift our spirits. From Croatia we flew to Spain and spent a week climbing just north of Barcelona with our friends Eric and Heather. We then squeezed ourselves into a teeny tiny Fiat and ventured to the teeny tiny country of Andorra, a place I had never heard of before this trip - and spent a night there just to say we’d been. Woke up, brushed our teeth and continued on through the Pyrenees mountain range to France.
Now, I’m not a huge fan of spending prolonged periods of time in moving vehicles, but I think I could drive through southern France forever. The roads swing around giant mountains and cut through tall billowy grasses – they follow ancient stone fences and breeze by fluffy farm animals. They merrily weave in and out of little towns with tiny houses atop rolling hills. And you hang your feet out the window and stare out at the wisps of clouds sailing overhead and listen to beautiful French women serenade you with their beautiful French voices over the radio. It’s kind of like a dream.
Rather than trying to see as many places as possible in France, as we probably would have done at the beginning of our trip, we decided to pick a town and stay put as long we could. Mostly on a whim, we settled on Bagneres de Luchon - this sleepy little town at base of this epically huge mountain. It had the most beautiful main street lined with perfectly primmed trees and a tiny cheese shop and wine store and bakery and plenty of access to gorgeous hiking and biking – I don’t know what more we could have asked for. Brad dragged me, huffing and puffing up the Col de Peyresourde and the Col du Tourmalet - two of the most horrifically lactic acid inducing, quad shattering bike climbs I have ever experienced. The same ones they do in the Tour de France. I think the only reason I made it up the last one was that he promised to buy me this way overpriced t-shirt I really liked from the bike store if I finished. And I’m damn proud to report that I added a new piece of clothing to my backpacker wardrobe that day.
From France we drove back to Spain to meet up with our friends Brad and Lisa in this gorgeous beach town called San Sebastian where we drank way too much wine, had way too much fun and watched way too beautiful sunsets from hidden castle bars, pocketed ever so secretly into cliffs overlooking the ocean. Last up we drove to Toledo, Spain - a place I just had to see because it shares a name with my hometown - and after touring a few more cathedrals and eating a few more tapas we hit our final destination - Sevilla, Spain and caught a flight home.
We’re now two and a half weeks emerged back into American life and have been busy enjoying the little things - like hugging our moms, washing our clothes on a consistent basis and marveling at the fact that we can get whatever we want pretty much whenever we want it. We have a whole new appreciation for things like convenience stores, Jimmy Johns, freedom of enterprise, infrastructure, the ability to post our political views on Facebook (even though most of the time we don’t choose to do so). I don’t think I realized before how goddamn lucky we are to live the lives we live in the country we live them.
The last two and a half months of the year we’ll be living out of our truck and exploring the northwestern US. We’ll be doing our fare share of climbing, hiking and s’more making - and trying to figure out where we want to plant some roots after all of these shenanigans are over. We think life when we get back might look a little different than it did when we left, and we’re both ok with that. I think among so many of things we’ve taken away with us from this trip - one of the most important is that our time here is way too short to spend it going through the motions. That it’s worth it to take risks. Be gutsy. Do the things other people tell you you’re a little crazy to do. Both of us have discovered new things along the way that we want to pursue. And they’re kind of big. And kind of scary. But we’re going to go for them anyway. Because we think at the end of the day they’ll be worth it.
Mine is that I’ve decided I want to write a book. And even admitting that was a little terrifying for me because it’s something never done before. I don’t quite know how to start. I don’t know if I’ll ever finish. But I’m going to try because I’ve discovered that writing is something that I love. And they say time spent doing the things that you love is time well spent, right?
So if you don’t hear from us for a while, know we’re still getting after it. That I’m still writing. Brad’s still dragging me up mountains. That we’re still doing our best to collect moments – painful ones, beautiful ones, ones that we’ll take with us forever.
Thanks for following along with us for as long as you have – we promise to check in again before too long.
Until next time – and God Bless America,
Kenz
DAYS 228 - 234: CROATIA
When we look back on our travels, there will be certain things that stand out from the rest. And I'm sure some of these will be the beautiful places we’ve seen. For instance, take Dubrovnik, Croatia, where we walked the city walls of the most perfect, almost make-believe, castle city that overlooks the Adriatic Sea. Or in Split, Croatia, where we walked through dungeons and sundial rooms of ancient Venetian-themed palaces.
When we look back on our travels, there will be certain things that stand out from the rest. And I'm sure some of these will be the beautiful places we’ve seen. Take for instance Dubrovnik, Croatia, where we walked the city walls of the most perfect, almost make-believe, castle city that overlooks the Adriatic Sea. Or in Split, Croatia, where we strolled through dungeons and sundial rooms of ancient Venetian-themed palaces.
But I think - perhaps most vividly, it will be those situations that pushed us way outside of our comfort zones that we'll remember most. Like the horrifically long South American bus rides, contracting some sort of unknown virus in a Thailand jungle hut, or developing altitude sickness in a cold Himalayan teahouse. The stuff that makes for good stories. The stuff that you don't need a photo to remember. In Croatia, it will be the time that we thought that we had fatally poisoned ourselves with cyanide.
While still in Bosnia, we had decided to stock up on snacks before a long bus ride into Croatia. This particular Bosnian grocery store had a pretty robust nut isle, which we liked because it is not always easy finding healthy snack-food options on the road. I wasn’t very concerned by the fact that we weren’t able to read the packaging. In a rush, I grabbed an assortment of nuts - ones that appeared to be peanuts, some macadamia nuts, and these tiny looking almond things. Almonds are our favorite.
Fast forward two days to when we were sitting in another bus station around mid-day. We pulled out that bag of tiny almonds. After skipping breakfast, each of us took a few healthy handfuls, quickly consuming the entire bag. They were indeed almond-like, but definitely not almonds. They were smaller, dryer, a little bitter and had an peachy flavor to them. We then boarded our bus, proud of ourselves that we opted for the healthy snack over the really good smelling pastries across the station.
As I sunk into my seat catching up on a podcast, a look of horror overtook Kenze’s face as she sifted through her phone. She had just translated the Bosnian packaging of the tiny almonds to be apricot kernels, and out of curiosity googled them. It turns out that the sale of apricot kernels is quite controversial in Europe, and that they are often used as a method to treat cancer. Even taking 2 or 3 kernels a day comes with strong warnings. By this time, I’m reading along starting to share some concern when we read that "eating 50-60 apricot kernels would deliver a lethal dose of cyanide, but that cyanide poisoning can occur at much lower levels."
We quickly did the math, figuring that we both consumed upwards of 100 kernels each. And here we were, stuck on a bus.
You’d think that images of my life would have started flashing by and that I’d have started pouring out my love to my wife, with my last breaths. Instead, the only thing that I could think was, We were going to die on a fucking bus from eating apricot kernels!
We quickly ran through options. Should we make ourselves sick? No, no bathrooms. Should we ask the driver to pull over and get off? Could this actually be that serious? We had to do something quickly - it's already been 45 minutes since we consumed the kernels.
Thankfully, after a closer look and what seemed like forever but was probably more like 5 minutes, we discovered that we ate “sweet" apricot kernels, as opposed to “bitter” apricot kernels, which don’t contain nearly as much risk. We sat back in relief once we found the ones we ate had previously been sold on a Trader Joe’s website.
Regardless, we still tried to puke them out at the next stop. And have been translating more grocery store purchases since.
In-between Dubrovnik and Split, we camped and climbed and relaxed on empty beaches from a small town of Omis on the Adriatic Sea in southern Croatia. So long as Game of Thrones spinoffs continue, we'll remember all these places as well.
-Brad
DAYS 222 - 227: BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA
This is a big world. And traveling for a year translates into a lot of decision making. There is the big stuff - Where should we go? For how long? And all the details - How to get there? Where to stay? And of course, what to do? By the time you pull the trigger for one destination, it is time to start researching the next.
M O S T A R , B O S N I A
This is a big world. And traveling for a year translates into a lot of decision making. There is the big stuff - Where should we go? For how long? And all the details - How to get there? Where to stay? And of course, what to do? By the time you pull the trigger for one destination, it is time to start researching the next.
We’ve gotten pretty good over the year about managing all the decisions. I generally take lead on the logistics, like where to go and how to get there. If we relied on McKenzie for getting to the airport or bus station on time with both passports, I don't think we'd have found our way out of America yet. Likewise, if she relied on me to book lodging or to figure out what to see and do, we’d have stayed in a lot of terrible hotels, ate mostly Americanized food, and spent the entire year climbing.
We've learned to make hard choices, impacting which countries we ended up visiting, over a cup of coffee. And we have changed or added cities after 15-minute conversations with total strangers. But it always seems to work out in the end. I don't think either one of us would change any of our passport stamps.
Due to dwindling time, we nearly cut Bosnia and Herzegovina entirely out of our travels - which in hindsight would have been a terrible mistake. It ended up being one of our favorite places we've visited.
Bosnia is an epicenter of world history and has been strategically important going back hundreds of years to multiple great empires. It is where WWI ignited. Had its day under communism. Was occupied by Nazis and then liberated in WWII. It hosted a remarkable Winter Olympics. And all of this for a small country of fewer than 4 million people.
It is said that the capital city of Sarajevo is the place where the east meets the west. Where the people and religions of these worlds mix. Where synagogues, mosques, churches, and Orthodox cathedrals share the same city blocks. And trying to understand this small country's rich, diverse, and beyond complex past has taught us more about the world than any course in college ever did.
A walk down Sarajevo's Farhadija Street feels like walking along a real life timetable. You stroll past 16th century Ottoman Empire architecture, then through elaborately designed Austro-Hungarian buildings, and end up in a stretch of modern day skyscrapers. All of which are tucked inside a picturesque mountain valley that reminded us of Aspen or Vail. It’s absolutely beautiful.
Unfortunately, what Sarajevo is most known for back home is the horrific war headlines from the mid-90s. While much of the war damage has been rebuilt, there are still visible scars throughout the city - artillery spayed walls, grenade damage on sidewalks painted red, known as Bosnian Roses, and condemned buildings. Walking over a grenade scar in front of a market says a lot about the victims of this war - they were school teachers, neigbhors, elderly, children...who had become trapped in a city engulfed by war and had to do their best just to survive. It is impossible to begin to imagine the atrocities and the struggle that took place within Sarajevo and the greater region during this period.
We were lucky to have some Bosnian friends to help plan this part of the trip. They made we sure tried the best food and ate at the nicest restaurants. It was the first country visited where every single meal we had was amazing. Our friend’s cousin hosted us for a fun night out. We finished the evening at Sarajevo’s only craft brewery, where the master brewer upon learning that we were from Colorado wanted to know that his beer passed the international test. It did.
We also attended our first football match where security and anti-riot police outnumbered the fiercely fanatical fans that chanted, danced and set off occasional fireworks from the stands. We walked along an eery stretch of the 84’ Olympic bobsled track that served as artillery base during the war that now acts as graffiti artists’ natural canvas. And visited museums to attempt to piece together this country's complicated history.
We also traveled to Mostar, Bosnia's fifth largest city, where we enjoyed meals from the steep banks of the Neretva River. Watched bridge divers jump from a 16th-century old bridge that arches eighty feet above the emerald swirling river connecting two fortified towers and the town's old town. The same bridge was destroyed during the war but has since been rebuilt.
In short, we are sure glad that we didn’t cut Bosnia out of our travels. Sarajevo in particular will be one of my favorite cities. I loved the food. Enjoyed learning about its past and recent histories. It was very economical, friendly, and so welcoming.
-Brad
DAYS 204 - 221: GREECE
I’m pretty sure that if I didn’t love my mom so much I’d still be in Greece. Basking in the sun at some little cafe overlooking the ocean - perfectly content to never return…
I mean it’s a bit of a dream, really. A land of olive trees and ancient cities atop marble mountains. Beaches fit for mermaids and secret pirate coves. The home of Athena. Apollo. Poseidon and hisTrident. Achilles and his heel.
SANTORINI, GREECE
I’m pretty sure that if I didn’t love my mom so much I’d still be in Greece. Basking in the sun at some little cafe overlooking the ocean - perfectly content to never return…
I mean it’s a bit of a dream, really. A land of olive trees and ancient cities atop marble mountains. Beaches fit for mermaids and secret pirate coves. The home of Athena. Apollo. Poseidon and his Trident. Achilles and his heel.
We spent most of our time on islands. Naxos, Milos, Peros and Santorini - and they’re every bit as whimsical in person as they are in postcards. Tiny houses, the crispiest color white, sandwiched into cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean - a sea painted a shade of blue that’s all her own. One that smashes against turquoise and squishes with navy and bobs under bright orange buoys - and still manages to roll itself on shore transparent as a sheet of glass.
Life on the islands (at least in April) is slow and easy. Tall grasses sway in the breeze. Waves wallow around nearly abandoned beaches. Wildflowers gracefully dance through fields. There’s no sense of urgency, no evidence of hustle. Just a few fishermen hanging out on their boats, a few round bellied fellows smiling behind gyro stands, a few little old ladies in babushkas opening their second story windows to usher in the ocean air.
The people are absolutely wonderful. They go out of their way to smile and give you directions when you’re standing on a street corner looking lost. They excitedly invite you behind the counter for a lesson on how to make Greek coffee when they discover you’ve never had it before. They clap for you at climbing crags, and if you happen to be hiking up a trail next to a road, they’ll cheer you on from their car. When they spy you wandering around all the closed restaurants on a Sunday in search of dinner - they’ll invite you in and feed you the same spaghetti and meatballs that they had prepared for their family.
We filled our days biking up to gorgeous mountain views, losing each other in the winding cobblestone streets, getting drunk on sunsets so intense they seemed to light the sky on fire. Day after day we’d find ourselves alone, on a some new beach - so beautiful and different from the last, I would have to retreat from it backwards trying to absorb every second into my memory.
I honestly didn’t think I would walk away from this trip with a favorite place. They’ve all been so beautiful and different in their own ways. But for me, Greece totally takes the cake. Her beauty, at least in my opinion, completely beyond compare.
DAYS 183 - 204: MANCORA, PERU
I’ve wanted to learn to surf for like…ever…
When I graduated college my dad gave me a wad of cash and a hand-written note that said move to California, buy a board and pursue your dreams…or something along those lines.
And while I managed the move to California part, I never quite got the surfing bit down. It was so much more terrifying than it looked. If you made it past the onslaught of whitewater - there were the forty or fifty jacked up dudes getting all moody and territorial over waves - and then there was the nosediving, the crashing, the not knowing which way was up or down, the jagged rocks, the feeling like you were drowning, the bonked head, the scraped feet, the sinus cavity full of salt water, the hallelujah-I-made-it back-to-the-surface-gasp for air. Only to get crushed again by the second wave of the set rolling in. Enough to make you drag yourself to land sniffing and snorting - and totally un-psyched to go back.
M A N C O R A , P E R U - (OBVIOUSLY NOT EITHER ONE OF US)
I’ve wanted to learn to surf for like…ever…
When I graduated college my dad gave me a wad of cash and a hand-written note that said move to California, buy a board and pursue your dreams…or something along those lines.
And while I managed the move to California part, I never quite got the surfing bit down. It was so much more terrifying than it looked. If you made it past the onslaught of whitewater - there were the forty or fifty jacked up dudes getting all moody and territorial over waves - and then there was the nosediving, the crashing, the not knowing which way was up or down, the jagged rocks, the feeling like you were drowning, the bonked head, the scraped feet, the sinus cavity full of salt water, the hallelujah-I-made-it back-to-the-surface-gasp for air. Only to get crushed again by the second wave of the set rolling in. Enough to make you drag yourself to land sniffing and snorting - and totally un-psyched to go back.
In the three years I lived in California - I probably went three times.
So the dream sat stagnant. Placed in that “someday I’ll…” category. The one we all have for the things that we’d like to do, but never seem to have the time or energy or persistence to actually pull off. But then along came Brad. Who coincidentally enough - also thought it’d be a cool thing to learn. And so from day one of honeymoon planning - we knew we wanted to spend some time by the ocean.
Based on recommendations from friends, we picked the tiny Peruvian town of Mancora - a scrappy little beach spot from which Earnest Hemingway was supposedly inspired to write “The Old Man and the Sea.” Also home to “an excellent left-hander - with a two defined section” - whatever that meant.
We arrived during slow season and were able to talk this awesome little eco resort into renting us this killllllller apartment 5 minutes from the beach - seriously everything my sleep deprived, amenity-starved little heart had been fantasizing about and more - and settled ourselves in for the longest stint stay of our 365 days.
And the surfing? Oh it started out well enough. The first couple of days we took lessons with a pair of instructors. The kind of guys with dark disheveled hair who smiled a lot and never wore shoes - and who were constantly, very loudly, reminding me to get my hands “behind your boobies!!” And those first couple of days were totally awesome. Because instructors are kind of like the giant orange floaties of the surf world. A safety net of sorts. They watch out for you. Get you into position. Give you a push when you need it. And as a result, you catch a few waves and have a blast. And you start to build up this false confidence that maybe…just maybe…you can actually surf.
But then you have to turn in your safety net and get out there on your own. And it’s like getting fed to the wolves. The ocean, hellbent on reminding you what a newb you really are.
I’ve never tried to pick up a sport that is so unfriendly to beginners. Maybe it’s because most of the people in the water learned to swim before they could walk and have been popping up on boards since they were in diapers. Maybe they’ve forgotten how difficult it is to learn. Oooor maybe it’s just that they’re all a bunch of pricks. Either way - surfers aren’t all as zen-ed out and “peace-bro” as they claim to be. As a group - in whole - they’re nasty. Forget trying to smile and wave hello as they fly past you on their way to the lineup. One glance into their dagger eyes quickly reminds you that this is their stomping grounds. Their wave. And you better stay the hell out of their way.
So, being my wussy little unconfrontational self - I’d stick way far to the outside. Hoping to catch the scrap waves that once in a blue moon would head my way - not yet claimed by one of the locals. But even on the off chance that happened, there was all the other stuff you had to master…
In order to actually catch a wave, you pretty much need to be in exactly the right spot. At exactly the right time. With exactly the right speed. You need to be able to look out over the expanse of blue stretched out in front of you and read the energy pulsing itself towards the shore. To anticipate where it’s going to curl over. Paddle like hell to get there. Wedge yourself right into that nook. Paddle like hell some more. And then, you know…jump to your feet without the nose of your board shoving itself into the water in front of you, sucking the board under - the nose on your face following closely behind - your inner voice cursing and praying and hoping to god that your leash doesn’t snap the board back towards you at the very second you emerge to the surface.
I mean really, the whole experience is a total mind fuck. But we stuck to our guns. And for almost three weeks we dragged our sunburnt, battered bodies into the water twice a day. And a lot of days it was that…dragging. I constantly had to remind myself that I wanted this. That it was…“fun.”
When we weren’t surfing, we were mopping up the water draining out of our nostrils. Stretching our broken biceps. Comparing our bruised hips and cut up feet. In the morning we’d pour a cup of coffee and psych ourselves up to give give it another go. And again and again I would find myself zipping up my wetsuit, trudging into the water, trying to ignore the nasty glances from locals, paddling until my arms felt like they were going to fall off, missing most waves, getting frustrated - paddling some more.
And then - just as our time in Mancora was winding down - something wonderful happened. We started catching waves. Not a lot mind you. But enough to appreciate that feeling that makes it all worth it. That drop in your stomach as you descend down the face - that rush as you feel that energy behind you pushing you forward - that heart pumping, body tingling surge of 25 second joy that leaves you totally high - and makes you completely forget about the 32 missed waves and 7 nose plants you took prior.
I’m still a weenie surfer. I still take care to sit way far outside the lineup. I still expend most of my energy paddling to the wrong spot. I still occasionally find myself getting sucked under the roaring whitewater. But over those three weeks I started to feel just a little bit more confident that maybe I belong out there too - that it’s something I can go out and enjoy with the rest of em. And if nothing else I’ve mastered the art of peacefully bobbing on my board in the water. Enjoying the warm sunshine on my face. Watching the sun turn a late afternoon orange and the waves roll in.
Words can’t express how unimaginably thankful I am for this year. Among so many other things, it has given us time and space. To learn things we’ve always wanted to learn. To do things we’ve always wanted to do. The things that would have otherwise remained on the “someday I’ll..’ list. I hope surfing will always be a part of our lives. That we’ll continue to improve. To get better. To have fun. And I hope that even when this year is over, we’ll still carve out time to learn new things, pursue our dreams and make sure that “someday” list never gets too long.
Until next time,
Kenz
