Most of what she says about our trip really happened…but what exactly? Well, that’s for the two of us to know.

When we arrived at our incredible resort, our room wasn’t quite ready…so we grabbed our suits from our bags and headed to the pool. Mind you, we’d thought ahead and brought our own cups for the all-inclusive cervezas because the ones they give you are equivalent to that of a mouthwash cup.

When we settled in our loungers, we decided to speak in British accents – because we’re so damn good at it – and we did so very, very loudly as to make sure that all of the other holiday-goers could hear us. I remember it only taking us about three minutes before we realized that half of the United Kingdom was actually in Nuevo Vallarta on holiday and we looked like stupid Americans.

Brits: 1, Americans: 0.

I introduced little Mary to tequila that day, something I’m usually only friendly with in Mexico. There is just something about drinking tequila in Mexico that makes me feel culturally sound. It’s kind of like getting a Sapporo with my sushi. It’s just something I feel like I should do. If I were in Australia, I’d probably drink Foster’s (it’s Australian for beer)…or a Guinness in Ireland. Get it?

The only thing that I dislike more than tequila is undressed, HOT tequila. Tequila that’s been sitting in the sun for so long that it’s pretty much boiling. Eww. Eww. Eww. I’m not sure that Mary’s had tequila since that day…

Upon the recommendation of Mary’s co-worker, we made plans to go to this littleittybitty island called Yelapa. We set out on this “booze cruise” at the crack of dawn and quickly became the stars of the show. We did a conga line around the boat, and danced our faces off with the crew. They sang me happy birthday and I believe we did the cha-cha slide….not very well, I might add. Of course, to get your money, they video tape the entire thing and you can buy it when the day is over….I’ll save the rest of that story for the end….

So, by the time we made it to Yelapa, we were pretty darn boozed….we had made friends with a couple of people the night before and had made plans to meet them on the beach in Yelapa. Let me tell you, this littleittybittytiny island cannot be accessed by car, only by boat, and it’s not very close. To anything. It’s a legit island with third world country type living arrangements, a bar, some horses/donkeys, and a gigantic waterfall. That’s about it. But it is like heaven. Anyway, those friends we met, were actually there, tanning on the beach, waiting for us. I don’t really remember much more about that, except we went to have a drink with them, just before we got back on the boat….they were really nice though. I have no clue what their names were, or where they lived, but they were nice. I love vacation friends. They make me happy.

So, in Yelapa, after we got off of the boat, we decided that instead of drinking, or hiking to the waterfall, we wanted to rent a horse/donkey to take us there. Now, here is where they trick you. You pay something like $56 to go to this littleittybittytinyteensy island and for lunch, and all the alcohol you can drink, and you get to go snorkle…and they tell you that you can ride horses to see this incredible waterfall….what they DO NOT tell you, is that you have to pay an additional $24 to rent your horse – that is actually a 183 year old donkey whose penis looks like a withered piece of rope that someone found in 1848. I may throw up just thinking about that. They were so ewwwwww.

So…Us? Hike? Yeahright. We paid for our jackasses and tried our best to maneuver the reigns with one hand and our drinks with the other. We rode through this quaint little town and were stormed by the 38 kids that lived there. They were all holding the prettiest little flowers for us to take. I took one. I thought it was the sweetest little gesture. Until the little twerp started screaming ONE DOLLAR at me. Shiz. FINE! Here’s your ONE DOLLAR. It’s the equivalent of at least $32 here. I’m assuming.

I put the pretty flower in my hair and rode away, while the kiddos ran after us on the trail. We giggled at ourselves for not being able to steer our donkeys correctly and just kind of let them go where they wanted to. And alas, they brought us to the magnificent waterfall. It was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. I couldn’t wait to jump in the water. As we got closer, I saw that same little shiz of a child that had bamboozled me for my ONE DOLLAR FLOWER earlier and guess what he was doing? Little monkey was flipping me off. Yes, an eight year old little boy was flipping me the bird. I don’t speak Spanish fluently, or sign language….but that one I know.

It was pretty funny…..but I was going to get the little alien back. He just didn’t know it yet!

We jumped in the water and wound up playing with the kids. We were throwing them across the pond and giggling the whole time. By the end of the day, I wanted to pack the little boy in my purse and take him back to civilization with me. I loved him…even though my jackass of a horse had more manners than he.

I’ll spare you the rest of the journey home….it involved mas cervezas y alcohol-o. We were still the stars of the show….and I’m certain there were some mothers that were trying to cover the eyes of their innocent children. Do you think I bought the dvd? You bet your arse I did. I couldn’t WAIT to get home to watch the shiz show. Mary and I swore that we would never show it to anyone….and we never have…and NEVER WILL.

When we got back to our resort….Little Mary was three sheets to the wind and decided that walking to our room was WAYToOMUCHWORK so she just decided to lie down on the sidewalk. The sweetest little old maid I’ve ever seen sprinted to Mary with a handful of towels and tried to guard Mary’s backside from being scorched. Mary couldn’t have cared less if she burned herself. I’m not even sure she knew who or where she was. We finally got her to the room though….she needed to sleep it off.

Not me though….I headed back down to the pool for some mas tequila.

I’m not sure if it was that night or the next but we decided that we wanted to go into Puerto Vallarta and explore. We made friends with some of the hotel workers…the Animation Staff, as they liked to call themselves…..There was Roberto…from Mexico City and some guy from the UK….I’ll call him Thomas…

We knew they were safe because after we got in the cab I, very sternly, asked them if they were going to “Natalie Holloway us”. They said no and that was good enough for us. I also sent my cousin in Dallas a text (that probably cost $47 to send) and told him that if he didn’t hear from me by the next day, I was kidnapped and killed in Mexico by a man named Roberto. Yes. I really thought that would be enough to solve the crime. Roberto in Mexico? Really Taylor? Use your brain. If I ever have children….they are not going ANYWHERE without me. Or a leash.

Ok, sorry, I got a little sidetracked.

We made plans with them to go to later that night….and one of their cab driver friends would drive us. There is something about cabs there….you can only go INTO Puerto Vallarta in a white cab…and INTO Nuevo Vallarta in a yellow cab. Well…..Let me tell you something. You better listen to them when they tell you that because the federales will be all up in your business if you try to take a white cab back to Nuevo Vallarta. Just ask Mary. We got back into the white cab (knowing that we weren’t supposed to, of course) to go home…..and BAM. Sirens. Shiz. Shiz. Shiz. We’re getting pulled over. Before the driver stops, he takes of all of his gorgeous gold jewelry and throws it at Mary, telling her to hide it. She is BAWLING HYSTERICALLY in the front seat, hugging her knees…telling this man that she does not want any part of his stolen jewelry nonsense. Roberto and I are in the backseat laughing at her and he’s trying to tell her to stop being such a stupid American. I’m giggling and taking photos of her so I will always remember the moment. She was mumbling something about her sweet son and how he was going to have to live with his father and yada yada yada. I was still giggling. She did NOT think I was funny.

I did. And still do.

Oh viva la Mexico.

I’m ready to go back…who wants to take me?

In the weeks succeeding Christmas, the red and gold shops of the Lunar New Year plague the downtown malls of Hong Kong, bringing with them gifts of food, sweets and red laisee packets containing money that sends all children into an excited frenzy. The whirlwind of Chinese New Year had captured the immense population and spun them into a mad trance of stocking up on gifts for every eventuality. ‘Another box of cookies?’ I asked my friend, Yi Ai, as she was queued to buy what seemed like the tenth box. ‘What if uncle eleven comes visiting?’ she responded with an anxious look on her face, before dashing out of line to grab an additional box of goodies as she remembered yet another member of her hyper-extended family who may or may not come calling during the three days of celebrations and visitations. In a city of extreme wealth and excess, not having a gift to present visitors (or to give hosts) was deemed unacceptable. And this was on top of the laisee packets that married couples and parents were expected to give children, employees and even the cashier lady.

Nothing is considered too much for the longest and most important festivity of the Chinese calendar, especially in honor the Year of the Dragon, the only legendary animal of the Chinese zodiac. In the weeks preceding the festival, a country-wide mission to find the most beautiful plum blossoms and the kumquat tree bearing the most fruit dominates the minds of the competitors, all too eager to outdo their relations by surrounding themselves with the biggest and best symbols of luck and prosperity. Doors, windows and even ceilings become dotted with red paper, with the characters for good fortune, happiness, wealth and longevity decorating them in shining gold calligraphy. Red lanterns hung from the roofs of restaurants and street stalls, lighting up the atmosphere with their warm light and letting good fortune rain down on all those touched.

The reach of Chinese New Year extends even to the buzzing seaside town of Sai Kung, where an outdoor flower market lights up what usually is a basketball court with hundreds of flowers, each spreading their range of colours over the vista while their perfume overpowers the throng of restaurants and bakeries surrounding the area. Red tinsel adorned with shining gold emblems curl across the front of shops and restaurants as carefully cut paper dragons slink and entwine themselves around shelves. Every surface, it seemed, was covered by this vivid redness. Don’t get me wrong – I love red, it’s my favorite colour – but having it envelope you for the majority of the day can be somewhat hardwearing. No one can say that red is a soft colour. ‘To the Chinese, red means good luck and joy,’ Yi Ai explained in hushed tones, as if she didn’t want to call attention to my ignorance when I asked. ‘Red is happiness – but it is also very strong. Only red can scare away the bad spirits.’ I nodded slowly, my eyes still trying to grasp the assault of colour, at last comprehending how the bad spirits felt.

The desire for an auspicious start to the lunar year seems to be the driving force behind the celebrations. Everything is orientated towards luck or scaring the wicked spirits away. Dragon and lion dances parade through the streets with their ensemble trailing behind them, banging away at drums and clashing symbols – in other words, making as much noise as possible to frighten the evil away. Fake firecrackers dangle outside doorways in the hope that they will fool Misfortune into thinking they’re real, now that the government have made fireworks illegal. The most superstitious of the population even discourage washing your hair during the three-day celebration in fear of washing the good luck away. The same can’t be said for everything though – the day before the celebration starts, there’s a mad rush to rid ones household of every particle of misfortune-laden dust. ‘It’s just as much to impress the relatives,’ confides Yi Ai. ‘Who doesn’t tidy up a bit before the in-laws come calling?’

Yet for all the flowers, decorations and colorful displays, there’s one that trumps them all in terms of beauty. Dragons of all shapes and sizes are displayed more prominently than anything else, including the plum blossoms that inspire so many poets and artists. In Chinese culture, dragons encompass all aspects of Chinese New Year, meaning everything from good luck, prosperity and power to wisdom, intelligence, enlightenment, leadership, success, strength, energy… the list goes on. They have a deep-rooted history throughout Hong Kong, including being the namesake of Kowloon. As the story goes, a young emperor came to the area – then nameless – and looked about, taking inspiration from the eight mountains, ‘dragons’ as he called them, surrounding the area. A servant then pointed out that the emperor should be considered a dragon too, making nine. When said together, ‘gau’ meaning ‘nine’, and ‘lung’ meaning ‘dragon’ becomes ‘Kowloon’. Throughout history and all through the myriad of paintings and drawings, the respect and appreciation that the Chinese culture has for dragons manifests in the most beautiful and exquisite ways. With manes and delicate scales of rainbows, these ornate creatures come to life as they clamber about their frames and stare down at you in an imposing yet nonthreatening manner, guardians of the year to come.

by Tyler Horton

As I think over my life and all of my many travels to over 17+ countries, two things jump instantly in my mind. These are times when time itself has seemed to stop for me. I was not on top of Macchu Picchu or at Ankowat (both of which I have been too) but, I was in very ordinary places doing very ordinary things.

I was living and working for a year in Australia in 2009/2010. One day I randomly met a British girl and we really got along well. So, on my day off we decided to go to Hyde Park in Sydney and lay on the grass to feed the birds. Think about your own life and ask yourself how many times in your life have you taken the time to slow down enough to just totally relax and feed the birds?

In that moment when we were feeding the birds time slopped. Nothing else mattered, we were both totally content with everything around us. I remember feeling such a wave of peace come over me that I never wanted it to end. Unfortunately all good things must come to an end. As the sun faded that day we left the park and returned back to our lives. I was sad because I thought I would never get to feel those feelings again. Lucky for me it happened once more.

A year later I was living and working in Auckland,New Zealand and I was walking down Queen St at 9pm. I had somewhere to be and I was in a hurry but I suddenly heard two street performers across the street from each other. One guy was playing Jimi Hendrix “The Wind Cries Mary” and the other was a gorgeous girl playing something on the cello right then and there I stopped, time stopped. I totally forget where I was going or what I needed to do. The only thing that matter in my life was listening to them play music. I once again felt that total peace and everything was good in the world. Once they stopped playing the moment was over. I was back to normal life again. Ever since then I have been searching for that feeling of total peace but I have yet to find it again. This was not an adventure or adrenaline story. This was not a story of something beautiful or amazing I have seen. But, this was a story of how sometimes, just sometimes you can be reminded of how amazing life can be when you are traveling. When you are at home wrapped up in your own life I think you are way too busy to stop and listen to music or feed the birds. You have way too much going on to really appreciate life. The exact opposite is true when you are traveling. I hope that each one of you who reads this will stop to feed the birds somewhere. Stop trying to control life and let it control you just for a brief moment in time. You wont regret it.

Toledo is a small city located about 70km from Madrid. It was declared as one of the World Heritage Site by UNESCO in 1987. There were several modes of transportations available to get to Toledo, but since I was travelling with a husband and a 5-month old baby, we chose to take the train for our convenience. We just bought the train ticket on the travel day itself at Madrid’s Atocha Station (no pre-booking was needed), and we were on our way to Toledo.

The journey to Toledo took about 30 minutes. Without us knowing, we had already arrived at the Toledo station. Don’t be fool by the size of the station. It was small when compared to most train stations I have ever seen in my life, but the interior was splendid. We were in awe with the level of details they put on the ceiling. At this point we knew, the trip was going to be exhilarating.

Outside the train station, there were double-decked buses waiting for us. Tourists have the options to either get on the bus to get to the city or we could just walk. We decided to walk so we could enjoy the beautiful scenery offered by the city. The journey from the train station to the entrance of the city took about 30 minutes, and that was with a baby in the stroller.

Entering the city, we saw the bridge as seen in Google. It looked exactly like it was in the picture. The only difference was that as we walked in, the 360-view of the surrounding was so magnificent. That small bridge posted in the internet was only a fragment of such a beautiful landscape. Standing proudly before us, is a city high up on the hill surrounded by striking walls. Looking at the city, we could almost hear the stories the city has to tell – the amount of history that had happened here, the grandeur it had once endured.

Walking uphill, we had the luxury to admire the setting of the hilly city. Old buildings made of stone walls. The tiny streets in between buildings it almost felt like a scene from Antonio Banderas’ movies. The tiny shops selling mazapan (or marzipan to the rest of the world), and many other local desserts like toledanas, merengues and palmeras glaseadas can be found at every corner. All these desserts are somewhat similar to the pastries we have here in Malaysia, but I could not help myself but to buy a few just to know how they tasted like. Visitors can choose to get these delicacies in pre-packed boxes, or we can get the fresh ones that are sold by the weight. Cafes in the area also sell the desserts so we can just have a small portion if we do not want to carry them home.

Another thing that we could not miss is a visit to the steel shops. Yes, Toledo is the home for steel products. Their swords and daggers are well known for their superior qualities. Here we found rows after rows of stores selling swords, seals, knives, armors and everything steel. We were not allowed to take pictures of any of the finished products, but we got the chance to hold some of the items. Believe me, real swords are really heavy. And the armors, I cannot imagine how the knights can actually wear them and jump on horses. Those things are super heavy.

We went to the other end of the city to see Puerta De Bisagra. It was the main entrance to the city back in the Andalusian period. Hanging on the wall was a board that marked the date when Toledo was declared as the Human Cultural Heritage site by UNESCO. Here we could see the coat of arms for Emperor Charles the Fifth, and also the statue of the man, who was once known as the Holy Roman Emperor.

We went back into the city, continued marching uphill towards Puerta Del Sol. Along the way we came across Iglesia De Santiago El Mayor, also known as the Church of Saint James The Great. The available signboard was only in Spanish so we had to check on the history of this place ourselves when we got back. We did not get the chance to enter and admire the historical building as we were running short of time as we continued our way to the Alcazar.

The Alcazar is located at the highest point in Toledo, we could see it from every angle of the city. As we came near it, the building can be approached from several different directions. The signage to the Alcazar is abundant in the city so it was hard to miss. The building that was a palace back in the third century, had witnessed major events during the Spanish Civil war. It was severely damaged and was rebuilt post civil war. Now, it is the home for Castilla-La Mancha Regional Library and the Museum of Army. Visitors can enter the historical building through the Museum of Army. To see the front part of the building we had to walk a little bit passed the entrance to go around the building. The landmark of the Alcazar is the statue of an angel holding a sword, erected in front of the building. We managed to get our photos taken here despite some frowning from the guards.

The Alcazar of Toledo wrapped up our trip, and it was completed with some seafood paella and tapas. We took a slow stroll back to the train station and went back to Madrid with illustrious memories of how classical the city was. An old city inside a fortress, Toledo will always be a distinctive part of history.

Needless to say, I went straight to the bathroom to wash my hands as soon as we arrived at the restaurant. It gave me a chance to ask ‘Dove sta il bagno?’–one of my favorite sentences, mainly because it’s easy to say and makes me feel like I can speak Italian, if for only a fleeting moments. I also had to ask because the location of the bathroom wasn’t obvious. It’s never obvious in Italy: into the basement and through the storage room; outside and around the corner; see that hidden door behind the last table on the left? It never seemed to be in a standard place, so simply finding it was the first step.

The next step, once inside an Italian bathroom (that is, if you can fit inside), is to find out what works and what doesn’t—usually by trial and error. I walked straight to the sink and turned on the faucet– an old fashioned handle (not a foot pedal, hidden button, or mysterious lever). And it worked; it didn’t break; water came out—so it was a good start. Throughout my time here I’ve come to accept that, inevitably, something in the ‘WC’ will not work—that, or an essential item will either be missing or impossible to find.

Since I still had remnants of dog crap on my hand, I quickly went for the soap and pushed the dispenser, but nothing came out. So I pushed it again.

And again: nothing.

Shit!—literally; microscopic pieces of it still wedged into my fingertips.

I had to settle for running hot water over my hands and rubbing them thoroughly, as if I had soap, for about a minute. During that time, after damning the entire Veneto bathroom system, I had a chance to reflect on my first Italian bathroom experience—when I received my first clear hint at not only the likely inconvenience, but also the potential nightmare of using the ‘bagni’ here.

It happened by the beach just south of Venice almost ten years ago. I have pictures from that night of our band playing, my friends watching us play, people dancing; but no photographic documentation of what I’m about to share with you—which is a good thing. No visual aids necessary.

As the sun was going down, I finished setting up my drums, adjusting their position on the small stage. It was around then that my grumbling large intestine informed me that I needed to make an emergency trip to the bathroom. I was never big on taking a dump in a public restroom, but I couldn’t handle sitting on a stool and playing drums for the next two hours straight—that much was certain. I sneaked off the stage and found the WC only about 30 feet away. The stench was unmistakable once I got close. It looked like a truck stop bathroom, made out of plain cement and without a proper front door. When I opened the stall door I didn’t see a toilet, but instead found myself peering into a small, filthy, porcelain hole in the ground: a real shithole.

I was shocked because I hadn’t seen anything like it before. I was young, inexperienced, and had never been forced to squat and hover over a putrid, no-flush hole in the ground. Normally I was the kind of person– when it came to taking a crap in a public bathroom– who would suspend all environmental concerns about wasting paper, and cover the entire toilet seat with two solid layers of toilet paper as a protective barrier. Then, and only then, would I be ready to sit and concentrate on the task at hand. But that fateful evening I had no time to be selective or prudish, so I adapted and did what had to be done. I positioned my feet on the riveted, wet imprints and used one arm to brace myself against the wall so I wouldn’t lose my balance and fall backwards.

[Graphic details censored]

After relieving myself I felt that the squat technique wasn’t all that bad after all–aside from the filthy surroundings and the wretched smell of the stagnant contents in the hole beneath me. I suppose, however, that because I had been so preoccupied and disturbed by the lack of a sit-down toilet, I hadn’t taken the standard precaution of checking to see if there was any toilet paper.

I looked and there was nothing—not even a roll hanger where it should’ve been.

‘Shit!’ –Again, quite literally. Both the distinct smell and the word. It was only the first of a few expletives that came out of my mouth at the time. And what made it worse was that saying all those English cuss words out loud reminded me that I couldn’t speak more than three words of Italian to ask anyone for help.

‘Scusa’ I said, hoping that someone might be in the bathroom with me.

‘Ciao. Scusa. Hello.” I repeated.

No answer. I was alone.

As I hovered there in what was beginning to feel like a painfully permanent squat mode, I heard the lead singer of the band, my friend Matt, over the PA system:

‘Prova, prova. Check, check. Dove sta Dominic? …Dommer, please come back to the stage.’

My squatting position was beginning to hurt badly. My feet were sliding a bit on the wet, dirty porcelain foot pad. I might as well have been standing in a puddle of piss. And my band mates were waiting for me to get the show rolling. Then, again, I heard Matt’s amplified voice reverberate through the speakers:

‘Dominic, where are you, man? We’re starting the show.’

With no one near me, but an open window, I did the only thing I could do aside from waiting indefinitely till someone found me or till my legs cramped and knees gave out: I yelled for help. But I did it in the only language that seemed appropriate for an Americano who spoke absolutely no Italian and grew up in Southern California.

‘Ayuda!’ I said—not so loud the first time, but my volume quickly increased the second and third:

‘Ayuda me por favor!!!’

I was loud. I was desperate. It was extremely embarrassing, but it would be over soon, I thought, if I yelled loud enough. It was like my worst elementary school nightmare come true.

Then I heard a kind woman’s voice at the door:

‘Ciao? Che successo?’

Ah, the language barrier. How to respond? The issue was that I needed toilet paper—fast.

‘Uhh, no papel hygenico aqui.’ It wasn’t Italian, but it was close enough.

‘You need carta– paper? She said with a thick accent.
‘Siiiii. Si. Por favor.’

‘Ok. Subito.’ She said.

At that point I was so happy that toilet paper was on it’s way that I had momentarily forgotten about the shame of it all, Matt waiting on the stage, me wailing from the stall, the helpful Italian woman who dared enter a rancid men’s ‘water closet.’

When I exited that bathroom– and the whole ordeal that was my first Italian bathroom experience– I passed by a short-haired, blonde woman who gave me a knowing smile. She winked and asked if I was OK—as if I had been injured or in serious danger. And I recognized that only minutes before my voice must have sounded like a dramatic cry of absolute desperation and pain. I said ‘Gracias’ to her and the embarrassment flushed through my face again. But before I knew it I was on stage, behind the drums, playing along to my friends’ songs, and light years away from that shitty excuse for a toilet.

Last weekend in Padova, Italy, I was at a dinner party and it occurred to me that the hostess—Valentina– looked familiar. On the way home I asked Mario if I’d met her before.

“Yeah, man.” He said, “Valentina was the owner of the place at the beach near Venice where you and Matt and Mike played music… what, 10 years ago?”

It was confirmed. The lady that had kindly served me rigatoni last Saturday was the same one who had come to my rescue and handed me the toilet paper! I had come full circle. No wonder she’d been smirking at me from across the table. I thought she was just being friendly or maybe even flirty. But no, she was probably picturing my pathetic call for help, my flustered hand reaching for the toilet paper, and my lame attempt to pass Spanish off as a universal language. I had selectively forgotten most of it until recently.

I blame it all on Italian bathrooms.

But don’t get me wrong, there’s an abundance of greatness and charm that Italy has to offer: a beautiful language, rich culture, deep history, and stunning sights. Italian food and, more importantly, the character of the people (especially my friends), are probably among some of the best things on the planet.

Italian bathrooms, however, are not.

New language, new handwriting — but when the school announced that Year 10 students were going on a  nine-day camp, I was totally confident. After all, when  you are talking tents, you are talking Arab.

We have been tent experts for thousands of years. There are not many stones in the desert and if you can get a tree to grow there, you are not going to cut it down to build something. Goats, on the other hand, we have always had a lot of, so we make tents from their skins.

To Australians, a tent is a shelter. To us, it is a residence.

A traditional Arabian tent is home for up to 10 people. It  has rooms, carpets, cushions,  all the comforts of home (because it is home).

Tents are our tradition, our heritage. So I told Tom and Richard they were in good hands. Their friend Ahmed knows about tents.

But when we got our tent, I was shocked. Instead of huge poles and masses of material, the parcel was the size of a sleeping bag. “What is this?” I wondered. “A free sample?” That was the tent. We must put it up.

Well, OK. Maybe it was bigger than it looked.

Now, sand is great for camping. If a sand dune is not level, you can push it around and make it level. No sand at the campsite but plenty of rocks and tree roots. It would have taken a bulldozer to make this level. I found a spot but it looked a little slanted. Never mind. We got the tent up but there was a bit left over.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Rain sheet?” my friends suggested. I had never heard of such a thing. Rain is not really a problem in the desert. Surely it was a pad or carpet. So I put it on the ground.

That night we learned that the Australian idea of a three-person tent and an Arab’s idea

of a tent big enough for three are very different. We learned the bit left over was not a carpet, it was indeed a rain sheet (and it was raining). We learned that even a gentle slant causes three guys to roll down to the bottom of a tent and end up in a pile.

I loved caving, canoeing and even the 25km hike (with pack; without camel) on our nine-day camp. But, really, we still need to talk about these tents.

Previous to this experience I was studying abroad in Bilbao, Spain, and during the summer I decided to backpack through Europe. I bought the Eurail Pass, for unlimited travel in Europe for 10 travel days on the train (each day you may travel to a new country) and at the time it cost $400. Like many backpackers I began the trip in Amsterdam. Afterwards, I sky dived the Swiss Alps at Interlaken, Switzerland and went snowboarding at the Matternhorn. Then I continued the amazing journey to Austria where I experienced more gorgeous mountain views of the Alps and snowboarding warm summer glaciers.

This is where the story gets interesting. I was planning on checking out Eastern Europe since, it’s generally less expense. I got on an overnight train to Budapest, and was surprised that at 3 AM there appeared to be a party on the train. I asked what the celebration was about, and was told about the Red Hot Chili Peppers festival near Vienna. When the train stopped in Vienna crowds of people were pouring from the train with tents and cases of booze, I couldn’t withstand the anticipation anymore and decided to follow. To my surprise we ended up at miles of tents and thousands of friendly Austrians at the festival. I was even more excited when I realized the closing band was Metallica! Someone sold me a 2 day pass for 50 Euros (were selling for 80 at the front door, what a score). I was welcomed by the Austrians with beers who were excited about the Californian, home of the famous Austrian, the Governor of California. I also went bungee jumping at the concert for 60 Euros.

Anyways, the trip was a blast, but a valuable lesson soon to be learned. Get plenty of sleep before riding a train to Eastern Europe. After partying for two days at the festival, I hopped the Eurail to Budapest and woke up without a passport, wallet, and train pass.

Luckily I arrived to a capital city where there was an US embassy; unluckily I came during the weekend and had to wait until Monday. Another good piece of advice when traveling is always keeps a back up card somewhere in your luggage. Luckily I did this, however, I never activated the card before going to Europe so again, unluckily, and it was useless until I got to the US Embassy on Monday. I checked in a Hostel that said they took credit card reservations in a travel book. So I some how made it through the weekend without any money. I went to the Embassy on Monday morning, got my credit card activated, and purchased my emergency passport that was issued the same day.

At this point, I realized that the situation could’ve have been worse, and made an attitude adjustment by regaining my positive intuition and believing that everything will work out, even though I didn’t know how I was going to return to Spain without cash or my train pass. Many people experience similar situations of robbery while traveling, I believe this is a key attribute when unfortunate circumstances come.

I wanted to get something positive out of the destination and decided to explore through the night. To my surprise Budapest was gorgeous, lit up at night and a perfect setting for photography (no tourism at that time, a great discovery for a photographer). Later I submitted one of the photos from Budapest into a photo contest and it was published in Best of College Photography book.

The next day was when I met the angel from San Diego. So I assumed that the Hostel took credit cards, I tried to pay with the credit card and the lady was furious that I had no cash to pay. An angel from my dorm room overheard the drama, and came out willing to help. She paid for my stay, and then I tried to pay her back in some way by offering to buy her lunch. She was catching a flight back to San Diego and was leaving, as she said good bye she shook my hand and placed a $100 bill in my hand. I tried to refuse but she insisted, and wished me safe travels. I took it as a sign to continue my trip since my mother was on a choir trip from her church in Italy and we planned to meet in Rome during my backpacking trip. I had a job waiting for me in a couple of weeks to teach English and still didn’t know how I was going to return to Spain, however I maintained positive.

After the difficult experience I was anxious to leave Budapest and charged a ticket to Rome Italy. When I checked into a hostel, there was my snowboarding buddy that I met in Switzerland. I told him my story, and one of his new friends overheard, and told me she had an extra travel day on her Eurail pass that she wasn’t going to use since Rome was her final destination. She kindly offered the travel day to me. In Europe it’s possible to travel to most countries within a day which was exactly what I needed to get back to Spain. The rest of the trip was beautiful in Rome and Cinque Terre Italy. Traveling truly is magical!

By: Celia Laur

Throughout my travels, I have come to believe that three things are bound to go wrong before a vacation. For me, these have ranged from a broken appliance, to a mysterious illness, to having the dog sprayed by a skunk. When recently having to use my acting skills (or lack thereof) to a non-English speaking audience in a Bulgarian police station, only hours after stepping off the plane, I realized I had well surpassed my usual “rule of three.”

When planning the hiking trip to Bulgaria, I believed I would be employed by the time we departed. The day before we left, I received that dreaded phone call saying I had not been offered my dream job. Then the phone rang again. This time it was to learn that my flight home had been cancelled and details would be sent by e-mail. Broke, unemployed, and not entirely certain how or when I would leave Bulgaria, I caught the 2 a.m. bus to the airport. There I learned that one of my travel companions was ill. She was so drained of energy that even walking through the airport was difficult. But, her illness meant my rule of three was fulfilled and all would be looking up.

The flight was uneventful and we arrived at our (extremely cool) hostel. The walls were covered in graffiti artwork and everyone was lounging in the garden. Thoughts of jobs, illnesses, and early morning bus rides dwindled and we were ready for our first look at Sofia. We walked passed amazing buildings, had our first taste of Bulgarian food, and did some shopping. The woman selling sunglasses seemed unusually attentive. A few minutes later, my friend checked her bag. It was unzipped and an empty pocket where her wallet should be. This is how I came to give a performance in a Bulgarian police station. I am still not certain if the policeman understood that the wallet was stolen; or he just thought we were looking for a place to buy sunglasses. It did not help (as we later learned) that in Bulgaria, shaking your head up and down means no, while side to side means yes. The wallet was never recovered.

After figuring out how to check my e-mail using a Bulgarian keyboard, my flight home was confirmed. Minus a few bug bites, snoring strangers as roommates, broken shoes, and no hot water, the trip was absolutely amazing! We had walked the Seven Lakes region of the Rila Mountains for breathtaking views, and, of course, danced the YMCA at the top. We were blown away by the ancient Rila Monastery, and amused by the monk talking on his mobile. We accidently climbed the highest peak on the Vitosha Mountain in search of a working chairlift. We got lost in a meadow and were found by a stray dog, no doubt experienced at rescuing hikers. The moral of this story is even when you surpass the “rule of three,” a trip can still be amazing.

I walk out into the moonlit hallway. As the air rushes past my skin I find the bathroom and look into the mirror. There it is… In the hollow of my neck I see the green mountains. Across my collar bone float wispy clouds. Red streaks my forehead and Indigo blue stains my hands. These are the colors of the land and the people of Sapa.

We were at the northern tip of Vietnam just a few km from the China boarder. This part of VN has been opened to the world for only about 12 years and tourism is a slippery slope…..Can they hold on to the old and embrace the new?

Many of the tribe people come in to the city selling what they can, even if that means their culture. The tourist areas are full of begging children, sad empty women who in my opinion have lost much to gain little. Of course my opinion really doesn’t mean much I have not walked in the shoes of these people.

Some have made the arrangement work bringing to market their wares, using their crafts as a way to make a living. There is a real senses of family among the tribes….

If you hike just 3 hours away you step back into another time. Another place where the western dollar is of no concern, where there is life in the eyes of the elders, where the people are busy working their land, where Zeb and Arlo hand out candy to the beautiful children that run out from their houses and fields with curious wide eyes. This is where I traded a piece of my heart for a piece of Sapa’s soul.

There are bangles of mine hanging from the already adorned arms of four Red Zao woman waiting for my return, there is an old Hmong woman who sat with me on the curb talking about days long ago whose story I will hear again, there is a foot print waiting to continue the journey into the high Sapa mountains surrounded by the green terraced rice fields, and dotted with the indigo blue of the Hmong tribes and the red of the Red Zao people. My foot print is not alone, there is another beside it. A slightly smaller one. This person too has left a piece of himself in Sapa.

I know as the moon washes across his sleeping face I will see a map of the mountains winding dirt roads, his hands will be the hands of a teenage Hmong boy buildinga raft along the river. I Know if I placed my hand on his spine I would feel the pounding of the waterfall that fed the cold river. A piece of him stirs in the rushing waters waiting his return.

These places are more than just memories they are the colors of my soul. They are tattooed to my spirit unseen to the outside world but ever present to me each new one changing who I am. I’ve been waiting for this since we came to Vietnam, I am so grateful to have found it before we left. I know someday Zeb and I will return. I hope it’s together….

Bundled up against the cold of winter in Germany, Amber (left) and Morgan pause for a double self-portrait. Photo courtesy of Amber Nolan Morgan continued to ramble nonchalantly about her baby and how she was having second thoughts about leaving her behind to go on vacation, worried that the freezer full of breast milk would not suffice in her absence. All the while I was thinking “There’s a tiny toilet plunger attached to your nipple − and it’s going to make us miss the plane.”

“I’m going to have to do this three times a day,” she said, completing her 15-minute talk on why breastfeeding a newborn is healthy for the baby. “Otherwise I’ll stop producing milk. But I also brought my electric pump so I can do both sides at once after we are on the ship.” Her speech left me contemplating the idea of getting my tubes tied. “When you have kids someday, you’ll see,” she finished. I cringed at the thought.

The two of us − like any true best friends − were as opposite as night and day. After college, we parted ways. I took off to see the world, leaving behind friends, jobs and men in order to get my travel fix. I was an irresponsible and reckless soul, while Morgan was a stay-at-home mom devoted to her family and her faith.

When the opportunity arose to take a free holiday cruise and I was allowed to bring a guest, I thought it would be a wonderful way to rekindle our fading friendship. For the first time, I could share with her the one thing that I was truly passionate about. Traveling brings people together – or so I had thought until I saw her pouring breast milk down the drain.

During our absence, our departure gate had been transformed from a United Airlines area into a Lufthansa-operated zone. Their signature yellow logos unfolded like a medieval coat of arms, proudly displayed above the check-in counter. From down the hall, I could hear a chorus of heels clicking on the tile floor and growing louder as the Lufthansa employees approached their temporary kingdom.

“Whoa. I take it this is our cabin crew,” Morgan muttered as she stepped out of the bathroom just in time to see an army of men and women marching toward us in freshly pressed uniforms. Lufthansa’s army operated like a well-oiled machine and within minutes we were in the air.
After nine hours of outdated movies and failed attempts at teaching Morgan a few key phrases in the German language, I watched the last of our fellow passengers collect their belongings at the baggage claim in Munich. We were left alone staring at an empty conveyor belt and reported our lost luggage (so much for Lufthansa’s well-oiled machine). A short time later, having boarded a train, we traveled through the snow-covered countryside and the woman next to us looked on in disgust as I dried my socks on the rattling heating vent. In Munich, our hostel was on a side street just outside the main train station. As I strolled past the cheery Christmas scene and breathed in the smell of mulled wine and hot chocolate, Morgan trucked her way to the entrance.

Our first challenge was opening the door to our room. Try as we might, neither of us could get the time-battered key to work. After a hard-fought battle, we called Arlo, our mysterious and attractive desk clerk, who came upstairs to help us as we gave him our sweetest smile.

“Drücken,” he said, giving the door a slight push as it swung open with ease. I swore up and down – in English − that we had tried pushing it already, but he clearly couldn’t understand a word I was saying. I realized right then that Arlo and I would never work out.

We quickly shrugged off our embarrassment because we had at last arrived safe and sound an entire day before our cruise set sail. My tingling hands and toes needed several more layers of lost luggage, but I was ready to walk around the city. Before Morgan could go anywhere, however, she announced that she needed to pump. When I had first suggested Morgan travel with me to Munich, I had no idea that “needing to pump from time to time” would mean she’d be transformed into Bessie the cow every four hours.

“I can’t find the hand pump,” Morgan suddenly groaned.

“What are you talking about? You just had it in the airport bathroom. I watched you put it in your purse.”

“No, Amber, it’s not here. I mean, it’s here, but I’m missing the most important part. It must have fallen out of my purse when we got off the plane.”

“Well, don’t you have that electric one?”

“Oh, yes! You’re right.” She started rummaging through the carryon bag, but a conquered look instantly crossed her face. “The electric converters are in the checked bags, which are in Chicago.” She covered her face with her hands and wailed “my boobs are killing me.”

“It’s alright,” I said. “We’ll go to the train station and get a new converter. They have to sell them somewhere.” Twenty minutes later, we shelled out five euros and headed back to the hostel with hopes held high.

“Aha, it fits,” Morgan announced triumphantly as the American adapter fit snuggly into the European converter. The moment she plugged it into the wall, though, sparks shot through the air and the lights in the room went out. We stood in defeated silence while I scrambled to come up with something comforting to say. Instead, I blurted out the obvious: “Umm, Morgan, your breast pump is on fire.”

A horrible, burning-plastic stench filled the room as smoke poured from the adapter. We yanked it out of the outlet, rushed into the hallway and slammed the door shut. She slumped down against the wall and I could see from the tears welling up in her eyes that she was reaching her limit.

“It’s alright, we’ll find another pump. Women in Germany have kids too,” I said, trying to sound as optimistic and convincing as possible − despite my growing doubts.
“You don’t understand, Amber. My boobs feel like they’ve been inflated, but the air won’t go out. It’s like someone is taking a knife and stabbing me in the chest. I need to get the milk out now.”

“Can’t you just squeeze it?” I offered, completely clueless as to the mechanisms of breastfeeding. Perhaps I should have been paying closer attention to her bathroom lecture in Chicago.

“What do you mean? Like milk myself?”

I felt awful. I wanted Morgan to see how incredible traveling can be, and instead she was a minute away from a complete meltdown. “Alright, let me take a shower and see if the heat helps. I’ll try and squeeze it out,” she said, barely holding herself together.

“I’ll go down and ask the front desk where we can find a pump.” I had no idea how I was going to do this, or how I was going to explain to Arlo that the power was out on the entire fourth floor because my best friend’s breast pump had blown the circuit.

I soon found myself flailing my hands at Arlo in an attempt to mime babies and milk pumps like some twisted game of Charades. I felt confident that my ’electricity-is-out’ gesture only confirmed to Arlo that, in addition to my stupidity (for not being able to push a door open), I was also officially crazy. Pretending the pen I gripped was an injection needle, I finally managed to express the need for a pharmacy. Circling something on a map, Arlo tapped his watch indicating that it would be closing soon. Either that or he meant that the heroin dealers in Munich stopped selling after nine o’clock.

With my complimentary tourist map in hand, I pounded on the door to the bathroom and shouted the escalating crisis situation to Morgan, who had already failed at her self-milking efforts. We took the stairs two at a time and headed down the dimly-lit street toward the giant glowing green cross that symbolized a medical center – and hope. All the while I secretly knew that the chances of the pharmacy being open and carrying a breast pump were slim to none. But then, a miracle happened.

“I see one!” Morgan shouted, pointing though the frosted glass window. Like a track star, she sprinted toward the door and pulled at the handle in desperation. It didn’t open.

“No! How can it be closed?” She was beaten, and would never forgive me for dragging her along on my selfish globe-hopping while her husband tended to her five-month-old daughter without a clue as to what he was doing.

“Hey come back,” I said on closer inspection of the glass door. Morgan looked up through her tears and I repeated the simple phrase mothers everywhere are forced to hear when they can’t possibly take another second of pain.

“Drücken,” I said. “You have to push.”