Italy

 Italy. What is it about Italy that I find so captivating? This relatively small peninsula jutting into the Mediterranean has made an outsized impact on the world, and my travel consiousness. Other than Canada, I've never taken a trip to any country more than once, but I've gone to Italy three times to explore. The landscape, the food, the cities, and the people keep encouraging me back. That's not likely to change with Delta and Alaska competing to both offer nonstops from Seattle to Rome next year. 

While it is folly to think that a few weeks every couple of years is enough to understand a country, what good is travel if it doesn't cause us to try to learn something about the places we go, and share our thoughts and what we think we learned? So lets go. 

Rome

Few cities that I know of create such sharply divided opinions as Rome. Some love it, some hate it. Count me firmly in the love column. I'm sure you've heard it said that Rome is dirty, chaotic, beautiful, and hot. It is all these things, but between two trips to Rome over about 8 years, I find it is less chaotic, and dare I say less dirty. The perfect word I think for Rome is scruffy. Its a bit scruffy. Any 2500 year old city has every right to be. But, Rome, I say with a little sadness, is becoming a bit more tamed. There are less scooters, less noise, more tourists, traffic runs smoother, and I no longer feel like crossing the street is a game of pedestrian frogger. It's citizens maybe a little less animated. Sidewalk conversations perhaps a little less passionate. However all the magnificence that Rome is is still there. 

Rome is a working metropolis of some 5 million, that manages to squeeze in 35 million visitors a year, all wanting to be in the same 5 square miles. Romans are the most good-humored and welcoming big city dwellers I've encountered in all my travels. They take the constant crush with a smile, a hearty "prego!" at every butchered attempt to order a cappuccino, every bump by a touring mob, every selfie stick slap on the shoulder. Where Parisians seem like they don't care about anyone, or New Yorkers abruptly point you to the right subway stop but want you to know they are put out by doing so (I love NYers, think the abruptness is an act, and they secretly LOVE visitors- but that's a whole other post), Romans still seem to genuinely appreciate you want to see their city, and still, honestly, want you to know why Rome is so great. Rome is not the center of the Western World anymore, but it once was, and those relics reminding you of that fact are everywhere. You can walk in Central Rome, turn a corner, and see a 2000-year Roman ruin incorporated into a building 1600 years younger. You can tour the prison that once held the apostle Paul, see where Julius Caesar was stabbed, and walk the very forum where foundations for Western Civilization were laid. If you plan your timing right, even amongst those 35 million visitors, you can have that forum to yourself and only hear the birds and the crunching of your shoes on the detritus of 2000 years of history, all under a piercing blue sky framed by those oh-so-Roman pine trees. Did Peter walk here? Marcus Aurelius? Probably. The echoes of the past are deafening on a quiet morning in the Forum. Rome, at it's best, is a major chapter of world history, in your face, preserved for all to see, but somehow made personal. 

Obviously, Rome is also home of the Catholic Church, and is the earthly spiritual epicenter of 1 billion people. St. Peters (technically in anther country- Vatican City) is the largest church in the world, and appropriately overwhelming. But it too has it's more personal corners.  Take a second to pause and stare at Michealangelo's Pieta. I dare you to not be moved by the emotion beaming from the glowing marble. Most will shuffle by and take a selfie. But your patience will be rewarded. Saturate your mind with the tendons and sinew of the crucified and dead Christ. The mother who just lost her son. This could be the most magnificent piece of art in the world. And it's for you, quiet and contemplative if you just linger. The Sistine Chapel is unlikely to be either quiet or contemplative, but to stare at that most famous image in teh art world, God sparking creation of Adam, is to be transfixed by the audacity of the Renaissance.  If you just rush from sight to sight, don't take your time, and only look to check a box, Rome could suffocate you. But with patience, a good itinerary, the willingness to linger, Rome richly rewards even the most basic prepared traveller. 

Eating in Rome is sport, but a sport best played by the prepared. Contrary to hyperbole, it IS possible to have a terrible meal in Rome. I might even say probable- and you will likely pay more for the privilege- if you aren't selective about restaurants. But for those that put in an hour of research, that are willing to wander just a block or two from the main tourist trail, and the cacio e pepe becomes ethereal- a velvety sauce of cheese, pepper, and water clinging to perfectly cooked bucatini. the pizza becomes perfectly crisp, with just the right amount of toppings chosen for quality, not quantity. The wine is thoughtfully chosen to pair with your amatriciana. Roman cuisine is simple, hearty, and delicious. It is not the red sauce heavy garlic bomb we think of as "Italian" in most of the US. Made by a deft hand, it is magnificent. Simple sauces, hearty pastas dishes, thinner crust pizza with char, and fried appetizers- suppli and artichoke- are wonderful. Restaurants don't rush you, and service is almost always friendly and informal. To a prepared traveler, Rome is fantastic meal after fantastic meal. Go in blind, however, and you may wonder what is all the fuss about? This carbonara feels like bad quality bacon on a jar of Chef boyardee alfredo sauce. And it may be. While the old advice of look for an Italian only menu isn't quite accurate anymore, it's not far from the truth. Plenty of quality places in Rome now translate a menu into English. But the joints with barkers out front and a menu displayed in multiple languages with high prices are usually not worth your time. Unfortunately these establishments usually occupy prime locations. But a place down a side street, with a menu displayed out front in Italian, or a chalkboard with a daily fresh sheet, and packed with well dressed (read: local) diners, regardless if it's written about by the Tire Guy or a trendy blog, is likely outstanding. Likely a reservation is necessary- but you can always ask about a table the next day and make that reservation in person. Or, ask your concierge or even Airbnb host to make a reservation if you know ahead of time. Talk to the restaurant's sommelier or wine steward (even basic Roman Trattorias may have one- not at all the sole domain of luxury restaurants) about the Lazio wine. Lazio is the region around Rome, and while many diners want the prestige of a barolo or brunello, or the familiarity of Chianti, Lazio wines are delicious, rustic, and pair perfectly with Roman cuisine. Watch the somm or waiter light up with appreciation and enthusiasm about your curiosity. 

All this to say, Rome lives up to its Eternal City moniker. Rome is worth whatever you can give it, and pays back every bit of effort with interest. 

Tuscany

If Rome is overwhelming or chaotic, it's antidote is Tuscany. Only 90 minutes from Rome, you've likely heard of Tuscany, and have some image in your mind- cypress trees lining winding lanes, golden fields of wheat, or vineyards draped on sun drenched hillsides. These are all accurate. What may be missing from the collective idea of Tuscany is that it's farm country. Sure there are coastal industrial centers, a few bigger cities, and that leaning tower, but at it's heart, Tuscany is farming. Whether wheat, or grapes, or some other crop, to drive through the Tuscan countryside is to see generations-old farms worked by farmers. The food is simple, and Tuscans are justifiably proud of their magnificently beautiful corner of Europe. Parts of Tuscany are so beautiful, such as the Val d'Orcia, that the UN designates them as world heritage sights just for the view. After being in rural Tuscany for a day, I caught myself wondering what is there to do? The answer is really not much- in the best sense of that phrase. There are world class wineries, lovely hilltop villages, a few beautiful hot springs, and delightfully straightforward food. But what's best about Tuscany is it's ok to slow down and rest. The days are long, the light is beautiful, and the land is gorgeous. 

Tuscany is old. Tuscan civilization, the Etruscans, predates the Roman Empire. Travel around Tuscany and you will come across ancient tombs, and a few arches made by the Etruscans. Tuscans are still proudly Tuscan and seem to highlight their Etruscan roots wherever possible. The food is Tuscan. Pasta takes a back seat to grilled meats and white beans. The sauces lighter and fresher. All those ingredients from those farms are messed with as little as possible to showcase the freshness and quality. 

One of the great travel experiences in Italy is to stay on a farm- and nowhere seems a better opportunity to do that than in Tuscany. Agriturismos dot the countryside, and must still be a working farm to enjoy that designation. Agriturismos run the spectrum of luxury almost Four Seasons-type facilities to fairly rustic lodges with no A/C but perfect locations and wonderful food- which was my experience this trip. Al Rigo, a basic agriturismo with a hot room but a magnificent location and equally magnificent food, sits in the middle of 2000 hectares (almost 5000 acres) of farmland they actively work, in the heart of the Val d'Orcia with unimpeded views of that region. What the farm lacked in cooling they more than made up for in food and views. All farm to table and freshly prepared, meals shined and hospitality perfect, showcasing their produce. Faro, basil, corn, and guinea fowl. Strawberry cake and poppy seed bread made with wheat from the farm. With wine the owner pointed out was made "from vineyards that are visible from the deck outside". Tuscany is quite simply all it's cracked up to be, and probably more. Just don't go looking for excitement, at least not in the rural parts. It's slow down, get to know the land its people travel. I hope it never changes. 

Cinque Terre

The Cinque Terre was possibly the biggest unknown to me on this trip. I'd heard great things, and some not-so-great; the great that it is undeniably beautiful, the not so that it is overwhelmed by crowds and has been ruined by the cruise ship industry. I found the great to be true, and the cruise crowds, while true, avoidable. That being said, I would not recommend visiting Cinque Terre as a cruise passenger. The towns too small, the character too different for day trippers being rushed in hoping for a slice of a quiet, Italian Riviera Ideal. But let's talk about the great. The area is as advertised. It is sensationally beautiful. Terraced vineyards cascade down steep mountains, and wrap around pastel villages that themselves plunge into the impossibly blue Mediterranean. It's pinch me is this real beautiful. So beautiful the whole region is a National Park. Some of the most magnificent trails I've hiked wind from village to village. 

There are five Cinque Terre towns, and four of those, Monterosso, Vernazza, Riomagiore, and Manarolo seemed somewhat interchangeable. Not in a bad way, but much the same basically (but again, each beautiful). I chose to stay in the middle, smallest, and only village not on the water, Corniglia. Initially a bit nervous about that choice, I'm glad that was home base. Corniglia has an intensely atmospheric main lane (downtown if you will) that is still remarkably filled with locals. It also has a couple of fantastic restaurants. In one, the idea of "scarpetta" was kindly pointed out to me by the friendly waitress. I had some sauce left on my plate from dinner, and the young woman asked if wanted bread for scarpetta. I admitted I did not know what she meant. She enthusiastically cut me some fresh bread, mimed sopping up the sauce, and enthusiastically watched as I repeated the action. She let me know all real Italians partake of "scarpetta" and it's acceptable everywhere. Indeed when I asked later in the trip for bread for scarpetta, the chef graciously supplied more bread and said that chefs take that as a compliment and enjoy watching diners not want to waste their work! Cinque Terre cuisine is also very local. Being in Liguria, the home of Pesto, that delicious green sauce makes appearances everywhere. Seafood is huge, and the local fish is actually the anchovy. Served fresh instead of preserved, and with olive oil and lemon, the little oily fishes are delicious. Octopus makes frequent appearances, as do whatever fish the fisherman happen upon that day. Focaccia is also from liguria, so that bread is near ubiquitous. Food is fresh, not overly complicated, and incredibly delicious. The Cinque Terre wine is unique. almost exclusively white made from local grapes I cannot pronounce, the wine pairs exquisitely with the local food. It's light, flavorful, and oddly refined. It's not well known outside of Italy, as production is very low and they consume most of it all in Italy. 

All the towns are crowded from about 10-7. The central areas are almost unwalkable with the amount of people, and stores feel like sardine cans. And I don't think I was there on any heavy cruise days. I can't imagine a few thousand more people cramming the towns. But before and after the Cruisers and daytrippers arrive, the region is quieter, less crowded, and unhurried. The streets return to the locals and overnight guests, and the restaurants more relaxed. Interestingly, I did experience the towns with almost no cruise ship passengers. An Italian Train strike struck fear into the cruise lines, and they must've discouraged passengers from journeying far from the port in La Spezia out of concern of not getting back to ship. Shop owners seemed bewildered at the lack of crowds. Much of the magic of Cinque Terre is seeing the towns from a nearby mountainside, and watching the sun slip into Med from a table at a cafe. I honestly don't think you can get the real experience of Cinque Terre in a few hours as quick stop. That experience will be crowded shops, packed restaurants, and maybe a quick dip in the sea. If that's what you can give this area, skip it. IF you have few days, I can't encourage you enough to come see for yourself why the raves exist. I've heard and seen anecdotes of Italians rebelling and protesting overtourism. I'm sure there is some truth, but in one of the poster children of overtourism, the Cinque Terre, I only experienced trademark Italian hospitality and good humor. I would love to go back and stay again someday. 

Florence

Florence, quite simply, is what I believe to be the finest European city, and maybe the most beautiful. The capital of Tuscany, set in green hills in the northern part of the province, no city packs so much in such a small footprint. It has everything it's bigger rivals such as Paris, London, or Rome have, but in a much more manageable space. Incredible cathedrals, public squares, shopping, world class food, and premier museums all walkable in 30 minutes. The cradle of the Renaissance, Florence has had an enormous impact on world history, and is a microcosm of European travel dreams. 

Walking the lanes of Florence, it immediately has a "feel" of gentility, past prosperity, and grandeur. All while being approachable. Sandwiches and wine shops, leather good merchants, and designers all compete for space. And seemingly all those routes lead to the most beautiful building in all of Europe: The Duomo. A sensational green and white cathedral, no building looms quite as large, but yet so elegantly, on all the continent. Curiously, it doesn't cast everpresent in every scene. The layout of the streets conceals it, until it pops out after a turn, announcing itself all at once in its splendour. I've been to Florence three times, and the Duomo never ceases to inspire awe. The public square on it's north side is a zoo of humanity from all the world over, and the walk from the Duomo to Ponte Vecchio, a bridge over the Arno, one of the great people watching routes on the globe. 

Florence was once the home of Michealangelo, Galileo, and Da Vinci, so it's no surprise that the Uffizi and Accademia count among the finest museums in the world. It is said the Dark Ages ended in Florence, and that heritage seems to live on. 

Florence sits on the northern edge of Chianti, a renown wine growing region. If your idea of Chianti is straw covered squat bottles of cheap plonk, it's time to rethink that. Refined, beautiful wine that is meant to be enjoyed young with food, Chianti makes fine wine, and an outstanding day trip from Central Florence. The food in Florence is likewise justifiably renown. Well known for sandwiches, steak, and truffles, Florentine food retains it's simple Tuscan sensibility and is approachable and delicious. Even truffles, where in the US are the domain of fine-dining institutions with the requisite hefty price tag, Truffles are a treat for everyone in Florence- while not necessarily cheap, they are not the rarifed snob food we've come to think of them in the US. And they are, in a word, sensational. Try them on pasta with a simple cream sauce. Thank me later. 

I think it's quite evident I'm immensely fond of Italy. This was only one trip. The mountains to the north- both the Alps around Aosta and the Dolomites; Venice; Milan, and parts I've never seen are all incredible. Italy has given the world so much, and Italians are still eager to share those gifts with the worlds people as they continue to pile in by the planeload. I can't recommend Italy enough, and still didn't do it or it's wonderful people, food, culture, and history justice in this post. If you can, go see for yourself. If you don't know where to start, call me. 

Simulation Theory

 Do We Live in a Simulation?

I was recently asked if I think we could live in a simulation. As a semi-avid sci fi reader, I find this question, and others like it intriguing. And fertile soil for a good conversation.

So do I? 

Yes. Kind of. In a way. Like 95%. 

Do I believe that we live in a designed universe, of a certain size (albeit unfathomably huge), with some hard-wired parameters, and a designer who oversees the functions taking place in that designed universe? Yes. 

The idea of a simulation is a way for some people to grasp the notion that we were created- to put it into terms they are more comfortable with. It's trying to make the truth of God make sense in a technical or humanistic worldview. I think the idea and thought process to get there is very good, while still missing the point entirely. 

Simulation theory tries to explain the fact that the world is just too complex, just too ordered, just too… perfect (see Goldilocks Zone) to happen by accident. Agree. Agree. Agree. Why is there beauty? Why does it seem the world is thoughtfully put together?  Why is Jupiter precisely at the right distance to suck up asteroids? Why is the moon precisely the right size to blot out the sun  for amazing eclipses? Why does it seem like there are too many coincidences? Great questions. I love it. So, the answer must be aliens. Aliens with quantum organic computers (more on that in a second). It’s like being Aaron Judge: Home run after home run after home run, and then, in the World Series where it counts, a huge whiff (sorry Yankee fans). 

Computer science is fascinating, and I’m terrible at it. But I can see why some people may think that a computer runs everything, or we are programs. Computers now fly planes, design buildings, write your work emails, and decipher language. Not only that, the world of quantum computers (This is where my terrible computer understanding comes in: computing at an impossibly fast speed by breaking problems down to little sub problems using lots and lots of very small, very fast processors), can do in seconds what traditional computing may take months, or even years to accomplish. Information that would take years to decipher and is impossibly long (hmmmm- DNA? ) gets interpreted in a fraction of time and some result is spit out. And now, a next horizon in computers is organic, or wet computing- computers that are much better at processing information than silicon-based systems (sound familiar?).  The world we are creating is beginning to model the complexity we observe in ourselves and our world. That could lead to the conclusion that this has happened before, and we are the game inside that other occurrence.

The theory breaks down, however. To put it into Enrico Fermi’s paradoxical inquiry- if the universe is so huge, and complexity has developed here, there must be other complex life out there. If so, where is everyone at? There’s no evidence, anywhere, of any life other than ours. 

It seems to me that simulation theory is reverse engineering what is plainly evident. Yes, we were created. Masterfully so. Yes, our world is designed. Yes, the Creator interacts with us. 

It’s the conclusion that still needs work.

Vietnam is Not a War

Vietnam. When I told friends I'm going to Vietnam, the first question is "why" usually quickly followed by "are you going to see war sights".  The first answer is because I hear it's a special place, and the second is that's not the plan. 

I went to Vietnam because two of the three travelers I trust most, Anthony Bourdain and Jeremy Clarkson (the other being Rick Steves) quickly proclaim that it's their favorite country. The food, the people, the beauty, the approachable exoticism, and the lack of pretense all make for an incredible trip. 

I convinced a buddy to join me on a whirlwind of the north and central parts of the country. Convince may be too strong- it didn't take much. Planning the trip, it became obvious that the country is much larger than I thought, and it appeared travel was much slower than I'm accustomed to. So 6 stops became 5, which became 4, then really 3.5. In was Hanoi, Hoi An, Hue, and Halong Bay. Out was Sapa, Khe Sanh, and the Song Doo Caves. I figured if the country was really as great as everyone said, I'd return.

Hanoi is a sprawling city of about 8 million people in the north central part of the country. It's also deeply conservative and the nation's capital. I chose Hanoi over Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon), the largest and most dynamic city, because it is supposedly more authentically "Vietnamese" than its counterpart in the south, and the food is reputed to be superlative. I don't know if it's more "Vietnamese" or what that really means- but Hanoi is fantastic. Motorbikes, scooters, horns, trucks and taxis jam the narrow densely packed streets of the Old Quarter. Street food is ubiquitous, and people in the capital seem genuinely pleased to see you. Indeed, Hanoi is the smily-est city I think I've ever been to. "Good morning!" "Hello!" and the Vietnamese "Xin Chao" ring out multiple times in a few blocks. Sometimes someone wants you to visit their shop, but just as often its a woman with her young kids, a brick layer, or a street sweeper wanting to welcome you to their city. While I would not say Hanoi is classically beautiful, the faded, gritty, post-colonial atmosphere is not absent charm. The sheer density of shops and restaurants is remarkable, and the constant crush of two wheeled vehicles honking, swerving, and winding is like nothing else. 

About those restaurants. Hanoian cuisine is stunning, and accessible to everyone. My first taste of Vietnam was Beef Pho (pho bo, or pho tai gan) for breakfast, surrounded by locals, in a packed pho shop. Clear, concentrated broth somehow both light and rich held noodles, herbs, and beef in a perfect tension of flavor, texture, and heat. You are handed a bowl so hot that you immediately need to place it down. If there is no table available, I don't know what you do. Burning yourself is the price of perfection, I guess. The first slurp of authentic Pho stock is a heady event. Something seemingly so simple cannot possibly be so good. But believe it, dear reader. Hanoi Pho is all it's cracked up to be. The rest of Hanoi cuisine isn't far behind. Bun cha, nem nuong cuon, and banh mi all call from seemingly every street corner. Almost everything other than pho seems to include grilled pork that has been marinated in lemongrass and fish sauce, rendering that delicious smell omnipresent. And the best part is a street meal will rarely cost you more than $3, including a beer or Coke. Also, while there may be tripe or chicken hearts occasionally on display, a less adventurous eater will do just fine on the streets of Hanoi. Most things are not jarring to Western senses (smell, sight, spice or otherwise), so it's an easy place to have a memorable experience. There's just enough of a language barrier to remind you you're not in Queens or LA. Perfect. 

From Hanoi we left for Halong Bay. Halong may be Vietnam's most internationally known natural attraction. Here rainforest-cloaked limestone karst mountains tumble into the south China Sea, creating a labyrinth of jade islands with sheer cliffs. It's the cover girl of travel brochures on a nice day. Unfortunately, we were not there on beautiful days. Uniform slate gray skies muted the jade, and merged into calm slate gray seas. Don't misunderstand, it is spectacular. But those conditions do not make for spectacular photographs. Our boat sailed through the serpentine mazes showing us island upon island- and set us free for unguided kayaking to explore on our own. Halong was certainly a worthy, beautiful stop. One day I'd like to return to when the sun is shining and take photos to do the place justice. Little did we know at the time, or appreciate, is the cool, dark conditions of Halong would be longed for later in the trip when the furnace was stoked and the real Vietnam weather kicked in. 

After Halong Bay, my buddy Jess and I declined the ride back to Hanoi, and instead flew from Haiphong (Vietnam's third largest city) to Danang to get to Hoi An. Haiphong was pleasant enough, however I did have one of the top 5 worst meals of my life. I'm not exactly sure what it was, but some platter with fried mystery substance (it could have been tofu), pork belly, something I think was blood sausage, and a dark dipping sauce of questionable ingredients. Later that night in Hoi An food poisoning set in, and a long night driving the porcelain bus ensued. I still cannot think of that meal without having a physical reaction. For the next three days, any off smell (good luck walking through a wet market) would send me dry heaving to the nearest riverbank. For the better part of 36 hours I consumed nothing other than Coke or a beer, the only thing my stomach would tolerate. Until the magic that was Banh mi Phuong. Reputed to be among the best banh mi in Vietnam, the barbecue pork banh mi woo'ed me into believing it was ok to eat again. Perfect bread, perfect sauce, and oh so delicious grilled pork. Stomach settling, life giving, vitality restoring. I will forever be grateful for this restaurant. I went back for three meals reluctant to trust anyone else with my recovering stomach (sorry Jess- I'm sure you wanted something else after the second meal). it was about this time that Vietnam decided to give the pasty Northwest Americans the real deal weatherwise, as well (all the more reason to eat not-scorching meals at Banh Mi Phuong, but I digress...). 

Heat. Hellish, sopping, all-encompassing, bone-seeping heat. I have heard that Vietnam is hot. I have even heard that heat is what you may most remember. That's like saying Elon Musk is wealthy. Or Nick Cage is quirky. It doesn't quite hit the mark of just how so it is. The first few days in SE Asia, it was in the mid-70's, cloudy, and quite comfortable. Then one transition day in Hoi An in the high 80's with humidity to match (a warm day in Mississippi) made me stop and appreciate the heat, and then the main event, heat wise- seven days followed with temps in the high 90's to low 100's, with heat indexes from 108 to 117. It simply was not possible to escape the heat. From the second you walked outside into what felt like a steam room in your local Y, until I returned to my airconditioned hotel room, I was lacquered with sweat. Sweat was the veneer that created a glistening omnipresent barrier between me and the world. Sweat in my eyes, sweat rendering my phone useless, sweat ensuring I could not get my cash out of my pocket. Everything sticky, everything damp. There is simply no way of overstating how hot it was. I couldn't help but think how in the name of all things holy did anyone fight a war in this? How did men schlep an M-16 through a rice field in full fatigues? How, did anyone do anything but sit on corner in the nearest town with a Coke and a banh mi, and say to hell with this, send me back to Minneapolis? The heat was all encompassing. The humidity was debilitating. In the mornings in Hoi An, I would read a book on the deck of the hotel overlooking the river. My novel grew in size each day as it sucked up moisture from the air. Women wore all-covering sunsuits including gloves. By midday everyone, including dogs, moved in a crawling amble if they were out at all. Heat became the factor by which all decisions were made. 

Hoi An is a lovely town in Central Vietnam. Its old, restored, was never bombed by us or the French, so is largely intact. It was a Japanese-built trading city from the 1500's or so. Those buildings still exist, and the streets winding through the ancient town are car free, filled with restaurants and shops, and the riverfront is packed with visitors, mostly hyper-friendly Australians, and restaurants and bars. Hoi An has also developed a large tailoring industry. Shop after shop cater to tourists seeking a cut-from-scratch suit made in about 3 days. We succumbed to the temptation, and I had a couple suits made and a bespoke pair of shoes to match. Prices are stupid by American standards- starting around $80 for questionable quality to around $150 for high quality fabric and decent tailoring. It's kind of a must do in Vietnam, and I'm pretty happy with the results. Hoi An is also quite close to the beach. One morning was spent biking out to see the ocean, and it certainly is pretty enough. Biking back I think I may have had my first case of heat stroke. By the time I returned to the hotel, the only thought I had was get the shower as cold as possible, and get it, I was so overheated. 

From Hoi An, we hired a car and driver to drive to Hue, our next stop, via the Hai Van Pass. Hai Van has become well known as the place Jeremy Clarkson had a couple of epiphanies- one, Vietnam is spectacular, and two, he was enjoying motorcycling (really scootering, in his case). Hai Van was beautiful. I wish Vietnam allowed personal rental cars or I had better motorcycle skills, because I would have loved to do that drive on my own, stopping at will for photographs. Rainforest clad mountains tumble down to white sand beaches in secluded coves, demanding further exploration. Unfortunately that was not a luxury I had, so a return trip will someday be in order. But in the meantime, my memories of Hai Van Pass are nearly as provocative as Clarkson's. 

From Hai Van, we arrived in the old imperial city of Hue. The Imperial Citadel was possibly the biggest surprise of the trip. I feel like it is undersold or underappreciated by the guidebooks I read. Beautiful, dramatic, east Asian architecture dots a compound surrounded by moats and high stone walls. Not perfectly restored, the citadel offers just enough faded atmosphere to remind you its old, and Vietnam is still not yet turning each of its monuments into Disneyland. The Citadel was constructed by the Nyugen emperors, and in its hey dey must have been spectacular. Enough remains that it demands a few hours of inspection, and richly rewards a photographer with even the slightest eye for depth and symmetry.  From the Citadel, it was out to visit some of the various tombs of the Nguyen emperors, each another beautiful example of Vietnamese design. While beautiful, by the time we arrived at the first, it was possibly the hottest afternoon experienced. This cut down on the desire to see too much more, or explore grounds comprehensively, but it was a great experience nonetheless. 

Hue was the last major stop. A night in the party city of Danang on the way back to Hanoi, where of course I partied so hard. And by party, I meant sit at a Portland, Oregon-bred brewpub on the beach in Danang, and watch the ocean as it turned to black as the sun went down, painting the distant hills above Hai Van as it went. Danang is best known in America as "China Beach" where soldiers were granted R&R. Now filled with package tourists from Korea and locals, it is packed with hotels and seafood restaurants, everyone is having a nice time, soccer and jet skis dominate the beach, and it seems a lifetime or two away from its rough past. 

The last memory I have of Vietnam was the cab ride to the airport on the way back from downtown Hanoi to the airport. The cab driver, true to my experience in the city, was all smiles, eager, and even more intent to welcome his guests. An entire conversation was had over 45 minutes by us each speaking questions and answers into Google translate. The young man was curious, proud of his city and country while frustrated at the slow pace of progress, and clearly loved people, and after many laughs, we had to together convince police to let us park on the airport drive because the Americans were fresh out of cash, and I needed to run to the money changer to change a greenback for some VN Dong to pay the man.

Vietnam is one of the youngest countries in Earth. Something like 65% of their population is under 25. This is likely why, the biggest name association for Americans, the Vietnam War, is just not much more than a blip here, at least on its surface. Sure, there are few trophies scattered around, and a bomb crater or two, but the war is not the pervasive lens the country views itself through. Nor did I feel one sliver of animosity as an American. It was described to me as they have fought the French, Chinese, Japanese, and yes, the Americans. To be Vietnamese historically has been to be at war. And they just can't be mad at everyone who has invaded. Or, to be more blunt, we are just not all that special. For that I am grateful. But one thing is clear. Vietnam is not the name of a war. Vietnam is a beautiful country, filled with beautiful people. 

Vietnam is fantastic. It's still not easy travel, but it's wonderful travel. People are warm and welcoming, the food is good (in Hanoi its way more than good), and the land is beautiful. Travel is slow, and it's just not possible to cover as much distance here in two weeks as you could in Japan or Europe. This time of year, the heat demands you go even slower. But if you want a place to plunge deep, test your limits just a bit, and learn a lot, then buy a ticket. Maybe let me know you're going and ask me to join. Just not in May. 

In Defense of Melancholy

Melancholy (n)

Pensive sadness, typically with no obvious cause.

-Oxford Dictionary (paraphrased)

An almost pleasant state of mild, thoughtful sadness or longing. 

-Shawn O'Neill

Life isn't perfect. That's a lesson most of learn rather early on. That's not to suggest that life is terrible- sometimes it's that very imperfection that drives home the point of just how lucky so many of us are. But it's undeniable that as our days tick by, there's more than passing reason to experience a bit of adversity and loss. In not only processing that fact, but embracing it, I think we learn what it is to be human. 

I know no one likes to be depressed. Or in despair. Or tormented. But I think melancholy is much different. It's accepting the fact that nothing is perfect- loss, inadequacy, and pain are inevitable- and pondering what are we going to do with that? And not only what are we going to do with it, but can we find beauty in it? And if finding beauty in sadness isn't part of what it means to be human, than maybe nothing is. 

If we all think about it, the answer is yes, we can find beauty. Possibly the most beautiful things we create- relationships and art- are out of melancholy, sadness, longing. The whole body of music points to this. The most powerful songs seem to have at least an air of sadness- from The Moonlight Sonata, Claire de Lune, or even the best of Springsteen, U2, and Eminem- the music that moves us undeniably touches our downer receptors at least just a bit.  The best literature points to a not-yet-realized ideal. Brothers Karamazov, To Kill a Mockingbird, and even Lord of the Rings long for something greater. Indeed leave us longing for something greater.  Monet obsessed about not quite being able to perfectly capture fleeting light on a subject and spent his life in pursuit of it. There is something deeply poignant about that. And the deepest, most fulfilling conversations are souls laid bare in honesty. Friendships may be formed around the water cooler, or in the baseball stands, or on the golf course. But they are cemented in the forge of shared adversity or loss.

I might even suggest that we have become so obsessed with "feeling good" that the essential experience of pressing in to our melancholy is a lost piece of actually living. Sitting on a deck, watching the sun set and wrestling with our quiet selves in reflection is usually not a ticket to a good time. But it is a necessary time. It can be a messy time. But with practice, the messy becomes beautiful. The passing of time, the milestones jetting by to quickly, the imperfect execution of our best intentions, the heartbreak and losses mourned, and the mistakes we all wish we could wish-away, are as essential as the highs of success and happiness. 

I once read that true joy is something closer to melancholy than it is mirth. I think I agree. 

When you see the Southern Cross for the first time

 How does a relatively luxurious trip to Japan get changed to a relatively unluxurious trip to Peru?  A pandemic, an expiring plane ticket, and a buddy with a hall pass all have something to do with that. 

A good friend and I were supposed to head to Japan in late March of 2020 for a tour around the country. The world had other plans unfortunately and travel shut down as COVID-19 swept the globe. In December of 2021 my buddy, Nathan, let me know his ticket credit was about to expire and a trip needed to be booked ASAP.  Besides, Nathan had never been off the continent, and was eager to get a passport stamp. Thinking Europe was the likely option I agreed to rebook a trip. Nathan quickly added that he would like to see South America. Great! I had not been to that continent, and Argentina or Chile would be a fantastic adventure! Always wanting to disrupt, Nathan boldly proclaimed Peru was top on his list. Interesting. A bit more rugged of a spot than someone usually chooses for a first major international trip. I knew very little of Peru- I knew Machu Picchu was there, and the number 2 restaurant in the world, Central, was in Lima. So why not?  I'm always up for adventure. Besides, a goal of mine ever since I heard the song by CSNY was to see the Southern Cross. Romanticized in my head as a major symbol of adventure, that constellation could be seen just as easily from Peru as it could from Chile or Argentina. 

With the destination decided, we convinced another buddy to join, and planning began. And by planning began, I mean I began. Details were assigned to me, which was ok since I'm 1) a well-seasoned traveler, and 2) just a bit of a control freak with such things. Researching Peru was fascinating. I discovered Lima is an immense city of 10 or so million people and is considered the culinary capital of South America. Cusco, the ancient Incan imperial city of the Andes, is arguably the archeological capital of the Western Hemisphere. And Cusco is so much more than the gateway to the ancient citadel of Machu Picchu. And, most embarrassing to me for not knowing, I discovered that the Amazon River begins in Peru, and the eastern 2/3 of the country is the Amazon Rainforest. I quickly sent a text to Nathan and Jess informing them that the Amazon must be a stop. They quickly agreed and assigned "River of Doubt" as required reading. Detailing the misery of Teddy Roosevelt's terrible experience in the Amazon, I'm not sure if that homework assignment was wise. Nonetheless, passage to the Amazon was added to Lima and Cusco. Reservations to Central were booked, a guide service to Machu Picchu hired, and we were set.  

Nathan's hall pass firmly in hand, he (with a very accommodating wife and 6 kids at home), our friend Jess (devoted dog-dad), and I (happy bachelor) set off for South America. 

Lima

My first glimpse of South America was the Cordillera Blanca in the Andes north of Lima. The world's second largest collection of 20,000 foot peaks, even from the jet they were impressive- monstrous fortress-looking rocks dripping with glaciers. Excitement built in. I love mountains; obsessed with them, more like it. And these are some of the most storied and exotic. Descending into Lima, it's clear that it's a huge city. Occupying a desert basin wedged between the Andean foothills and the Pacific, Lima is packed with people, high rises, and traffic. It also has one of the most unique climates on Earth. Firmly in the tropics, it however is not hot. Or sunny. And it's bone dry. It has a year-round average high temperature of about 75 degrees, receives .81 inch of rainfall a year, and is completely fogged in for 9 months. It's the cloudiest and second driest national capital in the world. We were arriving at the tail end of summer, the sunny season. Lima is not a supermodel city. Concrete block after concrete block greet you after leaving the airport. Graffiti, traffic following some barely held-to chaotic rhythm, and dogs fill the street. But there are some very pleasant neighborhoods that somewhat remind me of the Upper West Side of Manhattan. At its best Lima has long boulevards lined with trees and 15-20 story upscale apartment buildings, with coffee shops and restaurants overlooking the ocean or a park. The old city has all the photogenics of a European capital. At its most desperate it looks like any image of a South American favela, but one thing that stood out- residents took pride in their neighborhoods no matter what the economic status was. Streets and sidewalks were clean, and there were armies of workers collecting garbage and tidying up nonstop. 

Staying in an Airbnb in the wealthy neighborhood of Miraflores, our first stop was the local mall to get some provisions for the trip. Nathan needed socks. And, that friends, was the real first adventure. Nathan looking for just the right stockings had all the hallmarks of Goldilocks visiting the den of the three bears- if the bears had friends, who also had dens, and den had choices of the beds and porridge. Indeed, we found ourselves visiting 5 different stores looking for just the perfect mix of wool/synthetic/cotton, ankle/midcalf/no show, padded/unpadded, and, for the love of all things holy, NO BLACK. North Face, Patagonia, H&M, and Columbia were all no match for the discerning taste and relentless drive of Mr. Nathan Johnson. At one point the perfect pair were thought to be found at North Face- 70% wool/30% elastane, padded sole, thin upper, mid-calf, tailormade for hiking the Andes. But that's where the prohibition on black socks was discovered. So, I took my leave and looked for overpriced sunglasses. The last thing I remember was Jess emerging with a shell-shocked look of defeat declaring that the search was still on. 

It is much easier to find good food, and perhaps even more importantly, great coffee in Lima. The city lays claim as the home of ceviche, and the Andes grow some of the finest cafe arabica in the world. You are never far from a quick delicious meal, or a truly outstanding cup of coffee. Exploring restaurants and finding beverages in Lima will keep any food enthusiast busy for days. The locals are quick to help if not overly warm, but a smile and an inquiry beginning in Spanish will guarantee a good recommendation and a friendly chat will be reciprocated. Ceviche in Lima is near religion. Octopus, squid, fish, shrimp, and scallop all make appearances liberally doused in sharp lime juice. Large kernels of some Incan corn variety is nearly as ubiquitious as the seafood in the dish. The contrast in textures is fantastic. 

Central 

Central is, simply put, one of the top food destinations in the world. When we ate there it occupied the second slot on the list of best restaurants in the world. Central showcases Peruvian Cuisine with a unique menu that is arranged by elevation. Peru is one of the most geographically and biologically diverse spots on the planet. From sea-level on the Pacific to 22,000 feet high in the Andes, and back to near sea level on the Amazon River, Peru is the home of countless species of fish, fruit, vegetables, tubers, and meats. Corn, chocolate, and potatoes originated in Peru. It is, without a doubt, one of the greatest food locations on the planet. And Central celebrates this rich heritage. A fine dining institution to rival the great restaurants in New York or Paris, a meal here is a 4-hour affair with 12 or 13 courses, wine and cocktail pairings, and service that anticipates everything possible. Set in a small modern dining room of concrete and stone, it somehow does all this while being warm and unpretentious. Each course is explained and arrives with whatever tools it needs to enjoy it properly. The food is firmly in the molecular gastronomy category, with foams, innovative creams, and lattice-like brittles making frequent appearances. Everything is delicious. One of the best meal courses of my life was a semi-frozen dessert that consisted of tiny, gelatinized nuggets of amazon fruits (think upscale Dippin' Dots). It was outrageous. I have no idea what the fruits were, or if I'll ever have them again. But it was flawless. 

Our time in Lima coming to a close, I was not yet successful in my quest to see the Southern Cross. Too much fog at night, and likely too much light pollution. The trip was still young, so many opportunities still lay ahead. It was time to set off to perhaps more storied destinations of South America. The Andes and the Amazon

Cusco and Machu Picchu

Arriving in Cusco is beautiful. A 45 minute flight from Lima, the plane barely has time to gain enough altitude to crest the Andes. The descent is nerve-wracking for those with window seats- the city is set in a deep valley at 11,000 feet and surrounded by 14-17,000 foot mountains. The plane barely clears the land below which in late March is a beautiful emerald with crystalline creeks coursing through the countryside (yes, the plane is low enough to see these details). At this latitude, land up to 15,000 feet above sea level is inhabited and cultivated. Arriving in Cusco is chaotic and breathless. Cars and mopeds careen around a disheveled neighborhood that gradually transitions into a spectacular old city where Spanish Colonial structures are perched upon demolished Incan structures. Cusco was the royal city of the Incan Empire, and later became an important Spanish Colonial city. It is considered to be a marvel of Incan architecture. The Incans were arguably the greatest stone masons in the world. You can still cut a line between the previous Incan foundations and the later Spanish additions by the lack of mortar in the Incan structures. The stones fit perfectly. The Spanish structures look downright sloppy in comparison with their haphazard shaped stones bonded together by mortar. The resulting city is beautiful. The cathedrals, colonial era buildings, and winding alleys create a cityscape not of this time. The rough part is the alleys are STEEP. At 11,000 feet above sea level that means heads pound and lungs scream. 

Something you quickly notice in Cusco is that coca is everywhere. Coca is the parent plant of cocaine, and is completely ingrained into Incan culture. While cocaine is still illegal, coca leaves, coca tea, and coca candy are common. The first thing offered to you at a hotel is coca tea. At our Airbnb there was a basket of coca leaves on the dining room table for tea.  On the streets we were offered to sample the stronger stuff. We politely declined. The tea is not psychoactive in normal quantities. I was told if you drink enough, you can get a mild euphoric feeling, but nothing more. The more important use of coca tea in the Andes is to ward off the symptoms of altitude sickness. Locals swear by it for its therapeutic properties. We drank plenty of coca tea, but I don't believe any of us experienced any tea-induced euphoria. Locals, especially farm laborers, bundle the leaves and place it between the lip or cheek and gums for an increased buzz. If one wants a stronger high (but still nowhere near the jolt from doing a line of coke) and increased endurance, they add a few drops of lime juice to the chaw. I found the tea to be quite good- similar to a grassier, stronger green tea. I might of even considered bringing some home, but I was told that that could go very, very badly depending on the customs agent at LAX. Reluctantly, I passed on the opportunity to import this important culinary product, or become the next El Chapo- I'm not sure how the dice would've rolled out. 

So with our coca tea-induced altitude immunity acquired, it was time to sample the local Andean cuisine. That means lots of corn, lots of potatoes, and alpaca and guinea pig (cuy). Andean food is on the heavier side of meals. A bit similar to Alpine cuisine in France- but with less cheese, and more alpaca. Alpaca is just fine. Nothing amazing, nothing revolting. I would still opt for a slab of beef any day. I only tried guinea pig once, and it turned out to not be guinea pig, so no report on that delicacy. 

The next morning we began our journey to Machu Picchu. Usually I am fairly resistant to going with a tour or guided group, but Machu Picchu is frustratingly complicated to secure self-guided tickets to, especially from outside Peru. Each guide book I read testified to this. fortunately Jess's cousin recently went to Peru and had a great experience with a guide, so we went with the service they used. Machu Picchu is about 60 miles and a full day from Cusco. The trip we chose was two full days with a day in the Sacred Valley.  

The journey to the Sacred Valley of the Inca is beautiful. The high country surrounding Cusco is not quite alpine- getting there involves good roads snaking through buff and green colored hills that just happen to be 15,000 high and dotted with farms and villages. I'm not actually sure how high we got in Peru (mountains, not coca). I think over 14, but not quite 15,000 feet. But I could be totally wrong. The land is undeniably beautiful. Being there in the wet season, glimpses of the High Andes were few. But with an occasional break in the clouds clinging to the peaks, glimpses of glaciers and towering stone faces were enough to convince me to return someday. 

The descent into the sacred valley was met with rapidly warming temperatures, raging rivers, and small villages filled with folks walking lamas and alpacas. The ruins of Pisaq were the first real glimpse of the ancient Incan Empire. A city that descended a steep mountainside in shimmering emerald terraces, the site commands an impressive view of the valley and mountains beyond. There are evocative stone ruins dotting the site. 

Continuing on through the Sacred Valley, the road hugs the Urubamba River as it thunders toward the Amazon. Village after village swept by, with dogs, lamas, carts, mopeds, and guinea pig farms with them. The next stop was one of the most impressive sites I've ever seen.

Ollantaytambo is a normal tourist village with an incredible exclamation point. The ruins of Ollantaytambo look like something straight out of an Indiana Jones movie. A steep-stepped pyramid built into the side of a mountain, it is as imposing and sudden as a quality ruin should be. Our guide took us to the top of the ruin, and after many oxygen-starved steps and near-puke breaks, I also made it. The view was spectacular. Green valleys, ruins, and the High Andes all fill the view. Unfortunately our time was short, as the train to Aguas Calientes, the base camp for Machu Picchu, was scheduled to leave. But the sight of the fortress at Ollantaytambo will forever be a favorite travel memory. 

The train from Ollantaytambo to Aguas Calientes descends 3000 feet and goes from one climate to another. Ollantaytambo sits around 9000' above sea level on the drier side of the mountains. The train rumbles along the Urubamba River and enters the cloud forest on the eastern side of the Andes. The trees grow taller and bigger, the scrub turns to ferns and palms, and the mountainsides grow alive with falling water. Arriving in Aguas Calientes you are greeted by the sound of rushing water. It's everywhere. This is the very edge of the Amazon Rainforest I learned. The location, if not the city itself, is spectacular. It's humid, tropical, and warm. The town seems perched on forest clad mountains and suspended over rushing rivers. The compact downtown is filled with souvenir shops and restaurants. While the town itself clearly caters to tourists, the food is fine and the people friendly. A perfectly pleasant place to stroll. 

The next morning, fog hung thick on the mountains, a steady drizzle fell, and the trip to Machu Picchu started. We chose to take the bus rather than hike the few thousand feet to the storied city. I'm glad. Rain pelted, and the trees dripped incessantly. Arriving at the gates was like any other park I've been to- tickets, bathrooms, all the usual. Our guide set off taking us through what I think was the Sun Gate for that iconic first view of Machu Picchu. We wound through minor ruins, and when we broke out for the grand reveal (you could tell by the dozens of other travelers milling around or listening to their guides) we got nothing. Thick fog obscured the world. Our guide indicated we would wait, and regaled us with a much (muuuuuch) too long story of obscure history. I love history, but I could tell this was stalling for time. Excusing myself with the excuse of I needed to move because my knees hurt from prolonged standing, I wandered to the edge of the view spot to sit and take it in in silence. Regardless of the lack of view, I was in one of the most incredible destinations in the world, and I was going to enjoy it. I looked over where I knew the city should be, staring into the grey. Then, like a dream you can barely remember but can still see its rapidly fading scenes, an outline of stone buildings appeared. 30 seconds later, the ghostly profile of Machu Picchu appeared. I tried to get my guides attention, but because I had the PRIME photo spot, I didn't want to leave. Finally I hissed "Jess!!!" and motioned to the emerging icon. I think I heard an "oh, CRAP!" and the rest of our crew cutting off our guide and hurrying over. Watching Machu Picchu come to life out of a fogstorm will forever be one of my favorite travel memories. 

We then descended to walk among the ruins. Its a fantastic experience. Exquisite stone work dots the mountaintop. The views beyond are cloudforest and mist cloaked mountains. The history about each of the structures is muddled in my mind and mostly forgotten, unfortunately. But the views of evocative stone buildings and mountains beyond are burned in my memory.

Back in Cusco, a relaxed day around the city was next on the agenda. Ruins, cathedrals, and tasty rustic cuisine occupied the day. As the day wore into evening, we discovered that Cusco has a pretty good craft beer scene. We headed to Sacred Valley Brewery, where the proprietor was Colorado trained, locally connected, extremely friendly, and talented. It seemed rare for a few Yankees from the PNW to wander into the brewery, so the brewer and waitress were eager to show us a good time and how good the offerings from Highland Peru could be. They put us out on the balcony overlooking the Old City, and some local celebration kept the street music playing til late. Looking down on the flood lit main square, with incredible beer made from Incan heirloom ingredients, it was easy to get lost in the moment. The samples were generous, and the pours even more so. Needless to say in the thin air at 11,000 feet the alcohol goes straight to the head. I don't like to be intoxicated to begin with, even less so when travelling, but this certainly became inevitable as the conversations, music, and beverages flowed into the Andean night. 

I did have the wherewithal to look for the Southern Cross upon returning to our Airbnb, but with no luck. Too many clouds. 7 nights into my Peruvian adventure, and the legendary constellation had still yet to be seen. 

A couple days later, the most unknown part of the trip began. The Amazon was waiting. I was gearing up in my head for several days of being uncomfortable. Stifling heat, suffocating humidity, No A/C, unknown food, and bugs, snakes, spiders, and scorpions all were waiting- this I knew. But nothing could prepare me for the adventure of the most storied River and Rainforest on the planet. 

We flew into Iquitos, the largest city in the world with no road access. Even on approach dropping through the clouds, the view was unlike any I'd ever seen. An endless green rainforest canopy with fog steaming off the trees marched to the horizon. Occasionally some unknown tree blooming in riotous yellow would break up the emerald. The airport is one of those walk onto the tarmac spots- and getting off the plane, the air landed an uppercut right to the face. Thick, hot, and steamy, it was clear we were no longer in the Andes. The first night we stayed in a hotel downtown. A very pleasant place, a bit faded and worn, the hotel occupied a former home of a rubber baron. Before checking in, though, the first view of the Amazon River awaited. Across the street from the hotel, the Amazon  swollen with flood water pouring into it from thousands of square miles. The Amazon Basin is FLAT. How flat?? Iquitos is at something like river mile 3700. 3700 miles upstream from the Atlantic Ocean. It sits at 400 feet above sea level! Looking across the river at the rainforest, the horizon is composed of the tree tops for thousands of miles. The only thing interrupting the flatness of the canopy are the towering cumulus clouds dropping torrential rain in frequent deluges. I'm becoming a decently jaded traveller- I've experienced a lot and seen a lot. Despite that, the Amazon was magnificent.

The next day we met our guides that were going to take us to the eco-lodge 50 miles downstream from Iquitos. We loaded into an aluminum transport boat, and set off on the great river. We also met our companions for the trip- 3 ladies from the Netherlands on a friends trip, and a solo gentleman from Berlin. All three fun, adventurous, and not surprisingly with flawless English. But also spoke to our guides in Spanish. Europeans. Not 3 minutes from the dock, river dolphins greeted us with an acrobatic flip and splash! "Pink dolphins?" I asked excited to see the rare mammal. "No, gray. The grays are much more playful". We entered the main channel of the Amazon in about 10 minutes. Immense. Like nothing I've ever seen. Miles wide, the current strong, the river is beyond description. The rainforest marches right down to the river edge. We sped down the river passing village, chalana (river boat) and endless forest. Distant rainstorms could be seen as gray curtains descending down from the impossibly large thunderheads. In about 90 minutes we arrived at the eco-lodge. The lodge and grounds were carved right into the jungle on the rivers edge. Hardwood plank walkways kept guests above the marshy ground. A comfortable thatch-roofed hut would be home for the next three days. The lodge featured a kitchen and dining room, a small bar, and, surprisingly, a swimming pool (one of only two among the Peruvian Amazon lodges, I was told). But no air conditioning and power for only 8 hours a day remind you that you are a long way from anywhere. It was not luxurious, but perfectly comfortable. The lodge was run by a lady with an strong fist in a velvet glove (their words, not mine) named Maria. They called her the "Lodge Mama". Maria had an easy smile, hospitable way, but you knew she was in charge. And holy cow could Maria cook. We had our welcome lunch which was fried Amazon fish, rice, beans, vegetables, and fruit. Everything delicious. 

The first amazon adventure was piranha fishing. We took a much smaller longboat several miles downriver and entered a lagoon to catch the mythical little fish. Our guide, Eduardo, showed us the technique. You disturb the surface of the water with your pole tip to simulate a struggling animal. This draws the critters to the location. Then you drop a hook baited with raw beef and try to snag one. As it turned out, I was a natural born piranha fisherman. I caught the first, and the second, and even figured out how to entice them to frenzy. It was a sight. You make the baited hook dance a bit at the surface, and swarms of the hungry little fish would violently attack the offered beef, darting back in an instant. It didn't take long when frenzied to empty the hook of meat. The entire boat had a grand time reeling in the voracious little fish- except for the passionate fisherman among us, who was skunked. I won't name names, but I will say they had very high end discriminately chosen socks. 

The lagoon was tranquil- edged by huge trees and birds of every description. This afternoon was sunny, humid, and impressively hot. The lodge recommends long pants and long sleeved shirts to prevent mosquito bites. Not my chosen attire for what feels like a hot summer day. On the trip back , a ripple could be seen on the surface of the Amazon. A ripple, and a flesh colored hump. Pink River Dolphins were spotted! We hung out with the dolphins for a bit, then went back to the lodge for dinner. 

That evening's excursion was a hike in the jungle. A night hike. In the Amazon. If there is one thing that defines the night in the Amazon, it's noise. There are chirps, whistles, caws, and surprisingly, a video game like glassy chime. Seriously, both I and Jess thought it was fake. Convinced someone was playing a video game on their phone we asked the guide what that was. He indicated it was a frog making that noise. Incredible. We went looking for snakes, spiders, and bullet ants. Yes, yes, and yes. Successful on all fronts. Tarantulas turned out to be as common as flies. I think they are quite cool, but not everyone shared my enthusiasm. One of the more feared animals of the rainforest is the bullet ant. Living in tree trunks, our guide coaxed some out with a thunk thunk thunk from his machete. The two inch long ant is said to have a bite 40 times more painful than a yellow jacket. Having once stepped on a yellow jacket nest, I wanted no part of the bullet ant. We also found poison dart frogs. They contain enough poison to kill a man, so it's a good thing our guide pointed them out. They are tiny- maybe half the size of my pinkie finger nail. They're dark green with either a fluorescent red or yellow strip- the only way to really spot the little buggers. 

Once back at the lodge, a trip to the dining area was in order and long conversations with the Euros about life in the USA, how Americans think of Europeans (they were very curious), the state of the world, what makes each country tick, all of it. Conversations with Europeans get beyond soccer and weather very quickly if you show yourself willing. They are much better at non small talk than we are. I love it. 

The next day started with an incredible thunderstorm and downpour at 5:30am. Water came down as if it was being poured from a bucket. Our guide told us the morning's adventure was cancelled. I was not disappointed. The lodge was so pleasant, and listening to the thunder and rain in the rainforest so satisfying, I couldn't imagine a better way to spend a few hours. It also cooled it down quite a bit. The lodge brewed fresh coffee, and invited everyone to enjoy a slow morning. Perfect. Walking out to the river, I would be hard pressed for a better travel memory. 

That afternoon, we took an excursion down the river. And honestly, I don't even remember what it was for. What I do remember is having to return through a thunderstorm similar to the morning's. Coming back we all could see the black curtain descending from the huge black thundercloud. Thinking we would sail to shore and wait it out, I wasn't concerned. But when our guides pointed, grinned, and motioned for us to hold on to our hats, I was half impressed, half terrified. My companions looked shocked. The Euros were indignant. The rain started by drenching, then pelting, then came down like bullets. The wind was fierce, snapping every article of clothing, bench cushions, and depositing any unsecured bottle into the river. Lightning licked the sky like tongues of a 100 snakes. If I wasn't having so much fun, I might have been scared. But our guides seemed non-impressed, and they were life long river runners. So I enjoyed the spectacle. Fantastic. 

The afternoons storms cancelled another early evening excursion, but our guides promised to make it up to us if the storms cleared. I was not disappointed to have a quiet afternoon for a nap and reading next to the amazon. After dinner, the storms indeed cleared, and the guide let us know we were going to go for an evening drift. They cautioned us not to expect too much, but they wanted to ensure we got enough time on the mighty Amazon, since we had two excursions cancelled. We went out right at sunset and travelled four miles up the River. We were to watch night descend, hear the animals come alive, and relax. I think the guides still thought this was a poor consolation prize (to bird watching, I think). What they didn't quite realize was that this was perfection. The setting sun lit up the tops of dozens of immense cumulus towers. The Amazon was calm, and the evening turned to dusk. That's when the show really began. Those cumulus towers became distant beacons as they were lit up internally from their own lightning. Every few seconds a new storm announced itself- far enough away for the thunder to be just a low rumble, close enough that details of the cell were laid bare by flickering lighting. Then the birds chimed in- building to a cacophony of chirps, songs, and cries, accompanied by the bass notes of the thunderstorms. So we drifted back to the lodge on the current of the Amazon, and listened and watched as a heavenly symphony from time immemorial played out just it had for forever. Some "consolation prize". 

This was the last evening in the Rainforest. Tomorrow night would be Lima, then home. We met up with our European friends in the dining hall/bar, and chatted the evening away. As luck would have it, Peru was playing Uruguay in a World Cup qualifier. We all became temporary Peruvians as service nearly shut down and the entire lodge staff watched the match on the only TV in the lodge. Decorum was put aside for the night, and the staff cracked cervezas and became guests (or we became lodge staff) with the rest of us and we all lived and died with each Peruvian National Team play. I think Maria the lodge mom was ok with this arrangement as it was just us easy going Americans and the 4 Europeans that night in the lodge- and it was pretty clear we were about the lowest maintenance crew any lodge operator could hope for. 

As the night wore on, and Peru wasn't faring well, I realized I still had yet to see the Southern Cross. knowing that would not be possible in Lima, I hurried to the edge of the River to see if there were clear skies to spy my stars. Unwisely only in shorts and a tshirt (malaria or dengue fever be damned) I walked to the end of the dock. Pitch black. A distant guitar strumming somewhere back up in the lodge. And, just few stars between the clouds. I sat there, waiting. Bringing up my sky map app, I looked for where the Southern Cross should be. It would be just above the horizon, due South. The clouds drifted in and out, and then, the horizon stayed clear. Letting my eyes focus, there was the Cross, draped above the Amazon River. 

"When you see the Southern Cross, For the first time, You understand now why you came this way". 

Why blog? Why now?

Resurrection is a dangerous thing. It usually demands something or presents a risk. In this case it demands work, and risks readers knowing what I really think or something more about who I am. So why resurrect a thirteen year-old blog?  A few reasons. One, I want to work on my writing. I've always enjoyed writing and used to be ok at it. But like anything writing needs practice to keep sharp. Otherwise it becomes lazy, unfocused, and flabby. And there's nothing worse than lazy writing. Second, I have things to say. You may not care what I have to say and that is the beauty of America- you can totally ignore me. But just maybe, you might be challenged to think of something differently, or laugh a little, or share in my random observations on the world. 

What am I going to write about? That's a good question. I'm imagining an eclectic collection of posts about those things I'm passionate about- Jesus, people, travel, living, the world around us, and maybe a little baseball. Oh, and food. I'm very lucky in that I have life experiences many 80 year olds would be jealous of. I love to observe, analyze, and contemplate those experiences. I love people, cultures, adventure, and beauty, so I suspect I will write quite a lot about all these things. I may stray into current events just a bit, but I usually keep those conversations for just that: conversations. Most current event (er, politics) writing spirals into terrible places online, but when I do journey into those areas, you can be sure there are opinions aplenty to frustrate my most progressive and my most right-wing friends. I have a political sensibility I sometimes call "aggressively moderate". I cannot deny that I try to view most things through my conviction of how I should live my life as a follower of Christ. To my point earlier, that sometimes does not fit neatly into some of the boxes culture expects. 

My main goal is to hone communicating skillfully and organizing internally why I think what I think. My second goal is to be entertaining, or at least informative. I hope you become a reader. I hope to become a better writer and thinker. I hope to have some fun, and maybe learn just a little bit. 

Shawn

The Crush

It's a funny thing about the best wine. The story of the grapes that make it is interesting. Grapes destined to make great wine are not planted in the most fertile areas. They are not fertilized. They, in fact, are intentionally stressed; denied access to water. Given enough to keep them alive, yes. Enough to stay healthy. But not instant and easy access.

You see, if the grapes don't work to ripen, they develop no character. Given all the water, fertilizer, and great earth they can handle, they get fat and watery, a very thin shadow of what they could be. The juice is diluted. The vintner loves his grapes, but he sees the potential of what is to come, not lavishing them in their youth. It is here that the foundation of a truly great wine is made.

Once the grapes become all they can be, they have struggled to hit optimum ripeness, they get picked. The hard life a grape continues. They get destemmed, taking away the parts that still hang on and contribute nothing but bitterness. Now you have beautiful, ripe grapes, ready to be made into wine.

But then comes the crush. Just when you think the grapes look pretty good, they get crushed. Put through a violent process of turning them into something even better. Here to is a difference between fine wine grapes and stuff given to jug wine.

The crush is kinda the end for the jug wine grape- In the hands of a vintner who doesn't really care about the final product, just wants to get a product on the shelf to intoxicate the masses, the crush is a necessary step to create alcohol. Nothing magical happens after the crush, just fermented, bottled and sold. Ah, but in the hands of a careful, loving vintner, this is where true metamorphasis occurs. The crush is a crucial part of extracting the essence of the fruit; all the labor that occured in the vineyard, the pruning, the painstaking watering, making sure just the right amount was given, the careful harvesting by hand, destemming, and even the crush, happened for this. The lifeblood of the fruit is spilled, given for a purpose. The vintner lets his work, and the work the grapes have done, start to come together. Giving his juice the perfect conditions, he watches as the sugar is converted. He tastes as the grape juice blooms into something more; that very lifeblood of the grape develops character, depth, and personality. He adds just the right touch when necessary; raises or lowers the temperature, puts the wine in oak to develop more character, even structure; let's it age to become perfect. You see, in grapes worked by a master, the unique character of the grape is allowed to shine, once honed and transformed under the careful care of the winemaker, but all the while bearing the unmistakable signature of the master who created it. The final product, the result of much work, patience, and pain, was worth the effort.

What a metaphor for life.

Anyway, signing off for now...