Good to the last drop.

Today was National Coffee Day in the United States. Oh, didn't you hear? Yeah. National Coffee Day. I don’t know where this came from or when it started. But evidently you can get free coffee in some places in celebration. Sorry if you missed out on that. Mark it on your calendar for next year.

I no longer drink coffee very often. But that does not mean I don’t love it. Because I do. I love coffee. I love the smell of beans when you open a bag, or of the grounds when you open a can, of its liquid form as it steams in a cup. I love the taste of a nice, hot, cup of coffee, undiluted by sugar or cream. I also love the fancy coffee drinks, with sugar, milk, steamed milk, frothy milk. I love coffee flavored ice cream, coffee cake, and chocolate covered coffee beans. I love it all. Coffee rocks! Except for that heart palpitation thing I get from the caffeine, hence the not drinking it very often. 

Imagine how fun it is to go to a region where coffee is grown in great quantities, like Latin America. You can go to a coffee farm, see how it is grown, see how the beans are picked and dried in the sun. After such tours, you can purchase coffee grown right in the place you just saw. They even give you a sample to drink after the tour.

Coffee beans, right off the plant.

Coffee beans, drying in the sun.  

The interesting thing about this is that even though all that coffee is grown in the region, and even though I saw fields of the stuff growing on beautiful hills or growing within a forest, many (if not most) of the local people I met drank (gasp!) instant coffee (gasp again!). I’m not sure why. Maybe it is too expensive, or the majority of it is exported. But Nescafé is very popular. I personally don’t have any issue with instant coffee. If that is what my host family drank, then that is what I drank. It’s not the greatest form of coffee, true, but I am not much of a coffee snob. So I don’t mind. Again I bring up the old adage: when in Rome ...

This is not to say that you can’t get awesome brewed coffee in Latin America.  Because oh, you can. My first trip to Latin America was to Costa Rica. We had breakfast every morning in our hotel’s little café. I am sure we ate eggs and gallo pinto (rice and beans mixed together), maybe some toast. But what really sticks out in my memory is the coffee. It was steee-rong. It was rich and delicious. They served it with hot milk. I couldn’t have loved it more.

Venezuela is also an exception. I think I mostly drank hair-curling-strong espresso while I was there. But they just called it "coffee." My friend Ana Maria's family drank it often, brewing it up in a little aluminum cafetera (screw-together stove-top coffee percolator) and serving it in tiny cups. It was fantastic, strong as it was. I bought one of those cafeteras and a cute tiny cup set to take home. Coffee was a big part of that trip. I also had it in the afternoons, when my friend was still at work and I would wander off to the Museum of Fine Arts. I would get one of those tiny yet potent coffees in the museum cafe, and enjoy it with a piece of cake, torta tres leches to be exact. Delicious afternoon pick-me-up! 

Before giving up caffeine (or at least most of it), I also enjoyed fabulous cappuccinos in Panama City. Every restaurant I went to had one of those fancy cappuccino machines and every restaurant knew how to make it well. I also enjoyed delicious cappuccinos every afternoon after my Spanish classes in Quito. Also perfectly made. At least to me. Like I said, I’m not a coffee snob and don’t mind instant coffee, so maybe my bar isn’t as high as yours. But I just want you to be aware that there is non-instant coffee goodness available as well.

In Guatemala, at my host family’s house, they would always have hot water available, and I could have a cup of hot tea or coffee. Even though I didn’t mind instant coffee, I was off coffee at this point. But every once in while, I needed something other than amazing Guatemalan hot chocolate (mentioned in this post). And luckily there were plenty of cafes that served the freshly made, strong, robust coffee I love so much. In Xela, my favorite cup of coffee was at Café Baviera (Zona I, although I hear the outside seating at the Zona 3 location is very nice). 

I also recommend buying some local coffee for gifts to take home. You may find such coffee, wrapped up in cute, colorful packages at a coffee farm you tour. But I suggest going to a local supermarket and buying it there (unless you are touring a coffee cooperative where sale of the coffee helps support the local community). Even though the local folks I have known don’t drink it themselves, it is available in stores and costs less than at a farm (and you may not get to a farm). It may be more expensive than Nescafé, but I can promise it will be a lot cheaper than a bag from Starbuck’s.

So yes, if you stay with a local family when you are in Latin America, there is a chance your morning coffee will be instant, even though fields of coffee are mere miles away. But do as the locals, enjoy it, and soon enough you will be accustomed to that, and maybe even enjoy it when you get home. Just be reassured that when you are in desperate need of a "real" cup of joe, you will be able to find it. And it may just be unforgettable. 

A horse of a different color.

When you are traveling in another country, far away from what is normal for you, you may take on a more adventurous attitude than you usually have. You may feel compelled to try new things, things that you would never do at home, or things you would never have the opportunity to do at home. And you should do them. New experiences are what travel is all about.

Why not try this food? Why not eat this fruit I’ve never heard of? Why not travel in the back of a pick-up truck? Why not climb down to this cenote on this rickety old ladder that has obviously not been inspected by a government safety department of some kind? One time, I asked myself, “Why not get painted blue by the locals in an indigenous village in the middle of the Panamanian rainforest?” I mean, really. Why not?

One of my first trips to Latin America was to Panama, with some former coworkers who were doing research in the rainforest. We were going to the Darién Province, which borders Colombia and is the least developed part of the country. It is home to the Emberá (or Chocó) Indians, and an abundance of flora and fauna. And that's about all. To get there, we flew in a small plane from Panama City. It fit the seven of us and the pilot. They had to know our weight to know how to distribute us in the plane, for maximum safety or something. So, for whatever reason, I was put directly next to the pilot. In the front of the plane. Like a copilot, only without an ounce of knowledge about how to fly the plane or copilot the plane or anything regarding the plane except how to sit in it and buckle my seatbelt.

I was a bit nervous at first, but it was pretty hot in the plane, and the others in back did not have a view of anything outside. They only had the motion of flying, heat, and a lack of air. You know what that means – some of my travel companions were tossing their cookies while I just looked out the front window. I had no idea what was going on back there. Luckily the engine was pretty loud.

We landed on a dirt airstrip, and that is when the men from the photo in this blog entry carried our bags down to the river. At the river, we set up transport with some men who took us to our destination in dugout canoes with outboard motors. This canoe trip took a few hours up the Tuira River. We saw tiny villages on the shores of the river and children ran out to wave to us. We were on a river, in a rainforest. And there was so much to take in. It was beautiful and amazing.

We spent the next several days in a village on the shores of the river, visiting families and learning about their lives, seeing (and buying) their handmade baskets and other crafts, hiking through the rainforest studying plants and learning about the many creatures living there. We stayed in a “guest hut,” slept on the floor under mosquito netting, bathed in the river. For a couple hours at night, the generator would produce enough electricity for some lights. This was a rather new development for the village at the time. Light bulbs were a new technology. This short period of time with electricity allowed a little cantina to open for a while each evening, and for my friend Ande and I to go grab a cold beer. Well, it was a beer at least.

This is the hut on the hill, where we stayed.

  

The Emberá women, for special occasions, paint themselves with an indigo dye that is made from a local tree berry. They are painted in beautiful, geometric designs from chin to toe. On their beautiful, dark skin, these designs were amazing. We were intrigued. So Ande, our friend Sandy, and I asked if we could also be painted. “When in Rome...” we thought.

So one afternoon, we were painted. The local women sometimes wore shirts and sometimes they didn’t. When they got painted, they did not wear shirts. And since our entire torsos would be void of any design if we didn’t, we decided to completely do as the locals did and bare it all. I know we Americans are a little prudish when it comes to that. Topless beaches are not the norm in the U.S., so we are just not accustomed to letting it all hang out as it were. But on that day, we did. It was quite liberating. I mean no one cared except us. I think the bigger interest was in how white we were.

My friend Ande is a red head, and she has lovely, porcelain skin. To say I have porcelain skin is a stretch. Pasty is a little too negative. Milky white? Still no. How about pale? Yes, I am pretty pale. And although able to achieve a tan, I can burn but good. Which I did, on the way to the village in the dugout canoe. I was relaxing in the boat, letting my hands drag in the water, and the lack of sunscreen and reflection off the water caused the tops of my hands and forearms to basically fry. So they were rather red when the woman was painting us. She wanted to know what was wrong with me, that is how strange it looked to her. When I was painted, I was a lovely red, white and blue – the colors of both the U.S. and Panamanian flags. 

Here I am, right after the paint job.

Oh, but I didn’t know how blue I really was until the next morning. I woke up, under the mosquito netting, and one of my hands was in front of my face. Yes, it had been blue the day before. I would say a light, rather transparent coating of blue dye. But that morning, I was shocked to see how much it had darkened. We looked like the Na’vi in Avatar, only a darker blue (although I didn’t have that reference back then). It went from our feet up to our chins, just like the local women. “How long would it last?” we asked. “A few weeks,” we were told.  Ahhh, a few weeks. Super!

Now you see what I mean when I say "blue." Yeah, it darkened up a bit.
This is Ande (right) and me, with some of the girls from the village as
they performed a traditional dance around us. You can see they were also
painted, but with different results.  

But we honestly did not care that it was so dark and would last for so long. It was cool! It was a beautiful work of art on our bodies. We had full body tattoos, without the pain or permanence. It looked totally different on our white skin, this is true; I thought it looked much better on Emberá skin than on mine. But it was amazing that they had done that for us. Yes, we paid for it (not much), but they didn’t have to share that tradition with complete strangers. But they did. And it was as much fun as it was liberating. 

Since it was so hot and humid in the rainforest, and since we were often in the river cooling off, most of the dye on our faces had faded by the time we were to return home. But it was about six weeks before every bit of dye had disappeared from my body. The last place was on my back, right where the arm attaches. (Do I not wash there as much or what?) I was kind of sad to see the last of it go.

So you see, sometimes stepping out of your usual comfort zone is worth it. Taking that leap – even out of the comfort of your t-shirt – is sometimes worth the risk. I am not encouraging you to do stupid things while you are traveling. But there will be chances you get as you travel that will not come by you again. You will see things you will never see again. You will have the opportunity to participate in once-in-a-lifetime events. So to that I say “Yes, do it. Throw caution to the wind.” It makes travel that much more memorable. And you won’t be blue for missing a great experience.

How to have sweet dreams in a not-so-sweet bed.

I recently wrote about luggage and backpacks. Today I am going to discuss a different kind of bag that you might find useful in your travels, especially if you are not in the habit of staying in five-star hotels with freshly laundered 1500 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. The bag I refer to is actually a sleep sack (or bag liner or travel sheet). As a traveler who has stayed in some not-so-nice digs, I can say that this is a very good thing to bring with you. Maybe I am just picky – I mean I do think I have a particularly high aversion to funky sheets. I would prefer to sleep on the ground, in the actual dirt to be very honest, than on sheets that have been sweat upon (or worse) by a stranger. But I think most people prefer clean linens, especially you ladies out there.

Here is my sleep sack, in its bag.
It says, "for Youth Hostels
or as a Sleeping Bag Liner with
pocket for pillow." 

After I graduated from college, I took a whirlwind trip around Europe with some other college students and a couple of professors. The itinerary was planned by a college in the U.S. and our accommodations varied from country to country. We stayed in a bare bones hostel with bunk beds in Amsterdam, and a lovely boutique hotel in Munich with fluffy duvets. We never knew what we were going to get. The hostel we stayed at in Paris was a unique building, very gothic looking if I remember correctly. Our room was fairly huge, with very high ceilings, and even had stairs leading up to another level. Although unique, it certainly wasn’t fancy. And the human hairball I found in the bed, on the not-clean sheets really grossed me out. I ended up sleeping on my coat, curled up like an uncomfortable cat for the three nights we were there. Even at 23 years of age, that was not good for my back.

Years later, traveling through Panama with my boyfriend at the time, we also came across some interesting accommodations. One place in particular was a pension and the rooms were behind a little cafe that seemed to be stuck in the 1950s ... and not in a charming way. In a creepy, forgotten, Twilight Zone way. As we walked through the building to get to our room in back, we passed elderly people who seemed to be wandering around aimlessly, but more like zombies than cute senior citizens. It was weird, okay? So we were a little disturbed with all of that. And then our bed was so obviously not freshly made with nice, clean sheets, which bothered my boyfriend as much as it did me. Luckily, I had brought a sheet, and I think he had, too. So we managed to find a way to sleep on a not-so-clean bed.

You can see how compact this
particular sleep sack is. It even
fits in the water bottle side
pocket of a daypack.

I know there are tough, strong, resilient travelers out there who can sleep wherever, and endure whatever conditions they encounter. They don’t care about dirty anything. (In my experience, most of these people are young men, who also think bad body odor and public flatulence are perfectly fine; the guys who say things like, “Hey dude, I can’t even afford this tortilla, man. And you expect me to buy a bar of soap? Yo, I’m not rich, man.”) So kudos to them.

But even though there are a lot of things I can put up with on the road, nasty bed sheets are not one of them. So recently I found a sleep sack, which doesn’t take up much room in a pack or suitcase, but can be used to guard one from such unappealing circumstances. It is basically a light-weight sleeping bag. You can also use it as a liner in your sleeping bag, giving you a little added warmth. In warm climates, it can be used alone. Mine is sewn along one side and has velcro openings on the other side, where you can get into it. It also has a pocket where you can put a pillow, should you want that to be covered as well. If you’re handy/crafty, you can sew your own from a sheet or two. I used to carry a sheet (just a sheet, no sewing) wherever I went, just in case. That works just fine, but I like the sack that has some “closure” to it because I feel more protected. It is less likely that one of my feet is going to escape during the night, only to get tangled up in a hairball.

   That is so disgusting.

Anyway, I am suggesting this sleep sack/bag liner/travel sheet to those of you who need a good night’s sleep, but will not get one if you are potentially sleeping in a not-so-clean bed. I could get more descriptive about possible uncomfortable sleeping situations, perhaps stimulate your gag reflex in the process, but I will spare you. If you stay in nice, clean places all the time, then don’t worry about it. But if you think you might need a back-up plan, then this is the way to go. No sense losing sleep over dirty sheets.

Lost in translation.

When you are traveling abroad-- alone or with someone-- getting from place to place requires some amount of communication with locals, either by speaking their language, speaking your language, using various hand movements, playing charades, drawing illustrations on toilet paper, whatever. But it is necessary. If you know the local language, all the better. If the local person to whom you are speaking knows English, you can be as lazy as you want about language acquisition. But sometimes, even when those two cases are true, something just gets lost in translation.

Here we are, enjoying a delicious late night snack with
our friends Mariann (white sweater) and Morten (standing, left)
and their family (my dad is standing, maroon sweatshirt; I am taking
the photo). Yes, it is really night, probably around 10:00, in August.
It was a memorable evening.

One of the few trips abroad I have taken that was not to Latin America was with my father a few years ago to Norway. This had been a dream of his for decades – to visit the place where his grandfather was born. The trip was pretty spectacular. I have good friends who live fairly close to Oslo, on a gorgeous farm that has been in their family for centuries. It was our “home base,” a central place where we could rest, plan and return to after traveling. Morten and Mariann were amazing hosts, entertaining us, feeding us delicious food, helping us with travel plans, and showing us around their beautiful town and surrounding area.  

Additionally, we were able to meet some distant relatives in Trondheim, probably third (or so) cousins. Not only did we meet them, but we stayed with them and spent a few days talking about our family tree, visiting distant family gravesites, traveling to the house my great-grandfather lived in before he left for the United States, and drinking Norwegian beer. So this was also an incredible part of our trip. It meant a lot to my dad to be able to do those things, and connect with his roots. It did to me, too.

My dad and I, standing in front of the house my great-grandfather
lived in near Trondheim before he came to the U.S.  It has been empty for years.

The last part of our trip, before we returned to Morten and Mariann’s farm and then home, was to the west coast of Norway, to the lovely city of Bergen. There we had no personal connections, no friends, no long lost relatives to visit. We just wandered the city, took the Fløibanen Funicular up the mountain, ate good food, listened to the street musicians perform, visited some great museums, and enjoyed really creamy ice cream. We also lucked out and had sunny days the whole time we were there, an unheard of occurrence in the rainiest city in Norway.

For the return trip to my friends’, we planned to take the train from Bergen to a town near their home. They had encouraged us to make a stop along the way and take the Flåm Railway down to the village of Flåm because it was a lovely trip, on an interesting and historic train (one of the steepest in the world) with beautiful views. We had already experienced the train system in Norway earlier in our stay. The trains were convenient, very modern, clean, technologically superior to those in the U.S., and a wonderful way to travel. One of the nice things about taking the train was we didn’t have to worry too much about where we were arriving or where to disembark. As we approached each station stop, the conductor would get on a loud speaker, announce the station – in several languages no less – and tell us on which side to disembark. Piece of krumkake.

Until it wasn’t. A piece of krumkake that is. For some reason, on that train ride from Bergen to Myrdal (where we would catch the Flåm Railway) the conductor didn’t do this, at least not at the stop we needed. So we thought we were at the right station, but we weren’t sure (until other passengers confirmed that we were indeed in Myrdal). Then, as we pulled to a stop, the conductor also failed to tell us which side we should exit on. And when the doors on the right were the only ones to open, on the side where there was no platform, what were we to do? We were standing there, with our luggage, and the only door to let us out was at least five feet off the ground, next to a gravel covered slope. This is where we were supposed to exit? We feared the train would pull away and we would miss our chance to see Flåm and the tunnels, and the waterfalls, and the fjord if we didn’t get off the train. So I told my dad, “We have to get out!” And then he threw his suitcase off the train, and jumped. He jumped down, landed on the gravel, fell down, and somehow managed to not roll down the hill. 

As soon as he did all this, the door on the other side slid open and there was the platform, on the side of the train facing the depot, level with where the rest of us were standing inside the train. Otherwise known as the correct door. What I remember is mild chaos and veiled panic on my part. However, my dad was quickly back on his feet, not hurt in any way, and someone helped him get his suitcase back on the train. Being six foot two inches made it possible for him to get back up into the train, with the aid of a strong Norwegian (as if there were any other kind).  We exited on the correct side, walking out onto the platform without having to jump. But I was very worried because my dad had just had both knees replaced the summer before. And he had just jumped off a train! I am sure I would’ve followed him had that door not opened in that instant, and I would not have fared as well since I do not have joints made of titanium.

At the Myrdal depot, as we were waiting for the Flåm train to arrive to take us down to the fjord, and after many “Dad, are you sure you're okays,” I decided to speak to someone. I went up to the window at the train depot, and spoke with the young, pleasant woman behind the counter, who, of course, knew English. I said, “Hi. I don’t know how you are here in Norway, but I’m from America and we like to complain.” And then I proceeded to tell her what had happened, and that the conductor had not said where we were, which side to disembark on, nor had he opened the correct doors at first. “See that old man over there? That’s my dad. He just had knee surgery last year, on both knees, and yes, his knees are new, but he is old. Look at him! And he jumped from a train. He jumped from a train! I just thought someone should know.” So I got that off my chest and felt the mishap was at least acknowledged since she confirmed that it was standard practice for the conductors to announce both the train station and which side to exit on. My dad really was fine. And the trip down to the fjord was beautiful. Now it is one of my dad’s favorite stories to tell people. Only I think he may tell people that I pushed him. But hopefully they know he is just embellishing for dramatic effect. 

Here I am standing in Flåm in front of the Aurlands fjord. Was this
view worth all the drama? Yawh, you betchya!

Another time when I was traveling with someone, we ran into Latin American friendliness that presented itself in the form of severe miscommunication. My friend Monica and I were in Oaxaca, Mexico and had planned a day trip to see the ruins at Monte Alban. We were told we could take a bus from some hotel that was located near the market. So we walked and walked to where we thought it was based on what we had seen on a map. But no hotel. So we asked a bus driver on a city bus, and he told us his bus would take us there. So we got on his bus, and ended up at some other market where the other bus should be. But no bus. And the city bus was gone. We then asked a taxi driver and he again referred to the hotel and pointed in the direction from where we had just come. We were sick of walking, and spending so much time searching, so we had him take us. And there were the buses for Monte Alban. At the hotel. But we wondered why the city bus driver had told us to go to the other market. It was totally incorrect information. It wasn’t even sort of correct. It was a complete detour. And I just don’t think a 5¢ bus fare would be enough inspiration to lead us on a wild goose chase. So I attributed it to the friendliness of the people. I had run into this before – people in Latin America are so friendly that they don’t want to tell you “I don’t know.” They don’t want to leave you without any information, so instead they guess and tell you something rather than nothing. Even if nothing would be way better.

The point is, whether you know the local language or not, whether they know your language or not, sometimes there is a lack of communication that can cause delays or problems. But you have to remember that this happens at home, too, in your own neighborhood, with your own friends and family. It’s just a human thing and doesn’t necessarily have to be chalked up to some kind of cultural difference or language barrier. It can be frustrating at the time. It can become stressful and worry you. But if you’re lucky, the experience will become a funny travel story you can share with others, maybe even for years to come.