Lost in Slovenia

I screamed the entire way down. All 8 meters. I only stopped when the shock of the ice cold water tightened around my lungs like a cold steel clamp. Jumping off a rock into this brilliant, yet frigid, turquoise water of the Soca River may not appeal to those with poor circulation, but with a week off between trips and access to a Backroads van…I couldn’t put my wet suit on fast enough.

Surrounded on all sides by the Julian Alps, my fellow Backroad’s leader Jenny Kay and I found ourselves nestled within Mother Nature’s natural water park. Carved into a ring of mountains in Triglav National Park, Trenta valley joins five different rivers into one vibrantly flowing emerald-green Soca River (say it like a local as So-tcha). Splashing into the centrally located town of Bovec (pronounced Bovets), we had numerous water adventure companies at the tip of our paddle. All we had to do was choose the one with the best looking boats (or guides) and hold our breath. Don’t be fooled by the surrounding beauty (of either the mountains or the aforementioned raft guides). Grab the thickest wet suit you can find. That turquoise water is a far cry from the warm azure waters of the Caribbean!

In order to attend the nightly festivities later in town, Jenny Kay and I opted for the half-day teaser in lieu of the overnight trip. At the put-in, my feet vibrated with the pounding of the chalky blue water as it thundered through the canyon. My nose wiggled with the fresh scent of cool mountain fall air. And my ears buzzed at the chatter of the thousand other rafters who had the same idea as us this afternoon. Just another quiet day on the river…



Once in the water, the pecking order was quickly established. While other guides robotically demonstrated how to paddle two front strokes on the count of “FORWARD TWO!” our handsome Peruvian guide turned the instructions into a dance with the river. We pounded through rapids. We dodged sharp rocks. We rested in eddies. And when it was time to run the gauntlet, we charged through with such finesse and accuracy that we quickly became the coolest rafting boat on the river. It helped that after each successfully navigated rapid, we simultaneously slapped our paddles on the water, while our slowly escalating war cry culminated in a nine-paddle high-five. My thousand friends looked on with envy.

Leaving our neoprene frocks in the grimy disinfecting tub, we hit the only food store in the valley for supplies. The next day was Mt. Krn, and we would need more than a cute guide to fuel our trek to the summit. Canned tuna (an absolute staple). Bread. Water. A precious apple. Soya milk and chocolate granola (breakfast of champions). A curvy mountain drive led us to the tiny dirt parking lot of Dom Klementa Juga lodge. As we pulled our large BACKROADS van into the tiny dirt parking lot, groups of hikers stared at us with the usual jaw dropping curiosity we have come to expect. We smiled at the confused crowd that had gathered and slipped into the “lobby” to check in.

Through wild hand gestures, exaggerated pointing, bright facial expressions (I think we did an improv skit at one point) and finally flashing some Euros, Jenny Kay and I managed to secure two bunk beds for the night. Poor Jenny Kay. At over six feet tall, she was in for a cramped night. After sleeping in our twenty-five person dorm room with only one other loan hiker, Jenny Kay and I gladly slid out of our 5 foot long “cots” (and that is being generous), grabbed our packs and were out the door before you could say “refund.”



It was beautiful. It was the kind of morning that keeps you sharp as the cold air clears away any cobwebs from a short night’s sleep. We took pictures of the sunlight as it slowly repainted the colors in the valley with its rays. We snapped shots of the ghostly mist snaking its way through the green needles of the trees. Even the rocks on the trail couldn’t escape the lens of my camera. Thanks to a summer-camp-fun-fact from my elementary school teacher friend Jenny Kay, I realized that nearly every rock on the trail looked like a heart. The novelty of this information, of course, wears off after you realize that packing an additional twenty pounds of heart rocks on your back is really not the most efficient way of summiting a 2,224 meter peak.

As we reached tree line, our eyes refocused from the brown and green of the trail to the absolute stark whiteness of the summit approach ahead. This chalky landscape reminded me of my adventurous hut-to-hut trek in the Dolomites…and the inevitable foot pain around the corner. Halfway up to what I could only assume was our first false peak, we came upon an old man sitting on a jagged white rock. Even though he wore three-quarter length capri pants, his fashion forward mid-calf-high full-leather hiking boots managed to cover all skin from exposure to the mountain air. The three of us exchanged pleasantries, which led to the unavoidable question of nationality. American. Then he asked it. The same question we had encountered earlier in town and now again on the side of this barren mountain.



"Are you lost?" he said through wind chapped lips that betrayed a smile, not judgment. Understanding that he meant our choice of country (and thankfully not our current direction on the trail), Jenny Kay and I stole a glance at each other. Eyebrows crinkled. Bewilderment apparent. Map. Mountain. Slovenia. Check. Check. And Check.

"No sir," Jenny Kay said in her genetically sweet and friendly southern Mississippi accent.

"We hopped in our van, drove through Czech and Austria and into Slovenia on purpose." I responded politely and slowly. Maybe this was a language barrier? Then a thought occurred to me that hadn't previously, and I added, "Why? Where are we supposed to be?" With that, his leathery cheeks squished together in a grin and he said triumphantly,

"Slovakia!" Then, mustering all the English in his vocabulary he said, "You Americans go to Slovakia. Not Slovenia. Yes?” His eyebrows lifted with anticipation of our answer.

Ah ha. Mystery solved. While extremely proud of their country, Slovenians have come to assume that American tourists find it more interesting to visit a post-communist Slovakia than the quiet mountains of Slovenia. Maybe those American tourists hadn’t seen the rafting guides yet?

As the old man slowly rose to his feet, his Capri pants sliding down over his boots, he seemed proudly content that these two American girls chose to explore his home country. Just before he passed me on his decent, I leaned in as if I was sharing a secret with a dear friend and whispered,

“I am not lost. But I wouldn’t turn down the unexpected adventure.” His gaze met mine and deep within the twinkle of recognition in his eyes, I could see a kindred spirit. With a knowing smile, he winked at me and started hiking towards what I could only assume was an adventure of his own.

As we cleared the final peak and summited through the clouds, the Trenta valley stared up at us from over two thousand meters below. The chalky turquoise Soca cut through the green fields. And somewhere in the distance, I could hear a nine-paddle high five.

Maybe I’d be warmer in the Czech leader house if I wore a wet suit,

Kristyn

Try a Tri, and Never Look Back

Imagine a place where your local postman is the state’s third fastest swimmer. Or your doctor jogged up and skied down one of the local fourteeners this morning before work. And your boss cycled the entire Continental Peak to Peak Highway at lunch. Welcome to Boulder, Colorado. The Mecca of all things sacred for eating healthy, living well, and being active. In a land where taking the dog out for a walk involves summiting a peak, cycling is done as a break between running and swimming, and skiing just isn’t fun unless you hiked an hour into the backcountry for fresh tracks, it makes no sense that this born and raised Boulder girl would wait until she leaves town to start doing triathlons. Hmmmmm….

Just what did this elevation junkie do when she moved to an island who’s tallest point is 259 above sea level? After taking a deep breath of fresh salty ocean air, I put on my oh-so-flattering swim cap and pink goggles and jumped in head first (ok…it was feet first…and I took my time scanning the water for possible jellyfish, turtles, sting rays and sharks). Well, there may not be miles and miles of roads to bike (it’s only a 21 square mile island after all), nor are there a lot of hills to get that quad-burning sensation (I use the term “hill” loosely), but there is plenty of water to stretch out those arms and start kicking. Never mind that it has no helpful blue line to follow. Or the fact that there are no lanes, only open waves tossing you around like seaweed. And that your fellow “swimmers” are a bit faster than you due to their tails, fins, and ability to hold their breath for more than three seconds.

So it is, that in my effort to stay occupied in my new found volcanic rock of a home, I decided to embrace my Boulder genes and do my first triathlon. Bike? Why not. I used to lead bike trips through Europe. That surely gives me an edge, right? Run? Not bad. At least I didn’t cry during soccer practice when we had to do a few laps. So there’s potential. Swim? I’m sorry…what? Anyone catch my story about my swimming technique, or lack thereof? Right. Well, two outta three ain’t bad.

I first heard about the triathlon from our volleyball team’s physiotherapist. She was doing one “this Sunday” and suggested I “think about it.” Hmmm. Minus that whole swimming thing, it really was tempting. But hey, I had a good five days to practice, so no room for excuses Tobey! I decided it was a good idea to speak to a seasoned triathlete in order to get a glimpse into this challenging new sport. Modifying her advice from the usual Ironman details (bless her), this world class athlete told me how to spot while swimming (a concept I completely understood, yet had failed to master), how to navigate my way through transitions (something that can never be taught, only experienced!) and to just relax and have fun (assuming no injuries and you are not crying because you were last out of the water). Ready. Set. Go! With my professional advice, my sexy new one-piece spandex tri suit (yes that is an oxymoron), and two solid swimming sessions, I was as prepared as I was ever going to be in five days!

After loading up on carbs the night before and getting absolutely no sleep (just a wee bit of nerves), I was up and ready to go for my first triathlon. Bike shoes. Check. Running shoes. Check. Socks, goggles, cap, helmet, sunglasses, race number, race belt, water bottle, Gatorade bottle, transition towel, bike, hat, and adreline. Check. Butterfiles. Double check.

I arrive at Clearwater Beach on the eastern end of Bermuda. The parking lot is already full of people in similar sexy spandex suits scurrying back and forth. I see racks of bikes. I see a booth with electronic foot bands. I see race numbers being drawn on arms and legs. People are stretching. People are jumping and down. Do I join them? Do I check in? Where do I put my bike? The sheer number of bikes in such a small area makes it look like a massive sale where the cheapest bike there could pay a few month’s rent.

After getting a big 95 marked on my arm and leg, I wrapped my electronic race band around my ankle (no backing out now…my every move will be monitored…) and headed off to set up my bike in the transition area. I scanned the bikes and their owners and finally decided to park right next to a woman with a time trail bike, which is an aggressive bike slightly thicker than a sheet of paper with only two aerodynamically facing racing handles. The racing bike aside, I knew this woman was serious when I saw her silver bullet-like helmet that looked like a cone from the future and noticed that her quads were larger than those of the Denver Broncos. I knew that I would have plenty of room with her as my neighbor, because there was no way this pro was going to still be here by the time I dragged my butt out of that water.

The preparations were done. The race briefing was…brief (almost too brief for this first timer). Time to get into the water. Sticking to the back of the crowd (I was not foolish enough to assume I belonged in the front of this water start), I had my finger on the timer of my watch and my heart trying to pound itself out of my chest. On your mark…Get set…Go!

Where am I? Above or below water? Hard to tell as I can’t breath, and I can’t see through all this sputtering white foamy water. Ow. Foot kick in the face. Ok…I must be in the water then. Good to know. Now..Kristyn…focus. Think forward thoughts. Right arm. Left arm. Breath. Whoa…inhaled water, not air. Try again. Breath. Ok. That time was half water, half air. Constant improvement. Right arm. Left arm. Don’t forget to spot! What is my target??!? How is a girl supposed to see that tiny white buoy through this rough water?? It looks as if red meat has just been thrown in the middle of a swarm of piranhas. Kristyn…focus. Right arm…ow! Stop kicking me in the head! How in the world am I supposed to survive seventeen more minutes of this? I can do this. Focus. Breath. Stroke. Right. Left. Right. Spot. Kick! Land! I see land! Keep kicking. Is there anyone behind me? Am I last? Don’t look back, just keep running toward the bikes…

Well, I wasn’t last, but by the time I got out of the water and back to the transition area, I didn’t have to worry about silver-bullet-helmet woman being next to me. In fact, seeing as there were virtually no bikes left in the transition zone, I had plenty of room to change into my bike gear and get on the open road! Cap and goggles off. Spray feet with my water bottle (as much as I like to run and bike with grains of sand exfoliating my feet, I think I’ll sacrifice the extra 20 seconds). Helmet and glasses on. GO!

Now biking…here is something I don’t mind doing. Besides the fact that I can breath whenever I want, and there are no feet in my face, I enjoy biking. And I enjoy passing people even more. Thankfully for me, the biking is the longest section of the race, which means more time for me to catch up! With my salty braids flying behind me, I overtook riders, took a loogey shot in the face from a male biker in front of me, and avoided flat tires and derailed chains. When I arrived back at the transition zone for the second wardrobe change, it was now a good thing there weren’t very many bikes there.

Bike shoes and helmet off. Running shoes, hat and race belt on. GO! Whoaaaaa!!! What is the world is below me??!! They are big and heavy and kind of wobbly. They won’t go away! They…oh…they are my legs. Hmm. Ok. Well give it a mile or so and maybe I will get my land legs back. Just keeping running. Man it is hot. Am I sweating that much or am I still wet from swimming? Focus. Ignore the burn. Push forward. See that runner up there? Let’s pass him. Good job. Keep going. Lap one done. There’s my boyfriend with the camera. Smile. Look like you are not in pain. Like I am having fun. Like I am enjoying this. Wait…I am having fun. I am enjoying this. Wave for the camera! Now run. Run hard. Finish line. Finish strong. Finish!

And with just a bit of sand in my shoes and a huge smile on my face, I completed my first triathlon. Second in my age group. Fifth woman overall. Well, maybe with a bit more time in my open ocean of a pool, I can edge even closer to the top. They say that triathlons are addicting. They say that once you start, you can’t stop. They say that despite the pain, the tears, the sweat, the frustration, you just keep pushing forward. They…would be right.

If only flippers were legal,

Kristyn

Finding Kristyn

Ah swimming. For many, swimming is an activity that brings back images of summertime. Lifeguards blowing their whistles at sopping wet children running around on slick cement. A small child wriggling to get free of the coconut smelling goop being forced upon him by his mother. The spray of water on your magazine from a perfectly executed cannonball. For others, swimming brings back memories of 6 AM swim practice. Uncomfortably tight suits that are a better motivator to stay fit than a Richard Simmons video. And passing out as you try to win the who-can-hold-their-breath-the-longest competition. For me, I had all but hung up my swim cap and goggles, that is, until I decided to move to a tiny island in the middle of the Atlantic. When the island is only so big, there is only one way to go. Grab that wetsuit...and take a deep breath...

I had no intention of becoming a "serious" swimmer again. Lounging on boats. Doing the occasional splash around in the surf. It was working just fine for me. Until...I heard about this little thing called...the island triathlon. Hmmm. A triathlon? Well I bike. I run. I...swim??? Where did I hang those goggles again? Well if I was going to get through the race, and swimming was the first event (probably because this is the one event you can die in if you get too tired!), I guess it was time to throw on the ole' swim cap and start kicking.

In his effort to help me look like an actual swimmer and less like a piece of seaweed being tossed by the surf, Mark (bless his heart) and I have been having nightly swimming lessons in the ocean. OK, usually the first things you focus on would be a solid stroke technique, a smooth rotation of the head in and out of the water to breath, and following the line at the bottom of the pool (in an effort to go straight!). Well, take the beginner swimmer out of the pool and plop them in the open water complete with waves, rip tides, turtles, jellyfish, and no handy painted lines at the bottom, and you have just created the world's most extreme swimming school. Talk about sink or swim. Learn. Learn fast. Or you are fish food. Literally.

My coach and I were off to a great start. I'm kicking maybe a quarter of the time. My arms are moving. I am not sinking. All good things. And then, he made a very important observation. My complete and utter lack of direction. I would like to blame my problem on the ebb and flow of the waves flipping and tossing me about. However, Mark and I know all too well that this is far from the truth. Mark's insistence that I "identify a spot along the shoreline and keep that in your sights" did little to help the weaving and bobbing of my swimming path. He said that regardless of my novice swim technique, I would have a faster time in the triathlon if I could just swim straight. I don't disagree. But agreeing with the idea and performing the task in my choppy practice area are two entirely different things...

Swimming direction aside, one of the key factors in swimming faster and winning those triathlons is perfecting my stroke. My problem seems to be in the fact that I am right handed, which apparently means a swimmer I am right elbowed, right shouldered, and just all over right armed! I seem to use my right arm in a somewhat effective manner, only to haphazardly throw my left arm around my body in what may appear to the innocent by-stander as a call for help, when in fact, I am just attempting the front crawl. With a strong right stroke and a windmill left stroke, it's no wonder I can't swim straight!

Strong strokes, straight lines and smooth breathing (aka not looking like I am gasping for my last breath whenever I lift my head out of the water), almost become secondary thoughts to the one that is lodged foremost at the front of my brain. Which is....what the heck is out here with me? Stingrays. Sharks. Portuguese man of War jelly fish. They are all here. But where? Or a better question...do I want to know? Just knowing they are out there is motivation enough to get my kick faster and my stroke stronger!

Due to a lack of sea lice (yes...you heard me...lice), Bermuda boasts some of the clearest algae-free waters in the world. It is so crystal clear, that you might forget you are in water. That is, until a spotted stingray swims under you or you happen to shake hands with a jellyfish. It is easy to tell when I have spotted something fishy as my somewhat smooth right-arm stroking comes to an abrupt halt followed by as much splashing and back pedaling as physically possible to change direction in the open ocean! Fish scared me. Floating seaweed scared me. Heck, the moving water scared me. It was obvious from the first time this mountain girl braved the waves to get into the deep water that this was going to be challenging. More often than not, an elevated heartrate and uneven breathing was not an indication of my prowess through the open waters, but was more a direct result of an unsolicited encounter with the local sea life.

I saw upside-down floating clear triangles (jellyfish). Brown twirling mushrooms (also jellyfish). Oval shapped blue bubbles shapedng tentacles (yes you guessed it...Portuguese Man of War jellyfish). Once I stopped screaming (hey...they startled me at first) at the poor cute turtles, they too started to swim alongside me...cheering me on and giving me tips for my lame left side. I heeded Mark's advice not to touch the Lion fish (yeah...cause that's my problem...touching the fish). And once I learned to concentrate more on my swimming and less on what was swimming with me (or under me, or beside me), my stroke became stronger, my kicking more consistent, and my direction....well...let's focus on the positive things shall we?

Nemo's dad was right. Go have an adventure. Even if you don't go straight, at least you are going somewhere...

Kristyn

Follow the Yellow Brick Road

One of the most important things I discovered the more I traveled, is how much I absolutely love and appreciate...home. Sure the thrill of the riding in a tuk tuk through Bangkok's exhaust filled marketplaces and food stalls is...death defying. And hanging from a metal rung of a ladder nailed into a vertical cliff in the Italian Dolomites is...sweat provoking. And savoring a mouth-watering home grown Italian meal on the terraced steps of the Amalfi coast is...waist expanding. But there comes a point when even the hand-sized Thai spiders, smelly french cheese, and Dutch windmills are not enough to keep me away from my true love...mountains.

Ever since University in Nashville, cycling through Europe, and relocating to beachy Bermuda, I feel more like a tourist when I get the chance to go back to my home in little Louisville, Colorado. No...I do not wear gaudy white sneakers and walk around with a map in hand and camera around my neck. But I do have this sense of urgency and appreciation that unfortunately tends to fade when you live somewhere over a certain amount of time. As my trips home are now only a week here, or an excursion there, I maximize the most activity in a minimal amount of time. Hop aside Energizer bunny. There's a new rabbit in town, and she is going, going, going...

Unfortunately, my quaint childhood town was just voted the 2009 YAHOO Money Magazine's No. 1 city to live in the entire United States. I can hear the stampede of people flocking to invade my city right now. Current population...18,000. Future population...how many people live in California? While I disagree with the publicizing of my town, I must agree with YAHOO that Louisville really is the best place to live. Nestled near the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, yet still close enough for the fine dining, arts, and entertainment required by metro addicts, Louisville offers the cozy neighborhood feel juxtaposed to an adrenaline junkies' dream. 14,000 foot peaks to ski and climb (affectionately called fourteeners). Crisp, clear, glacier fed waters to kayak and paddle. Hundreds of local trails to run before work, at lunch, after work and as a bedtime snack. A work/life balance that allows you to be happy and full of energy at 40 years old (albeit with the knees of a 70 year old). And a subculture of people who's bikes cost more than their cars, who's sense of direction is "towards the mountains and away from the mountains," and who can drive 65 mph through 10 feet of snow over a mountain pass without flinching.

Single track biking, gorging on Mexican food, and shopping at Flatiron mall are important items on any CO bound itinerary, but not as crucial as ensuring you bag at least one peak while you are home. Dragging my hiking buddy out of retirement, and away from OLIs (Old Louisville Inn...the local pub), came just after packing the G.O.R.P. (good ole' raisins and peanuts) and just before grabbing the moleskin. Climbing mountains (and accidentally sliding down them) has been one of my dad's past times longer than he would like me to share. And besides the humor he provides (anyone who knows him understands that I am not referring to his jokes) through his clumsiness on the trail, he is quite the handy mountain man to have while in the back country. Sure, his ability to account for the declination when using a compass is boyscout worthy, but what's more impressive is his uncanny ability to tell you if a storm is about to hit. And they say that sliding down snowfields head first into rocks has no benefits...

With my human barometer in tow (literally), my dad and I hit the trail before the dew had time to melt. Opting for a "shorter" peak, we choose Mount Toll. Just 21 feet shy of the "thirteener" title, Toll can be seen from the front range as the triangle shaped pinnacle on the continental divide. The beginning of the trail boasts characteristics of your typical hike in the Rocky Mountains...tree lined dirt trail with roots, rocks, and little to no leaves on the ground. You put one foot in front of the other as you balance your way across the narrow bridges (some people call it what it is...a tree trunk) over the streams of gushing glacier water from the lake ahead. And if it's a good trail, you are able to quickly stretch your legs above treeline before you rip into your first bite of granola bar. As usual, we pass virtually no one except a few shaggy brown marmots (think beavers without the tail...and smaller teeth) and chirping pikas (think chipmunks with a longer tail...and the same sized teeth). Keeping within the pattern of Rocky Mountain summit trails, our foot friendly and soft dirt trail disappeared early, leaving us two harsher options on the way to the top...snow or rock. Or rocks with snow. Or snowy rocks.

With no trail to guide us, and my propensity to choose the most direct (and thus steepest) route, my dad quickly pulled in the reins and made sure we scouted our plan of accent. Good boy scout. For some people, the very idea of just walking to the top of the mountain is enough reason to grab the remote and pop some popcorn. Add the fact that you are usually scrambling across scree fields and sliding down ice fields...well, what sounds like adventure to one person may sound like insanity to another. Sharing a mutual hatred of scree (loose rocks and gravel that cause you to slide downhill and loose more elevation than you gain), we decided to stick to as many snow fields as was physically possible without ice axes, crampons, or sanity. At least I was looking forward to foot-skiing down them on the way back down. Using my hiking pole as a make-shift ice ax (you never know when you may need to self arrest!), we slowly made our way across the snow fields. Due to the aforementioned barometric "gift" he acquired sliding head first down his first snow field, my dad's mantra was "just six inches at a time...just six inches at a time..." I realized that day, there are a lot of "six inches" in a thirteen thousand foot climb.

As we scrambled ourselves closer to the summit, our snow sliding and scree skiing was joined by boulder hoping and rock climbing. Not always obeying the keep-three-points-of-contact-at-all-times climbing rule, we squatted, lunged, crawled, pulled, jumped, slid, scratched and lifted ourselves to the top of...the first false peak. One of my absolute hands-down favorite part of a climb is a false peak (please don't slip on the sarcasm as you scuttle up the rocks behind me). Wriggling over the perfect leg-eating sized boulder holes, we cleared the false peaks and made it to the summit of Mount Toll.

There are very few emotions in life that can match the thrill of summiting a peak. The crisp mountain air almost crackles as you gulp down the oxygen-less substance. The smells are cool, sweet, and almost alive as the scent of the peak wisps up your nose. The views are a dizzying never-ending panorama with no beginning and no end. In front of you, in what seems like a far away land, you can see where your journey began. To your left you can see mountains stretching for miles and miles, whispering to you to come climb them next. Behind you, the land creases and unfolds with lakes and valleys and ominous black clouds. And to your right you see couloirs of snow fields, rocks, jagged peaks....and...wait a minute. Go back. What what that behind you? Sharp vertical stripes shooting out of those dark clouds? Moisture in the air? Winds starting to cut through your concentration? Time to grab my fatherly barometer and hope that he hikes down faster than he climbs up!

Dorothy was right. There really is no place like home...

Kristyn

What's Bugging You?

I once wrote a story entitled “Would You Like Bugs With That?” as an ode to all the bugs I encountered in Thailand. I feel the difference between Bermuda and Thailand is that in Thailand, your encounters with bugs are a bit more voluntary. Hungry? Why not try a bug on a stick? No? How about a snow cone cup of bugs shaken with salt and vinegar? Still no? Well, at least you had the option. OK…maybe the hand-sized spider with the baseball shaped egg sac above my cot in southern Thailand wasn’t necessarily by choice. I’ll give you that one. But as I settle into my new home in Bermuda, I find that I am in a constant war. A war with a clear and defined winner. And unfortunately folks, it ain’t me. I fight for my food. I fight for my floor space. I fight for clean counters. So far it’s Team Tobey…zero. The Coalition of all things with wings, feet numbering over one hundred, or antennae…fifty. Who am I kidding? I lost count somewhere after the fist cockroach stole my flip flop, and the ants stole my fish cake.

My losses in this battle against the bugs is not for want of tools in my artillery. We have painted for termites. Literally. Imagine a lung-burning reddish/orange lacquer covering all the surface areas on which you eat, store plates, or prepare food. Anyone for dinner at my place tonight? We have sprayed for ants. This may be at first confused with a victory as their immediate death is a sure bet, but somehow the death toll is nothing compared to the comrades that come to defend the death of their brethren. And we have swung at the cockroaches. OK…those bastards are tricky. They taunt me. Their huge bodies somehow sneak out from a paper thin hole in the wall, smile as they wag their little atenae at me (just baiting me to come play), and then disappear before I can even swing Mark’s size fourteen sandal in their general vicinity. Like I had a prayer. Amateur.

One of the scariest sites I have yet to see in Bermuda is…an open sugar container. Honey bottle. Sugar shaker. Mark’s sticky suckers from Marks & Spencer. As soon as I see any of these sugary sweets exposed in the open, I spring into action. Damage report. Is there a trial of them leading to the exposed sugar item, which is now a mound of brown moving parts? No. OK. Scan the area. What are the possible entrance points? Path of attack? As quickly and as quietly as possible, remove the sugar from the area. If possible, ship it off the island. Take cover. They will be here any minute. They know it’s here. They’re coming. Every hair on my body is standing on end. Grab a wet rag. Grab a can of Baygon and hope you aren’t doing permanent damage to your lungs and other vital organs. Or the best option…grab the vacuum…nozzle in hand…and get ready to pounce. It’s me versus them. Take no prisoners. Death to the ants!

I can’t count the amount of times I have been sitting on my highly overpriced couch (yes we bought it used…no there is nothing special about it…it’s just that expensive) and have noticed a slight tickle. Ah. Got it. I don’t even flinch. No tissues required. Just two fingers. Pinch and move on. Continue previous activity. Tickle tickle. Down goes another one. This can continue a few minutes. Only once you have surpassed the five-minute mark is it time to start worrying. Get up. Fast. Move the coffee table. Rip off the couch cushions. Total mayhem. Ants everywhere. Up the back. In the cracks. Under the bottom. Their target? A single rogue raisin. One thought and one thought alone enters my head before any plan of attack. MARK!! Stop eating on the couch!!! OK…realizing that this thought is no way helping me conquer the current crisis crawling before my eyes, I take any of the aforementioned weapons and get to business.

I think the most tiring part of the entire scenario is not the fact that I really don’t have just one 6”4’’ roommate, but the fact that no matter how much I spray, how much I paint, or how much I swing, all of my effort is in vain. I will always have at least five hundred tiny, annoying, non-rent paying, food-stealing, dirty roommates. How many times has a perfectly lovely summer evening in Bermuda been sidetracked as I enter the kitchen to do the dishes (having Mark help with the dishes requires a whole different story about the incredible lack of observational powers of the male species) only to see that our white counter tops are now a translucent brown, shiny, metallic, purple, silver sheet of bugs. I have no official name for these roommates besides a royal pain in my $%*! These centipede-like creatures shed their wings to then crawl around aimlessly in search of…what?!?! What do you want!? Tell me and I’ll give it to you to make you go away! They seem to just be content flying into candles. Or hovering around lamps. Or just dying all over my counter leaving thousands (yes thousands) of wings everywhere. And no sooner have I wiped up all of their discarded wings and wriggling little bodies (forget about cleaning the dishes…we are at battle!), do I turn around, and the counter is covered again.

If I put everything I buy into the tightly sealed refrigerator (they just don’t make those things big enough in my opinion), I can keep away the ants. If I eliminate all usage of lights and candles, I can get rid of the weird flying centipede worms. If I buy furniture made of plastic, I can eliminate the termite’s food supply. And if I develop the reflexes of Mr. Miagi, I can chase and catch those sassy cockroaches. But until then…it’s just me and my 501 roommates.

The consummate underdog,

Team Tobey

Haggling for Haggis

Did you ever wonder what Cheers would be like if it took place in Scotland? All of your friends can still be found in the local pub. Everyone always knows your name. And even if they don't, one round of scotch is all it takes before you feel like one of the clan! The main difference would be that in Scotland you trade the buffalo wings and nachos for a little haggis and fish and chips. And no...that whiskey did not inhibit your ability to hear consonants. Those words you hear flying out of your newly found friends' mouths are indeed English. At least, that’s what they tell me…

So it is, that for my first vacation after moving to Bermuda, Mark and I decide to trade one tiny island for a slightly larger one. One of the benefits of living in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean (on a few meters of rock that barely rise above the surface of the ocean) is its somewhat close proximity to Europe. After a quick 7-hour hop over the pond, a 5-hour layover in Gatwick, and another short flight to Glasgow, we find ourselves in the land of the Scots. The Mecca of distilleries for all those who love scotch. The homeland of great writers like Robert Burns (think...New Year's Eve) and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. And more plaid than you can shake some bagpipes at.

Surrounded by no less than 790 islands, the mainland of Scotland is a lush and fertile land bursting of crisp air, cold-water lakes, and green highlands. Don't forget your raincoat...and rain pants, gloves, hat, and a personal heater. There is a reason it is so green! And if the summer wardrobe includes wool sweaters, you can only imagine what a Scottish winter requires! Even the local wildlife is prepared. As you cruise along the dual carriageways (two lane roads are cause for excitement in Scotland), you can see the long shaggy brown haired highland cows (pronounced hee-lind coos). Seriously...hee-lind coos. Think...small wooly mammoth. These mountain acclimated, cold weathered, water logged cows navigate a land covered in what was once used as a main protection against enemies. Scottish thistle, appropriately deemed the national emblem of Scotland, is spiky, resilient and fiercely protective of its native land (much like its fellow Scotsmen). Whether it was the striking beauty of the mountains, the intangible free spirit of the people, or the wide variety of scotches, the Scotsmen found themselves in a never-ending battle against intruders.

Our journey started just outside the bustling city of Glasgow in the tiny town of Uddingston. I know what you are thinking, and no...it is not famous for dairy products! For over one hundred years, Uddingston has been the home of the internationally recognized household brand of sweets, Tunnocks. From teacakes to caramel wafers, snowballs to biscuits, this Scottish heritage provides plenty of business for the local dentists. Trading sweets for clothes, Mark and I headed into downtown Glasgow straight to H&M, Marks and Spencers, and anywhere else that had a selection of clothes without shells and fish designs. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Instead, spend that $200 and more as you run past frightened store employees ecstatic to find socks that don’t cost $59.99 a pair.

After doing thorough damage to our wallets in Glasgow (and entirely missing any of the historical value of the city), Mark and I hopped on my favorite mode of transportation and trained through the green countryside of Scotland. Emerging into a scene from Trainspotters (literally), we came out into the dark back alley of the train station, under the bridge, and past the garbage and stepped into the beautiful medieval city of Edinburgh. The visual opposite of Glasgow, Edinburgh oozed tradition, castles, and old stonewalls. When you stop for a moment and take in the whole city, it looks like the entire place was constructed from one gigantic red/grey brick. Every wall, every roof, every street matched perfectly.

With the assistance of the hop on/hop off bus (yes…Mark’s broken knee resisted my usual walk-the-whole-city-at-a-slow-run kind of pace), and a wee bit of strolling, we navigated our way through the streets as Edinburgh introduced herself to us. From the top of the castle on the hill, we took on a bird’s eye view (or more accurately…a king’s view) of the city and the surrounding water. Leaving the castle walls, we found ourselves in front of the local pub “The Last Drop,” famous not for the last drop of Scotch but for its close proximity to the gallows in the adjacent square. Being careful to avoid such a dire ending, we continued down the Royal mile in search of Mark’s favorite local delicacy….a Scottish pie. Ahh the Scottish pie. There are no veggies. There is no creamy broth. Just meat. And pastry. Simple and to the point. These Scotsmen don’t mess around.

With a stomach full of Scottish pie, Mark and I made our way back to Glasgow to team up with a bubbly, energetic, highly organized, and sassy blond girl, (essentially me but with a cooler accent) Mark’s cousin Lesley! Besides being our GPS, our ride, our guide, and our entertainment (just ask her to sing her rendition of Beyonce’s “All the Single Ladies….Wuh oh ho…..”), Lesley was a great companion on our trip into the Highlands. We barbequed venison in a mountain cabin. We hunted for muscles at Loch Goilhead. And we drank our way through Oban. Well…Lesley and her “wee big cousin” drank, and I ate the best Haggis Nips and Tatties of my life! Ok…to be fair…it was my first time, and I had nothing to compare it to…but it was still mouth wateringly delicious! What is this tasty Scottish delight you wonder? Imagine a layer of haggis sitting atop a mound of potatoes and turnips, and you have yourself a taste of Scottish tradition. Oh…you mean…what is haggis?! I made the mistake of asking that question once. It’s better not to ask. Just chew. Swallow. And enjoy. :)

After nine days of eating every meal we could from Mark and Spencers, dodging sheep on the narrow highland roads, and single handedly supporting Glasgow’s economy, it was time to say goodbye. Our nine-day Scottish adventure had come to an end all too soon. I met Mark’s dad’s family. I met Mark’s mom’s family. I walked on every red cobblestone in Edinburgh (almost). I hiked through every raindrop in the highlands. And I left no socks unturned in Glasgow. To answer Robert Burn’s question…no, old acquaintances will not be forgot. They shall be brought to mind every time I pass a pub…every time I eat liver and think it’s tasty…and every time I pass a cow that looks like it is in serious need of a haircut.

We twa hae run about the braes,
and pu’d the gowans fine ;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary foot,
sin auld lang syne.

Exactly. I couldn’t agree more…

Kristyn

What Triangle?

Remember when you were a kid, and your parents couldn’t walk fast enough as you pulled their arm dragging them around Disney Land? You were captivated by the cute pastel colored houses, the small roads, and the pure magic that seemed to power the entire little city. Welcome to Bermuda…Disney Land for adults. The roads are small (they may even be smaller than Disney’s), the houses are not only painted wonderfully bright colors but are given names as well, and the place seems to be magical as you walk through pink sand beaches to swim in beautiful turquoise water.

There is something completely surreal about flying into the middle of the Atlantic ocean and feeling the plane descend into what appears to be only endless blue water. It’s not until you get really close to this tiny island that you can see the thin stripe of green land dotted with white roofs and surrounded by pink sand. Here...640 miles west-northwest of North Carolina, you will find the most churches and golf courses per capita in the world. Here...the average house price is a bargain at $985,000. Here...there are more reinsurance firms than there are grains of sand on the beach. There is no Home Depot. No budget shopping at IKEA. And nowhere on this island will you find a WalMart, a McDonalds, or a Starbucks. It truly is magical.

Although commonly referred to in the singular, Bermuda consists of approximately 138 islands, with a total area of 53.3 square kilometers (20.6 sq mi). In order to better understand the Bermudian mindset, you must only look at the organization of the island and things will become clear, or more accurately, less clear. Despite the limited landmass, there has been a tendency for place names to be repeated. There are two islands named “Long Island,” three bays known as “Long Bay,” and “St. George’s Town” is located on “St. George’s Island” within “St. George’s Parish” (each known as St. George's). Bermuda's capital, the “city of Hamilton,” lies in Pembroke Parish not in “Hamilton Parish” on the largest island, “Main Island,” which itself is sometimes called “Bermuda.” Don’t worry...it only gets more confusing when you try to understand the roads.

Any local, especially the one you are dating, will tell you how easy it is to get around Bermuda. After all, there are only three roads. Well...almost. There is North Shore Road, which follows the northern shore of the island. South Shore road, which follows the southern shore. And Middle road, which...well...you get the idea. But what about all of those little roads that branch off of these three main roads? Only three roads, eh? After spending too much time reading the Bermuda phone book, I now know there are almost 2,000 tiny roads that zig and zag through small neighborhoods, between tree lined parks, and around cliff edged walls. Twenty years ago these roads were not even named. Talk about going postal. Instead of using 318 Ord Road, directions were given as “the pink house with the green shutters after the big tree on the blind corner.” Locals still prefer this descriptive method even though the roads now have very unique names such
as Needle and Thread Alley, Hook N Ladder Lane, and Between the Walls.

But let's not focus on where we are going but how we are getting there. In order to minimize the amount of cars on the road, only one car is allowed per household. Yes, Bermuda is small, but you still need transportation. It seems I have gone from riding a bike around Europe to riding a bike around a tiny island in the middle of the Atlantic. Only this bike requires no leg muscles as it is a 50cc scooter with a comfy padded seat! One twist back on the handle and off I go! Well...up to the 35 km/hr island speed limit. Rain or shine (and there is plenty of rain), you will see everyone from the local schoolteachers to fancy CEOs riding to work in suits and heels. And don’t worry...when you get to work, you are not the only one with helmet hair! You will quickly come to love your helmet after your first commute to Hamilton, the capital city of this bustling island. Bikes weave in and out of traffic into the oncoming lane, around turning cars, or
between the stone walls to reach the front of the line. Just remember in all of that weaving that you need to stay on the left side of the road, and you will be driving like a local in no time!

And if you think driving on the roads is a bit hairy, imagine running on them. Settled in the early 1600s by the British, Bermuda’s current roads were once narrow carriage ways chiseled away through stone walls, over hills, and around beach cliffs. The result is a narrow one to two-lane road with no sidewalks and vehicle size restrictions. How big is too big? If the mid-sized Honda CRVs find themselves on the restricted list, you can imagine how scary it is to have two full sized city buses hurling past each other on these narrow roads. Amalfi coast bus drivers take a seat! Blind corners, cliff walls, and narrow passes make running on the road less of a relaxing activity and more of a obstacle course in staying alive. I don’t know if my heart rate goes up because of the cardio workout or because of the adrenaline scare at every corner!

Just like any of my other travels, there is always an adjustment period as I learn about different customs and unique mannerisms. At least Bermudians speak English. Although, given that most people here have a Bermudian, English, Irish, Scottish, South African, or Aussie accent, it sometimes feels as if people are speaking a different language. Seeing as I have a local to show me ins and outs, I can already tell I am picking up the island habits quickly. As soon as I open cereal, bread, crackers...ok...anything that was once packaged, I put it in the fridge so it doesn’t go stale as quickly. I wash everything before throwing it in the trash, unless I want the ant roads to turn into super highways. In Colorado, we use humidifiers to keep our dessert climate tolerable. In Bermuda, we use dehumidifiers to keep our clothes from molding. I weave in and out of traffic with the best of them. And before I even consider yelling for Mark to come grab the
cockroach, I have already grabbed the nearest shoe and am swinging for the fences!

In addition to adding certain habits to my new lifestyle, a certain mindset needs to be adapted in order to survive the island lifestyle. Business, conversations, and life in general move slower here on “the rock.” If you need to go to the bank, take the afternoon off...you will need it. The post service is amazing…amazingly slow (maybe it has to do with the aforementioned road name issue). The more impatient and upset you get with the lack of customer service, the worse it will get. Stop comparing the prices here to the prices “back home.” It costs what it costs and yes...it is extortion. Ok, so it’s true that everything we buy had to be shipped to our tiny island, but we still feel frustrated when we pay five times more for something and wait ten times longer to buy it. In the states, when you run to the store for milk and bread, you end up spending $100 because you remembered you also needed shampoo, dinner, and the latest issue of
People magazine. In Bermuda, you go to the store and you spend $100, and you literally only bought milk and bread.

So it is that I find myself trading my ski hat hair for helmet hair. Signs in the store windows now warn that “Helmets are forbidden” instead of ski boots. No matter how much time I dedicate to straightening my hair, humidity will always win. I have to factor in the price of an airline ticket when I want to shop for styles that don’t include shells and fish logos. I catch my drinking water from the rain as it washes off the roof. And this mountain girl smiles every time she crests a hill and sees the blue ocean rippling into the horizon.

Always looking to take the road less traveled (and in this case very narrow),

Kristyn

Would You Like Bugs With That?

After an entire summer of biking through Czech Republic, Austria, Holland, and France, what better way to wrap up my travels than with one more bike trip! Plush hotel rooms, consistent van support, and recognizable food would all be replaced by 50 person dorm rooms, unreliable vans, and questionable food options. Welcome to the Backroads’ Staff ride through Thailand! Imagine 165 Backroaders biking through small towns in Northern Thailand with red dirt as the road and green trees as the destination.
After spending a lovely 18 hours stranded in a transportation strike in Rome, I barely made my connection in Paris only to spend the next 75 hours traveling to Bahrain and finally arriving in Bangkok. Welcome to the small knit community of Bangkok where you and 13 million of your closest friends share fog filled air as you dodge crazy tuk tuks and taxis from one Wat to the next. Grab a coconut and a straw...this is going to be quite a ride.
Meat on sticks. Chewy black gelatin balls in tea. Fruit stands. Roti prata. Coconut juice. The food may not look like anything I am used to grabbing back home, but damn is it tasty! Just remember...while the food stalls may be friendly on the wallet...they may do quite the damage to your stomach! Realizing that even I can’t walk around a city of 13 million people, I haggled over the price and finally jumped in the back of a tuk tuk (motor bike taxi pronounced two-k two-k). For the next two hours I hung on for dear life as we dodged between cars, edged out other tuk tuks, and ran over anyone who dared step in our path. We passed tiny motor bikes puffing out black smoke as its 5 passengers crammed on one seat. We drove by ancient temples and ruins hidden between McDonalds and internet cafes. And just when you think you can’t go any farther and are destined to spend the rest of your life in Bangkok traffic...just follow us as we go in the opposite lane and drive against the oncoming cars. Better (interpreted as scarier) than any amusement park ride I have experienced!
Deciding to be one with the locals, I opted for local transportation from Bangkok to Chiang Mai, the starting point of the staff ride. In order to make the 17 hour bus ride more enjoyable, I planned a stop in the ancient town of Sukhumvit, where I rented a tiny one speed bicycle to ride through the ancient ruins. But the best part of this town (besides eating some local bugs...which I actually PAID for), was getting out of the tuk tuk at eleven at night in front of a dark alley full of bushes at my “hostel.” The tuk tuk driver pointed towards the dark bushes. “Guest House No. 4! Guest House No. 4!” Having no other options, I took a chance and went in the dark dirt alley and finally saw a small lantern illuminating the door that read “Guest House No. 4.” Welcome to a hard “bed” on the floor with a mosquito net draped over the top and a rock hard pillow the size of small cow. The shower was outside. The toilet was the traditional “squat over the hole in the floor” type. No hot water. No potable water. No place like home!
The next day was a jolt back to “reality” as I landed in Chiang Mai and stayed at the Holiday Inn. With an indoor shower, a sit down toilet, and a menu that didn’t include bugs, I couldn’t tell if I was still in Thailand or back in a midwest US motel! The next morning, 170 eager (and mostly hungover) Backroaders met in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn with four huge tour buses to take us to the start of our adventure! After a short drive into the green hills, we unloaded and found 170 mountain bikes of various sizes and working condition. We were instructed to bring our bike tools and be prepared to “fix anything” on our rented Thai bikes. We loaded up on snacks, sunscreen, patch kits, and toilet paper (trust me on this one), and saddled up for a week long adventure in the northern mountains of Thailand.
What a surreal feeling to hop on my Thai mountain bike and pedal off towards lush green mountains and quiet little towns. In most towns, the buildings didn’t even have a front wall, but instead stood open as a welcome to all that passed by. The children played in the street in well worn clothes and stopped to stare at these strange pale foreigners who sped through their playground. Some would shout “Hello!” to us, while others backed away and stared in amazement. We perused the local fares that sold everything from cheap plastic toys, to unidentifiable animal parts for lunch, to sacred prayer beads. I saw statues of Buddhas taller than buildings and bell shaped temples more golden than the sun.
I stopped at every scheduled refill station as the only safe water had to be transported in rusty white Toyota vans. It was a close call between my Thai bike and the old Toyota as to which one would break down first. Pedals fell off. Tubes busted. Derailleurs broke. And they weighed about twice as much as the titanium bikes we had been accustomed to riding all summer! Throw in some steep grade hills and the hot Thai sun and you have yourself quite a workout after your spicy Thai lunch! The week was full of great local food, awesome scenery, and stories that would take pages to fill.
After spending any amount of time around a large group of Backroads folks, it is always a good idea to rest and recover. And I couldn’t have done it any better than by stranding myself on a tiny island off the southern tip of Thailand. Being true to our Boulder roots, Gabby, a fellow Backroads leader, and I landed on the island of Koa Pha Ngan at the spa and wellness center known around the world as “The Sanctuary.” This “resort” center offers some of the most delicious fresh food, fruit, and baked goods I have ever tasted in my life. Thus, it only makes sense that I would choose this location for a 5 day fast. After all the meat and dumplings of Czech Republic, the cheese of Holland, the bread of France, the wine of Italy, and the bugs of Thailand, I felt a good fast would reset my body after a hard season of work and travel. However I quickly learned that despite the distractions of yoga classes, body wraps, Thai massages, and steam baths....all you really want to do when you are fasting...is EAT!
When we weren’t looking at recipes in the english magazines, Gabby and I shared a small (8 by 8) cabin with our very own outdoor toilet (aka hole in the ground). With the two of us, two suitcases, and enough mosquitos to kill an army, there was still room for one more friendly creature. After checking under our pillows for ants, tucking in our mosquito net, and swatting away the centipedes, Gabby and I laid down every night to stare at the largest white spider I have seen in my life. And I have seen some pretty giant Aussie spiders! Measuring bigger than my hand, this mama spider hung from our ceiling and carried a white sac the size of a baseball. Sweet dreams....
Despite the unique Thai culture, the pounding and pulling that is mistakingly called a Thai “massage”, and delicious albeit hard to digest Thai food, it was time for this Colorado girl to head home. The mountains were calling, as was my new winter job.

Trading in my road bike for a pair of skis,

Kristyn

La Dolce Vita

I have always found traveling to be an invigorating, energizing, and at times challenging experience. After an entire summer of “traveling” while working as a Backroads Trip Leader, I learned many things about myself, about Europe, and about my fellow travelers. For example, no matter what time the Czech train schedule reads, the next train will arrive “when it gets here,” so grab some dumplings and relax. The Dutch (despite their fascination with cheese) really are some of the nicest people on earth. On all roads in Europe, there is an invisible third lane in the middle that is commonly accepted as a passing lane, regardless of oncoming traffic. Europeans can and will put a toe hitch on any car they can, no matter how small. Italian men are some of the friendliest people who are always willing to offer you a ride, wherever your destination. When caught in a fourteen day transportation strike in Paris, grab some bread and cheese and pray that your TGV to Provence will depart the Gare de Lyon on time. And no matter how good their intentions, when a guest asks you when you are going to get “a real job,” you still feel like letting the air out of their tires before the next day’s ride!

With these precious pieces of knowledge and more, I loaded up a full unit of bikes, tools, helmets, sunscreen, and tupperware and drove across four countries (avoiding the speed cameras whenever possible) to return back to the place where it all started....Provence. Never again will I be a first year leader. Never again will I be surprised by the amount of prostitutes on the Czech/Austrian border. Never again will hail storms in July catch me by surprise. Then again...never say never. I became so accustomed to moving at a high rate of speed, that when I was off trip, my body and mind quite literally did not know what to do. An even bigger shock was ending my first season knowing I would not be leading another trip for seven months! So....I did what any girl with traveler’s blood would do...I repacked my bags and hit the road for the next two months!

With five weeks to burn before the Backroads staff ride in Thailand (imagine 165 Backroads people riding through the small villages in Northern Thailand), I flew from Nice to Rome where I met my travel buddy for the next three weeks. Buongiorno Mama! Who better to travel with than a very excitable, blond, slightly older version of myself?! We have a good time, but we definitely travel at different speeds. While I am more of a go-go-go, drinks a lot of water, willing to walk the five miles uphill to the hostel carrying my bags on my back kind of girl, mom is more of a cappuccino drinking, gelato eating, let’s get a taxi even though they charge fifteen dollars for an eight minute ride kind of girl. Put the two of us together in a country of friendly Italians, unorganized public transportation, and beautiful scenery, and we will laugh our way through anything.  

Welcome to the European, more specifically the Italian, way of life. You can stop your car on a blind hairpin turn because you feel like it. Yelling at the top of your lungs while throwing your hands in the air is considered a normal conversation, not an argument. Drinking wine and visiting with friends will always be more important than making a sale or meeting a deadline. The bread is fresh and the wine is old. And a healthy breakfast is eating only one croissant and cappuccino instead of two. Yes, the Italians really do love life (thanks to the aforementioned wine) and are usually very friendly and helpful to the clueless tourist wandering aimlessly through their little town. Thus we enter upon one of the traveler’s most common past times...asking for directions. Enter...the language barrier.  

Along with her speciality tea bags, blankets, and bulky wool sweaters, my mom brought an Italian/English phrase book. These books make me laugh. What good is it to ask a question in the local language if you are unable to understand the answer?! You find the phrase you need. You follow their pronunciation guide. You do your best to deliver the phrase in a comprehendible accent. Then you wait anxiously while the other person delivers a full blown answer in Italian. Grazie. What I find most helpful is the emphatic hand gestures and pointing. You thank this exuberant Italian and continue in the direction they were pointing until you repeat this process again with the next store owner. After only a few more of these friendly yet confusing interactions, you eventually find what you were looking for...albeit at this point you could definitely use some wine! Rest assured, no matter where you are going, if you are in Italy, you are no more than “five minutes” away from your destination. And in just 21 days of travel, we squeezed in a lot of destinations.

Our Italian journey was as rich and colorful as the limoncello mom chugged in Amalfi. Our attention was captured by the deep history of the Vatican City, the Pantheon, and the Colosseum in Rome. We plugged our noses as we waded through the garbage and crime infested streets of Naples. The island of Capri offered us panoramic hiking trails, breath stealing swimming in the blue grotto, and picture worthy sunsets. We risked our lives at each cliff hanger turn on the Amalfi Coast (those bus drivers deserve a metal for surviving each day). We climbed 325 stone steps to sleep in a room with no windows and no hot water. From sunrise to sunset we hiked all five cities in Cinque Terre. We waded through the flooded maze that is Venice. We ate local chocolate and drank Tuscan wine with the wine maker himself. And we learned that a day spent with good friends, good food, and a good sense of humor is something you can never buy.

Blonds in Italy really do have more fun,

Kristyn

Rifugio With A View

Each week this summer has brought something new and exciting. The cobblestone streets of communism line Cesky Krumlov as you make your way into the local pub for the best beer on earth. The Gouda (pronounced QCHUHOWDA) cheese wheels in Holland spin faster than the windmills. And the sun baked roads of Provence invite even the most laissez-faire person to hop on their bike and go for a spin. But there was something missing. Finding myself back in the Czech Republic for the rest of the season, I took my last week of free time and jumped on a train headed south. This girl needed some soul medicine and the only place it could be found is of course….in the mountains.

With some inside information from fellow co-leaders (my colleagues are like walking/talking versions of Lonely Planet), I headed for the beautiful moonscape rocks of the Italian Alps…the Dolomites. Missing the mountains a bit himself, Marty, a fellow first year leader I trained with in France, joined me for eight days of hut to hut hiking! After digging his passport out of the trash (oh Marty…), we had two days of travel ahead of us before we would even reach the trail head at Passo Falzarego. No…the Dolomites are not that far from Czech, but the Italian train system is still run by Italy, thus making things a bit slower (and never on time!). After only one van ride, five trains, three buses, and a cable car later, we were on our way!

Unlike some of the rolling “mountains” of Czech Republic, the Dolomites are one hundred percent vertical cliffs, winding steps, jagged peaks mountains! Formally, and appropriately, called the “White Mounts,” the Dolomites feel like a lunar landscape of ascending and descending white rocks that create an undulating border between Austria and Italy. Each conversation I had with fellow hikers went from “Gruss Got, Bonjurno, Hello, and Bonjour,” to “Danke, Grazie, Thanks, and Merci.” Packed full of bread, tuna, and cheese (and of course wine…thanks for carrying that Marty!), we followed the red and white painted trail markers to our first Rifugio (hut) of the trip.

Throughout the Dolomites is an intricate hut to hut system linking all major trails. Each hut is a unique micro organism offering warmth, beds, water, and food to those brave enough to make the journey. The remoteness of the Rifugio proved to be quite expensive when you consider a bowl of spaghetti costs fifteen dollars and a precious bottle of water five. And I thought Colorado ski resorts were pricey! With no food stores and no potable water, we had no other options. My addiction to water was proving to be very costly.

An altitude junkie at heart, I decided our first night’s stay would be 2,300 meters high at the tiny family owned hut of Refugio Nuvolau. Surrounded on all sides by cliffs, the view literally took my breath away…or was it the thinner air? With the help of ladders, iron cables, and metal railings, we reached the summit of the peak and landed at the front door of our Rifugio. Dinner was ordered at 6 pm, served at 7 pm, and bed was a 10 pm. “Toilets” (a hole in the ground with boards on either side for your feet) were located outside until 10 pm when the one indoor toilet was opened, thus saving me some very cold mid night trips to the loo. Brrrr.

Every morning was the same no matter which side of the Refugio we woke up on. Marty would settle himself comfortably in a chair sipping his usual cappuccino and smoking his rolled cigarette, while I was spread over a map, chugging water as I planned our route for the day. Most of our hikes were well marked as we made our way from one Rifugio to the next. However, there were some sticky parts of the trail that required us to cross reference the trail markers, our trail book, and the map. When trail 23 suddenly forked into trail 23 and 23b, the correct path is not as obvious as one would hope. Trail 23b led straight up (literally) the side of a mountain and over a jagged pass to the other side. Much to Marty’s dismay, the correct path was indeed…23b. We tightened up our boot laces, split a Snicker’s bar, and started the accent. Marty’s last words to me were, “I’ll see you at the top.” With a smile of understanding, I took off, leaving Marty behind to navigate the steep switchbacks at his own pace. Balancing one foot precariously in front of the other, I made my way up the steepest trail of my life. And trust me…I have hiked some steep trails!

Walking on a ledge as wide as my shoulders, I followed the suddenly numerous red and white trail markers into the clouds. Why is it that when the trail is obvious, there are trail markers every ten feet, but when the trail is confusing, no markers can be found? As if I needed trail markers to tell me to continue straight when my only other options were a cliff on my left and a vertical rock wall on my right! What made the tight ledges and steep switchbacks even more interesting was meeting hikers coming down the same path I was hiking up. The question then became…who was going to pass cliff side?

Our hut to hut adventure continued with more ravines, steep scree fields, and scary mountain donkeys (that’s a whole other story). We passed the nights by playing Gin Rummy, washing our clothes in the bathroom sink, and debating whether or not the apple strudel was really worth ten dollars. Feeling rejuvenated and full of fresh mountain air, I was ready to finish out the season with a bang.

If only there were red and white markers for everyday life,

Kristyn

It Was the Best of Times...It Was the Wurst of Times

What do you get when you put uncomfortable wooden clogs, wheels of Gouda cheese, and wind-milled lined canals 6 ft below sea level? The Netherlands of course! After a frustrating run in with the corrupt Czech police, a few quick days in the red roofed city of Prague, and the realization that my French would once again not be helpful, I arrived in Holland ready for a new adventure. Out of the three countries so far, the Dutch have proved to be virtually fluent in English; something which makes me very happy as it requires more phlegm to speak Dutch than I can muster from even my worst of colds! Just ask me how to correctly say Van Gogh’s name next time you see me…and um…grab an umbrella before I answer.

Besides my first initial shock of the extreme flatness that is the Netherlands, I have found the area to be quite the fairytale marshland, full of blond haired people, road bikes with more gadgets than my car, and…well…water! The tallest point in Holland is 325 above sea level and is thus referred to as (it’s hard for me to say this with a straight face) a mountain. As the country rests 6 meters below sea level, it requires dikes, dams, dunes, weirs (flow meters), windmills, gates, pumps, polders, and canals to be habitable. Damn!

I find the Dutch to be very friendly, warm, and helpful people who are curious to help the oddly dressed American visitors who share their greatest love in life…biking! I say “oddly dressed” because while the Dutch people literally ride their bikes everywhere, you will hardly ever see them wearing bike clothing, shoes, or, (gasp!)…a helmet! For these 16 million flatlanders, there are 20 million bikes. In fact, their bike paths are so sophisticated, there are separate paths parallel to the auto roads that require their own set of traffic lights! And you better abide by the lights or you might just get run over! Trust me on this one…

Sitting fully upright on a springy seat and equipped with two large panier bags over the back wheel, you can shop till you drop…or at least until you can no longer fit anything more in your two paniers! And who needs twenty seven gears when three will do? I like to call them slow, slower, and slowest. With these gears, the handy bike bell required by law, and twenty five euros, the Dutch can go anywhere (the fine for biking while under the influence is twenty five euros). So it is that I find myself in a new country. With a trusty map, my good sense of direction, and a mastery of the U-turn, I can pretty much navigate my way through most new regions. The fun part is doing this flawlessly with guests in the car!

After leading two family trips through the habitual daily wind and rain, I found myself with two weeks of freedom. What would this girl do with two free weeks and Amsterdam as her jumping off point? Croatia? Budapest? Midnight sunsets in Sweeden? Deciding that the ice hotel and midnight sunset of Scandinavia was stretching the wallet a bit too thin, my co-leader and I hopped on a train bound for Berlin. Ich bin ein Berliner baby!

Ah Berlin. One of the newest oldest cities I have visited in Europe. The colorful dorm-like buildings constructed after the war have transformed this historically rich city into a modern collection of highrises. Many of the original buildings were left with holes in the walls and roofs missing as a reminder of the not so distant past.

Keeping true to my new style of travel, I stayed with local Berliners and got a true taste of Germany…literally. Using her rowing connections from Chatanooga, Tennessee, Hurricane (my fellow Coloradan Backroads leader…and yes that is her real name) secured a week’s lodging with two of the nicest people I have yet to meet while traveling. Welcome to Anne and Carsten’s! We were greeted with a box of Duncan donuts, a room to ourselves, and the keys to a turbo BMW mini. Damn I love meeting the locals!

Anne and Carsten were and will always be our Berlin family. They took us to their friend’s house for barbeques, drove us around town, and truly opened their home to these two American strangers. We ate every sausage known to Germans, drank thick German beer (which can be green!), and tasted more liverwurst than I knew humanly possible. Due to the language barrier (damn, why don’t I speak 5 different languages?!), I smiled a lot and used my hands as a necessary extension of my vocabulary. By the end of the week, I was known as the smiley blond girl who loves water, will never turn down a piece of dark chocolate, and has an odd craving for protein-rich liverwurst. I needed something to counter the large amount of carbs I was consuming!

In lieu of my normal hostel stays and aimless street wanderings, I lifted weights in a Communist 1950’s gym, mountain biked through fields with a guy and his dog, and hitched a ride with a complete stranger to the Baltic sea. I experienced the sweet flavor of green beer, the fluidity of euro dancing, and the sexiness of German automobiles. I have found that life is full of possibility. I just have to reach for it.

With my arms fully outstretched,

Kristyn

From the Shadows of Communism to Apricot Dumplings

Dobry Den!

Welcome to the Czech Republic, where the people are reserved and the vegetables are forbidden! Well, maybe not forbidden, but definitely very, very hard to find. Despite what current nutritionists recommend, the Czech people have lived many years on meat, potatoes, and pivo (beer). While you would think such a diet would make them gregarious, jovial people (anybody ever been to Ireland?), Czechs are actually a very reserved group who's daily motto is: Middle of the Road. Never too happy. Never too sad. Smiling is only done behind closed doors with the closest of friends, and small talk simply does not exist. If you are able to break through this outer exterior and befriend a local (usually accomplished with a few pints of pivo and a Czech/English dictionary), you will find Czechs to be very kind people who love good stories, music, and beer. Did I mention that they drink a lot of beer? Czechs drink the most beer in the world, consuming 161 liters of beer per person per year. To put that in perspective, the Irish come in close with 142 liters per person and the US is a distant third at 85 liters. Bottoms up...and up...and up...

Many of you may be wondering...what is Kristyn doing in the Czech Republic? After training ended in Provence, we were scattered to different parts of the world. My schedule started with a unit drive from the south of France to the Czech Republic. Five border crossings, 8 Czech prostitutes on the side of the road, and one speeding ticket later (4 mph over folks...that's right...FOUR), I pulled into my new home to lead trips in the Czech Republic and Austria. I couldn't find the leader house at first. Yes, it was dark (2 am in the morning kind of dark), but the house also gives the impression that it is abandoned. I don't know why that would be...the sunken roof, broken windows, empty rooms, cracked walls, and peeling paint make it look quite homey once you get used to it! The house's unique character continues once you are inside. The bathroom sink is in the hallway. The shower is over the toilet. And the walls still look like they could crumble at any moment. Last week I woke up to a crash, only to discover that the sink in the hallway had fallen off the wall. All part of the Czech charm...

I spent my first 4 days "famming," or familiarizing myself with the region, the routes, the hotels and the restaurants. I grabbed the leader notes for my trip version (a precious 60 page document that tells you most of what you need to figure out how the trip runs), a set of directions, water (of course!) and I was off to learn the trip. Cramming a 6 day trip, two countries, bike directions AND van directions, lunch spots, food buy spots, dinner, hotels, museums, bank locations, hospitals (which I would appreciate come my second trip) and everything else I need to know, in 4 days is hard but manageable. At some point, as I am driving or biking through the countryside of Czech and Austria, I can't help but stop, take a picture, and smile. I am getting paid to do this. Paid to research and learn a region. Granted they are about 14 to 16 hr days, but still...amazing!

Immediately following my fam I prepped and lead my first trip. And then prepped and lead my second trip. Not one day off. That makes 20 days. 20 LONG days. I napped each day though. A 4-5 hour nap usually between 2 am and 6 am. :) Due to this new schedule, days of the week have lost all meaning to me. The words "weekend," "9 to 5," and "Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday" are faint memories of a life I used to live. I now think in terms of "Day 1, Day 2, Prep Day, Van Support Day, and Bike Support Day." My co-leader leaves at 5 am to meet guests in Prague. Guests shuttle from Prague to Cerna v Posumavi where I have racked, trayed, unracked, untrayed, set up, prepared and assembled 26 bikes, a snack table, a gear table, and a drink station. Meet and greet 26 guests as they pile out of a bus. Memorize all names at this time. Give a bike safety talk and a bike demonstration. Lunch. Bike fitting and adjustments. Ride. One leader drives the route in the van while the other leader rides along with the guests. Need shoes, shorts, or gloves? Take mine. Broken spoke? Let me switch it out for you. Chain broke? Not a problem. Hail storm? Hop in the van. No...don't worry about me...I will stand here on the side of the road and wait to be picked up in an hour (and I wonder why I can't get rid of this damn cold).

Once the guests have arrived at the first hotel in Cesky Krumlov (world heritage city as over 80% of the buildings are authentic), they shower, relax, walk around town, and enjoy their vacation while we work our magic. Bikes are put away, handlebar bags are gathered, adjustments are made, papers delivered, food is stored, dinner is confirmed, gear is organized....oh and we fit a shower in there before dinner (sometimes). I think we provide hours of amusement for the hotel staff as we scurry through the lobby to the van, back through the lobby with each bike, each food bin, and each piece of gear we move. After the first day I made a goal for myself. My goal (besides being the best gourmet picnic chef, bike mechanic, porter, sparkling conversationalist, first aid responder, massage scheduler, problem solver, counselor, teacher, navigator, story teller, random fun fact giver, luggage finder, taxi, cheerleader, entertainer...) is to get through just one day without cutting, bruising, stabbing, gouging, or scrapping myself. I have many "Backroads tattoos" and the season has only begun...

My trips are exciting, the guests are demanding, but each day leaves me with more and more stories to share. In Austria, we prepare our famous Backroad's picnic (complete with local Austrian apricot dumplings) in a large walk-in refrigerator at our hotel (at least our food stays fresh as we prepare it!). The Austrian kitchen boys are enthralled with these two foreign girls in their fridge and bring us wine, sorbet, and cute smiles to help the night seem more like a party and less like work. In addition to making a feast for 26 people, I learned that I can find the local ER in record time in the dark, scale a 6 foot fence in a torrential downpour, navigate through town to find the only open pharmacy, and understand German directions over the phone (all accomplished despite the massive chest cold I had from biking through the hail storm earlier that day...ow).

After all of the logistics are handled, problems solved, and gear stored, I can focus on my favorite part of the job. Bike support. I carry extra water, extra food, bike tools, first aid, and a huge smile because I am getting paid to ride along side the guests for the day. Yes, I am secretly praying that no one dumps over the front of their handlebars, it doesn't hail on me (again), and I don't lead guests astray on the bike directions, but these are the pressures of a job I am most happy to have. With two blond braids, my sky blue helmet, and a bulge on my right thigh (my cell phone tucked under my bike shorts), I am as happy as a girl leading adventure travel trips around the world for a living. :)

Na Zdravi (Cheers!),

Kristyn

Potatoes, Tomatoes, and Limoncello

Ah Paris. Land of the croissant, des petits cadeaux des chiens (dog poop), and of course...La Tour Eiffel. I have been to Paris a few times over the past 10 years and always find myself following my old footsteps: Notre Dame, L'Arc de Triomphe, Sacre Coeur, Les Champs Elysees, Louvre, and La Tour Eiffel. One of the great things about European cities like Paris is the impressively old architecture, the rich history steeped in war and national victories, and the excitement of wandering through crowded cobblestone streets.

Been there. Done that.

This time I wanted something more. I have always traveled to a place and thrown on a backpack, my trusty tennis shoes, and a defensive traveler's attitude and pounded the pavement to "see the sights." After awhile, you realize that this old stone building bares a slight resemblance to the other old stone building you saw yesterday in another town, another country, another world. I was seeing the main attractions of the place I was visiting, but I wasn't connecting with the local townspeople who live amongst these attractions every day of their lives.

After deciding that maybe building bike trays wasn't as fun as I hoped (and I really was hoping), I hopped on the TGV and bolted up to Paris to hang out with my friend....a real life Parisian! What does the Australian Outback and downtown Paris have in common? My friend Anne! I met this French outdoor version of myself (but with a much better fashion sense) on a 10 day camping trip through the "Red Center" of Australia. After surviving deadly bugs, annoying flies (did I mention there were flies?), and ravage dingos, you tend to form a bond with your fellow travelers...especially if one of them parks their swag next to you in the tent! Graciously opening up her home, her fridge (yum french cheese), and her time to me, I went from "fast walking blond tourist girl who stays in hostels" to "hey I know a local and have a key to an apartment!" girl (although I still did walk fast...I'm still me!).

Knowing a local opens up parts of the city you never before knew existed. I visited the inside of a downtown Parisian office, I had a few night time tours of Paris by car (thanks Anne!), and I ate the most expensive and cheesiest mashed potatoes in all my life. I think I consumed 4 days worth of calories in one meal. And damn were they good! Gros bisous to Anne for entertaining this oh-so-obvious American girl for a week in Paris. Time for her to visit me so she can experience some skiing a la Rocky Mtn Style!

After a week in Paris, I still had time to burn before I needed to leave for Czech. Yes...I will eventually be working in Europe. So...being the "girl on the go" that I am, I took an early train out of Paris, met another Backroads leader at the train station in Avignon, and went straight on through to Italy. Do not stop go. Do not collect 200 Euros. Do not do your laundry. 14 hrs, a broken train, and one precious bottle of water later...we arrived in San Remo, Italy.

Ah Italy. I have such fond memories of Italy the last time I visited. I remember crossing the French/Italian border only to be stranded for 12 hrs because of a train strike. I remember my train breaking down and leaving me alone in a train car with two Italian men and no electricity. I remember sharing a hotel room in Florence with two random strangers I met (both girls) because the hostels were all full at 2 am in the morning when I arrived (go figure). And finally, I remember splashing through the streets of Venice holding my shoes and socks above the disgusting water as I desperately navigated the narrow winding streets to make my train to Austria and get the heck outta Italy! :) But San Remo...oh San Remo. I do believe Italy just stole my affection from France.

When John, my fellow Backroads leader fresh off a two year Peace Corp term in Ukraine, told me he knew a Captain of a sailboat who "made the best tomato salad you will ever taste," I knew I was in for a treat. Little did I know that I would have to roll myself out of Italy with all the food I was about to eat.

San Remo...currently home to the sailboat with the world's tallest mast, countless million dollar yachts with 20+ crew members, and the non assuming beautiful sail boat of Captain Nedo. The Captain is in his 70s and has worked on a boat for the past 58 years. Upon first meeting me he told me two things. One, New York has the worst tomatoes he has ever tasted in his life. And two, the most important things in this world (in this order) are food and women. Spoken like a true Italian. After getting a full tour of the sailboat by the handsome Italian/Spanish/American deck hand/engineer/jack of all trades guy, we were invited to a tomato salad dinner at the Captain's house that night in the hills of San Remo.

Imagine if you will...a beautiful green Italian hillside. Fresh rain pouring down on the leaves. Lemon, olive, and cherry trees scattering the grounds. And in the middle of it all is a tiny nursery where you can find home grown tomatoes, lettuce, and herbs...fresh for the taking. Wearing over sized green galoshes, a yellow rain jacket big enough to fit me and a few handsome Italian sailors and the biggest grin in weeks, I ate dark red cherries off the branch, picked juicy strawberries from the ground, and learned that not all tomato picking experiences are bad! ;) After a meal of our fresh garden veggies and home made olive oil, the Captain brought out a few bottles of homemade Limoncello. Ah Limoncello. Consisting of lemon rinds, alcohol, sugar, and time, Limoncello gives you a sweet and syrupy kick guaranteed to make your cheeks pucker and your laughter louder. After eating one of his meals, I now understand why Nedo has not eaten in a restaurant in 30 years. Hard to compete with your own garden...

After a 14 course mushroom dinner the following night, numerous attempts to drink and actually enjoy espresso, and some hip shaking dancing at the club on the dock...this girl had to say goodbye. Duty calls. Only this time, my office is the open road and my work is whatever may roll my way.

Next broadcast coming from the Czech Republic...

Red Clay Houses With Blue Shutters

Greetings from the land of cheese, bread, and wine!

After four years of life altering events, I find myself back in a country that promotes leisure over work, food over exercise, and friendships over material objects. And they do it all on cobblestone roads and in really tiny cars! Bienvenue à Pernes les Fontaines! But wait…what is Kristyn doing in France? Well, it all started with a friendly email from my friend Megan. As a fellow wanderlust herself, Megan has always encouraged me to indulge in my dream of living abroad. Last fall she came across a company called Backroads (www.backroads.com). Backroads is the world’s number one adventure travel company, taking people all over the world on biking, hiking, and multisport trips. After reading the description of a Backroads trip leader, Megan knew it was the job for me. I would be paid to travel. I would be leading outdoor sports. I would have adventures to feed my desire to write. The word "dream job" comes to mind...

After a written application and phone interview, my mom and I took a road trip out to Salt Lake City where I was accepted to interview in person for a position as a Backroads Trip Leader. The process involved problem solving, group interactions, language testing, public speaking, and leadership activities. As soon as I walked into the warehouse/office and put my Timbuk2 bag down next to the other 20 Timbuk2 bags and started talking to everyone who had been to Australia, Czech, Costa Rica, Bhutan, Norway, Italy, and more…I knew I had found my people! As a leader, I would be traveling all over the world interacting with local cultures and people. AND I would get discounts on outdoor gear. The mother ship was calling me home.

The following day my mom and I were driving to Moab (might as well do some serious mountain biking if I was driving to Utah!), and my cell phone rang. Not only was I hired, but I was leaving in 10 days to train in Pernes les Fontaines, France. Let the first step of the journey begin…

So after one car ride, three flights, one bus, one train, and one van ride…I was in Pernes les Fontaines! Don’t blink as you are driving through town, because you literally might miss it. But I am back. Back in Provence. I spent four months studying in Aix-en-Provence in 2002 during college and it feels surreal to be back. Red houses with blue shutters line the country side. White, crumbly stone walls line the roads. Vineyards fill my eyes, lavender fills my nose, and pure joy fills my heart!

As I mentioned, Pernes is quite tiny! So what is a large company doing here in the south of France? Backroads has about 22 Leader Houses all over the world. These are local apartments or houses located in heavily traveled regions to house leaders between trips. There are three hubs world wide: Salt Lake City for the US, Canmore for Canada, and Pernes for Europe. I am training at the European hub here in France as I will work up to six months here in Europe. After that, I may be lucky enough to find myself working in Africa, New Zealand (no wwoofing please), Australia (no tomatoes please), or anywhere! I need to learn Spanish so I can increase my chances of working in the winter destinations as well as Italian so I can lead tours through Italy. As there are too many trainees to stay at the leader house, we spend what little free time we have in the very austere rooms at the local golf country club. I am rooming with one Italian girl, one Spanish girl, and one Floridian. Sounds lavish until you remember I am in France and the amenities are…well…did I mention they have wine, bread, and cheese? Best to focus on the local food and less on the fact that you have no towels, no sheets, no phone, no internet, and no stores. :)

The training block is three weeks. I am 8 days into it and we have already had 2 holidays. Can you tell I am in France? But we work on the weekends to make up for this, so I haven’t really stopped working since I got here. In lieu of boring you with training details, just know that I can now work as a bike mechanic, back a van and trailer into most parking spots, buy/cook/prepare/clean food for 25 people at once…and that was only the first day! I have so much to learn, so many new places to visit, and unique people to meet...I can't wait to get started!

As Henry David Thoreau said, "If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them."

Laying the first bricks as I type…