Well, it’s now been about two weeks since Amsterdam so I’ll keep this brief. The rest of the week there passed quickly and a lot less eventfully. Saturday I trekked back to my moms hotel room with all of my shit (essentially had spent about half my time in Amsterdam in transit) exhausted and drained from my night out with the bed bugs (free breakfast!). Without pausing to rest I met my cousin for the second parade in a nearby town, as Margaret was leaving later in the day and we had limited time together.

We wandered down the route of the parade until we found a cafe to post up and watch from a table. I will say it was pretty fun to see my mother and Fred marching along in the middle of The Netherlands, surrounded by Dutch people and being cheered on. As soon as the parade was over and Margaret and I split ways, I went straight to the hotel to catch up on sleep.

Sunday I finally ventured back to the city to my new hostel, Flying Pig, which wound up being amazing. The next two days I mainly explored with an English guy I had met, ate too many cheese samples, and caught up with an old friend from college.

On my last day, I checked out from the hostel and ventured into the museum district to meet my mother and Fred. We headed to the Amsterdam sign, snapped some photos, and wandered around.

We spent the afternoon stopping in cheese shops before our slotted time at the Anne Frank museum. The museum was halfway through a remodel, but walking through the house itself was chilling. Remnants of Anne’s family and the other family whom had lived in hiding with them for two years were lined around the house. Excerpts from Anne’s diary, recollections from survivors, and pieces of the deceased lives were left behind.

At the end of the tour, there was a book that visitors could sign and write their thoughts and where they were from. I flipped through it, thinking how odd and somehow cold each comment was;

“Poor girl! Loved the museum”

“Really enjoyed it!”

“What a story, glad we came”

Etc. I shut the book shaking my head slightly. Just another tourist site.

Well. It’s 6:41 am and Janet (mom) and Fred have just left me. I’m currently laying in their hotel room waiting for free breakfast downstairs before I catch my flight to Helsinki–>Bangkok–>Ho chi Minh city! I arrived here last Thursday (after my three day flight from hell), and waited outside the baggage claim area for mother and Fred. After my traumatic few weeks with the dia, it was good to see familiar faces.

We quickly navigated to the hotel shuttle pickup and arrived at the Hyatt Park Hotel, just minutes away from the airport, where the rest of the marching band was staying. I was starving. After ditching our bags and discovering we were in the middle of nowhere, we trekked about a mile to the nearest restaurant. Bitterballs!

The first day was otherwise uneventful, as we all recovered from long flights and jet lag.

Friday we woke up a bit more refreshed, and boarded the band bus (which turned out to be the Amsterdam’s soccer teams) to head to the tulip gardens. My mother was thrilled (of course), but i can’t say I blame her—it was pretty incredible to see the amount of care and beauty in a place that’s only open 7 weeks of the year.

When we arrived back at the Hyatt, I took a nap before packing up my things and heading into the center to find my hostel. I was somewhat on a tight schedule, as I was supposed to navigate to the middle of nowhere in order to watch the marching band in a parade later that evening with my cousin, Margaret. So, naturally, I got on the wrong train going in the opposite direction and found myself 45 minutes out of Amsterdam in Dan Haag. Slightly annoyed, I finally arrived at my hostel, exhausted and severely pressed for time.

I had barely set my bags down before Margaret texted asking where we should meet. I can’t say I was looking forward to turning around and getting back on the train, but after getting directions, I told her I might be an hour or so late judging from the two hour trek i was about to embark on. By the time I exited the train to transfer to the bus, the sun was setting and I was surrounded by a sleepy little town with hardly anyone in sight. Dusk creeped in, and I wondered vaguely if getting to this parade would be the night I got kidnapped.

Finally, the bus arrived and I boarded, showing the driver where I wanted to go.

“Parade is there, we’re skipping that stop.”

Of course we are.

After reassuring me he’d let me off as close to the town as possible, I settled into my seat. Eventually, after walking/running a mile to the beginning of the parade, I found my cousin and we cheered my mother and Fred on from the sidewalks. And just like that, the parade ended and it was well into the night and we were stranded.

I texted my mom telling her we needed a ride back to town with the band, at which point she called me to say they had boarded the buses but she was trying to stall them.

Margaret and I had just polished off an entire pizza when my mother told us to run the mile to the buses before they left us behind. Halfway there, holding my stomach and trying not to throw up as I chased after Margaret, my mother told us the buses had gotten tired of waiting and had left.

Margaret and I paused to catch our breaths, surveying the empty fields and small cottages that lay around us. The marching band had ditched us. We were screwed.

Long story short, an Uber driver came

To our rescue (after a near dog attack) and drove us the hour back to the city.

By the time i crawled into bed at 1 am, i was utterly drained. That’s when the real magic happened. It was about half pst three in the morning when the itching woke me up. I knew immediately from the small raised bumps on my face that I was being attacked by little red visitors. Sure enough, using my flashlight to shine a light onto my bed, i found the bed bugs. Wearily, I snapped photos of them and decided to head to reception to sleep in the common area until it was morning. A sign on the door greeted me, informing me that reception would be closed until 8 am. I had 4 hours to kill.

A thing or two I’ve learned in the past two days:

1. If you wake up and your stomach hurts, do not go on the walking tour

2. If you had explosive diarrhea the day before, it’s probably not the best idea to eat the free food in the lounge before a seven hour flight

I boarded my overnight flight to Lisbon with high expectations—dinner would be served and I had acquired a window seat. As I was directed to my new home for the next several hours, I was faintly aware of how bloated I had become, but tried to ignore my uncomfortably growing stomach underneath my clothes.

immediately I felt sorry for my seat mate—a kind, elderly Asian man who was reading an article about Israel in the NYT. He was in the way of my bathroom route.

There are a few things you become hyper aware about when you realize you have a pooping situation with nowhere to go. The first, was that this man moved slow. I took this into account and thought about warning him of the many trips I was inevitably going to be taking to the bathroom (which was roughly 8 or 9 steps away). Instead, I settled into my chair and told myself if I pretended everything was fine, the gorge of gas in my stomach would simply melt away.

It was about thirty minutes into the flight when I realized I was actually in danger. My stomach seemed to be gaining pressure the higher we got, as if the air from outside was filling me up like a hot air balloon. It was painful. Clutching my stomach, I tried pushing some air out silently but nothing would help. The stabbing pain felt as though I were about to birth a small worm, and the baby in front of my seat was not helping my imagination.

“Bathroom?” I finally asked.

The old man was a sloth in emergency situations, and I couldn’t help but think it was a good thing we weren’t in an exit aisle.

Locked in the bathroom, I tried releasing any or all of the gas that was effectively making me a blimp, but my efforts were futile. I was going to have to suffer through this. Taking a deep breath, I left the safety of the restroom and returned to my seat.

Dinner arrived shortly after, and whatever was in my stomach began punishing my brain for even considering having a bite of it. The gas baby inside of me squirmed and twisted and I clutched my stomach, trying to push it out and find some release. Rocking back and forth as if in prayer (I should have been praying to the poop gods), my trusty little seat partner finished his meal and suddenly took notice of the state I was in.

“You sick?” He asked.

“Yes, yeah, just a stomach virus, I should be fine,” I writhed in pain and smiled weakly, thinking that I might explode at any second.

“You tell stewardess, she will give you medicine,” he said urgently.

I doubted the airline hostess would have anything to deflate me, but I assured him I would tell one when they came to take away my untouched tray.

“She pregnant,” he told the stewardess.

I couldn’t really blame him, it appeared that I had gained thirty pounds in the last hour, and the pressure inside my stomach was making it hard to see my toes. The baby in front of us sobbed suddenly, and the baby inside of me cried back. Panic set in.

“I just need to lie down, I should be fine, I have some medicine,” I didn’t need the whole plane knowing they were in danger of being sprayed with feces.

The stewardess, however, sprang into action and coordinated to move my little hero to another seat so I could stretch out and birth this thing.

My bathroom route cleared, tea in hand, I stretched across the now empty row. Almost immediately, my stomach loosened and I silently could let little bursts of farts out, easing the pain in my stomach. I distantly hoped that everyone around me would blame the child in front as the source of the smell, but I was almost too relieved to care.

The rest of the trip passed smoothly. By smoothly I mean that I did not have to sprint to the bathroom, and I was able to fart my way out of immediate danger over the course of a few hours.

Finally, the lights came on and we were told via loudspeaker that we would be landing soon.

“How are you feeling?” The stewardess inquired as she collected trash items.

“Better,” I nodded.

“Wheelchair when we land?”

Confused, I shook my head. My gas was not debilitating, as far as I knew.

“Ah, it’s for the man who was sitting next to you.” She turned to speak to him across the aisle, and i couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. The friendly, slow old man, now sitting in a middle seat, nodded when asked about his wheelchair. I had uprooted a disabled man over a bit of gas.

Ok! Finally sitting down to do this, currently on the roof of my new hostel, Puriwasi, in Lima, Peru. Let me just start off by saying to everyone who told me not to come here, I am so glad I did not listen. Lima is awesome! I got a little crispy (sorry mother, I didn’t remember sunscreen) but so happy to be here.

Anyway. Ok, going back in time to last Friday when I took a tour to Guatapé.

Day 8

I woke up early to ensure I wouldn’t miss the 8:45 meet up down the street in one of Medellin’s many squares. When I arrived, I immediately recognized 6 other travelers–two girls from Paisa Hostel (Becca and Johana) and four guys from my Cartagena hostel, El Viajero.

We set off on our two hour venture, snoozing and listening to music between catching up with the girls. Finally, we arrived at a little village on the edge of a lake, where we were told to pile into or onto the roofs of massive Jeep’s.

The drivers were just short of reckless, blaring house music and plowing through the rocky dirt roads (I wasn’t lucky enough to sit on the roof, but it turns out this was actually a blessing). After about thirty minutes, we finally pulled into a deserted rundown property where our vehicles disposed of us before disappearing in a cloud of dust.

Our guide, Maria, told us we had arrived to one of Pablo Escobar’s mansions, but explained that it had been taken by the government twenty years before he was captured, hence why it was left in such poor shape. There were many holes in the walls, she said, because Pablo had hidden money everywhere he could since he had more than he could ever account for and needed places to hide it.

She told us to explore the grounds and that we would eventually regroup down by Pablo’s pool.

A good twenty minutes later, Maria gathered us in the shade of Pablo’s pool house and told us she was going to tell us about Pablo Escobar.

“He was not a good man,” she said gravely, “I understand why people come here and want to hear about him, but the people here hate to speak his name. I will tell you so you understand the violence we witnessed and the fear we lived in.”

She explained how Pablo was raised in a poor neighborhood and dropped out of elementary school, but dreamed of being the Colombian president one day. At the age of 12 he was already stealing things and turning them for a profit and just a few years later he was doing the same with vehicles. By the time Pablo started dealing with narcotics, he already had made a small fortune. It was time to put his dream into action–the only problem was that he was uneducated, and needed support to be voted in as congressman. Pablo came up with a plan, one which some people still love and adore him for today. On the outskirts of Medellin, there was a very poor neighborhood where he had once lived. The people had no means to find jobs, let alone homes. Pablo built 700 homes for these people, and bought taxi cabs for them so they could make an income (mainly through him). These taxi drivers would later become his hitmen.

While many of us probably know a general brief history about Pablo Escobar (thank you Narcos) the most memorable and emotional part of the day was when Maria told us about her own experience during Pablo’s rule.

“I remember in high school, our building was surrounded by a middle school and elementary school. As we were leaving, a car bomb went off right between two of the schools and everyone was screaming. It was terrible. My classmates were killed. There were children.” She went on, “In school, there was a beautiful girl in my class, she could have been Angelina Jolie, she was gorgeous. Pablo found out about this girl, and he sent for her. He wanted her for himself. She was a good girl, she didn’t want to go, and she refused. A few weeks later she went missing. Her body was found chopped into pieces in a suitcase.”

Maria paused before vehemently spewing “I hate Bill Clinton, really, he destroyed my country. He exposed the Cali cartels and the Medellin Cartel business and dealings and this is what started the war between the two cartels, this is what brought all the bombings and violence to this city.”

She explained how, after Pablo was elected as congressmen (thanks to the poor people’s vote), he was soon removed from his position when his criminal background was exposed. This is when he really got into his narcotics dealing, and when the violence started. He was at war with his own government, eventually killing three presidential candidates who had promised to rescue the city from the violence of drug trafficking. People began disappearing, bombs went off, and he paid 2 million pesos to anyone who would kill a police officer.

Maria explained how her father lost his engineering job (somehow in relation to this) and began supporting the family as a cab driver. He was approached one night by Pablo’s men, who told him he would now work for Pablo. Maria’s father refused, and the next day she was pulled out of school and her family fled to the mountains to escape Pablo’s wrath. In the hills, they made a home and she even made friends with the two neighbor boys, whom she played with every day.

“One day after class, I was walking home and before I could get there I could see the blood everywhere. I could see their bodies. I could see them, my two neighborhood friends, dead in their driveway,” she sobbed, wringing her hands, “They were only 12, 13 years old.” She wiped her face, and one of the boys from the group wrapped his arm over her shoulder, gently encouraging her.

I wiped away my own tears and looked around at the motionless group, horrified and surprised by this woman’s vulnerability, and the details she was willing to share with us.

“People want to know about Pablo, he was a bad man and he caused so much pain and suffering.”

She went on to explain his demise, how the government and the US trapped him by capturing his family in Germany after he had escaped his own prison. He made the mistake of making two phone calls, to ensure his family was safe. This is how the government traced him, how they found him in a house in the middle of Medellin, and how they chased him down on the roofs where he was shot and killed.

“Pablo was killed a few houses from where I lived. When I heard the news of his death, I ran to see his body. I had to see it for myself, to know for sure that he was gone. And I did. I saw him.”

We sat in silence, unsure of what to say, one by one moving forward to hug Maria, and thanking her for sharing her story with us.

She smiled and said, “this is not how I am normally, I am happy, and I live a happy life. Let’s go to lunch.”

We ate lunch a little ways away from Pablo’s mansion, in a restaurant that offered souvenirs with Pablo’s face on it (no one bought any).

From there, we piled into a boat, and headed towards a remote island where we spent the afternoon swimming and diving off rocks (Maria screamed the loudest when we yelled at people to jump).

Eventually, we headed towards Guatapé.

It was about 4 pm when we arrived, the town was bustling with street music and puppies, vendors catering to tourists. We stopped to take pictures in the square and wander the town. Maria insisted she take us to the best coffee in town, and after getting lost three times we finally made it (it was pretty good).

The final stop was the rock of Guatapé, 750 steps to the top, but worth it. We spent thirty minutes taking in the views and snapping pictures for Insta before starting the knee jostling journey back down.

When we arrived back in town, Rosa (a girl from Barcelona who was on the tour) and another girl from the hostel, accompanied me to dinner.

After eating, we went to meet a friend from college, Andy Keller(!!!), who had seen my insta story and had messaged me that he was In Medellin as well. Turned out his air bnb was directly behind our hostel. Andy was there with his two friends, Jack and Cullin. The six of us tossed back a few drinks and decided to hit up some clubs.

The first place we went to was packed. We bought a few rounds of shots (hid our to go boxes) and hit the dance floor. It turned out that there was a bachelor party from Portland (what are the chances??) and one of the guys told me how they had tried to check in to their air bnb earlier, and were told they couldn’t stay there anymore because there had been a party there with underage girls and some of them had been murdered. (WTF).

The night continued, we met up with more people from the tour and at around 3 am, Andy and his friends and I were ready to leave. Alex, a German guy I befriended, looked at me in disappointment.

“Really? You’re going to sleep now? What’re you going to remember, going to sleep now or going out and having a blast?” (To be fair, I wasn’t sure how much I would remember in either situation, but this was a line I had used on my friends many times @jenica so obviously I wasn’t going to bed anytime soon).

We wound up at a club far away from the hostel, in an area I was sure was desert but was probably just off a dirt road. There, I ran into the guy whose air bnb I had gone to a few nights before, as well as a few guys from the hostel.

Let’s just say I made it home by 7 am and I was accurate about how much I would remember.

Currently it’s about 6:47 am and I’ve just awaken on a couch in the hostel theater. Today is my last day in Medellín, so Sorenne snuck into the hostel (theater) last night so she wouldn’t have to trek to her apartment there and back again. I guess it’s not really sneaking in–she stayed here two nights over the weekend before moving her things into her new apartment in Medellín, so the staff just assumes she still has a bed here. We sure fooled them!

Anyway, clearly I am terrible about doing this day by day but I figure if I can keep up once a week then i should be good.

I’ve also discovered I’m terrible at charging my phone, so shout out to Fred (mother’s bf, NOT Hickman for anyone back at the office) for the external charger–it’s been saving my life (currently have 12% battery though, might have to venture out to my actual bedroom).

Another discovery–I love empanadas. They’re like a less messy version of a taco. They even come with an array of salsa options (always about the sauce).

Ok, moving on.

Day 6

This is the day I arrived in Medellín. The drive from the airport to the actual city is UNREAL. It’s like a city amongst a sprawling mountainous jungle. What was less impressive was the hostel I booked (Paisa City Hostel) which promised to be a party hostel in a bustling neighborhood (it’s not).

I arrived to the hostel, after some difficulty finding my hostel driver, to find a rather residential slightly rundown neighborhood. The only sign that i had arrived at my new residence was a tarp poster over a jail barred door.

I immediately regretted having booked four nights, but as I checked myself in, I figured I should at least give it a shot. I met a couple extremely hungover people upstairs, still in their bunks (it was about 3 pm) who decided to face the day and join me for lunch.

Becca, from England, Johanna, from Germany, and Josh, from Australia, told me about the late night bar from the night before and how drunk everyone had gotten (very riveting, i know). Josh also told me about a two month aywanaska (butchered that for sure) retreat he was planning on taking, where you take the drug 24 times in the course of the retreat with a spirit guide and daily ceremonies. I couldn’t decide if I was impressed or alarmed, but definitely not something I would ever do (don’t worry, mom).

Anyway, two Colorado guys I had met in Cartagena messaged me and told me about a bar crawl that was happening at their neighboring hostel (Happy Buddha) in the more touristy ‘hood, Poblado. I ventured out to meet them, accompanied by a 51 year old Paisa City Hostel resident, who never stopped talking about how glorious the ’80s were (and how everyone in Miami wants to marry him 🙄).

When I arrived at the boys hostel, Casa Kiwi, I immediately decided I was switching hostels asap. Casa kiwi has a theater (here I am), a deck of hammocks, a front patio hang out common area, Pool table, and a roof top bar and pool. Amazing.

I was greeted by the two boys and their crew of Australian guys and Swedish girls. We rallied the troops and made our way to Happy Buddha, where a mass of about 80 backpackers were already heartily drinking. The night was fairly eventful. I fell in love with a German, danced on one of the bars with the Swedish girls, discovered that the “white coffee” (not my nickname) is indeed much better down here, found a bar with a ball pit in it, and then went to an after party at my new American friends air bnb in the hills until 5 am. I ubered back to my shit hostel and ptfo immediately.

Day 7

Thursday proved to be a day of much needed relaxation (aside from my cab ride). I woke up around noon and quickly packed, said goodbye to Becca and Johana and called a cab. I guess the only time I really was scared this past week was during that ride from Paisa to Casa kiwi.

Once I got in, the driver looked at me in the rear view mirror and told me in Spanish how beautiful He thought i was. Slightly uneasy, I thanked him, and looked away. He tried to continue the conversation and I attempted to be cordial (in broken Spanish) but was starting to feel uncomfortable with every glance he gave me in his mirror. As we were about to enter a massive tunnel, the uber map suddenly glitched and said we were headed in the wrong direction,l. Simultaneously, my driver suddenly locked the car doors. I literally panicked and started yelling and waving my map at him. Poor man was quickly alarmed and kept pointing to himself saying “bueno man, bueno man.”

He somehow charaded being in the army and told me in mangled English, half Spanish, that he had been in the army for 30 years and that he is a “protector.” My heartbeat slowed slightly as the uber map corrected itself, and I silently counted down the minutes until I arrived at my destination.

The Colorado boys had left the hostel before I got there, as well as everyone else from the previous night, but I quickly passed out in a hammock and took a much needed break from socializing. Eventually, I got up and booked a tour for the next day, to visit the town of Guatape and Pablo Escobar’s mansion.

Clearly I am not good at keeping this up to date. I am now on Day 10 but I guess I’ll briefly recap up until Medellin.

Day 2 (Sat)

Poor Lena woke up with a clear view into Arkansas and the doctors bed (they were not covered). After exchanging stories over breakfast about the night before, Eleni, Lena and I set off for the islands round two. This time we knew what to expect, and had little trouble navigating the sea of hecklers vying for our business.

By the time we returned to the hostel, the entire posse of doctors had arrived and we had recovered enough to go out again. (Well, everyone else had. I tried sneaking into my bunk but Lena found me and forced me out). We went to a bar called KGB, which is weirdly Russian military themed and decorated with relics from old wars. There, we met a couple of Canadian guys who got our number and promised to find us later that evening. From there we went to a Cuban club with live music, met up with more people from the hostel, and spent the majority of the night dancing.

The Canadian boys messaged to say they had been searched by the cops and had to pay them off since they found coke on them. After paying, the cops returned their coke. The Canadians told us they were not going to be going out after that.

Day 3 (Sunday)

We woke the next morning and decided to take a break from the beach. Lena and I walked around the city but returned to the hostel shortly after, sweating bullets and taking shelter in the shade.

A crew of Americans were sitting around me as I lay on the floor of the hostel, trying anything to cool off. Chatting about Portland, I ducked into my room to grab something, yelling about Oregon out the door. A girl in my room sat up and asked, “wait, are you from Portland?”

I turned to look and before I could respond she said “Hey, I know you.” Turns out it was one of my friends, Sorenne, from the year I spent in college down in Eugene.

The rest of the day was fairly uneventful. We went on a walking tour with the doctors, learned about the history of Cartagena (all the times it was attacked, and about the slave trade) before turning in for an early night. The doctors said goodbye, as they were sailing to Panama later that night.

Day 4 (Monday)

Lena wanted to stay at the hostel, but Sorenne and I decided to hit the islands again. This time it didn’t go as smoothly. It turned out to be a holiday and the beach was packed with locals and with more hecklers. Two women approached us, offering massages. Shrugging, we agreed on a price and let them get to work. Obviously, at the end of the massage, they told us they had gone twice as long and that we owed them twice as much.

After arguing with them, a guy suddenly came and demanded Sorenne stand up so he could take the lounge chair she had been sitting on. Another guy came over and helped us argue her case, since she had paid for it for the afternoon.

Eventually, we decided it was time to abandon the beach and headed back to the city. We walked along the streets, and stopped by the grocery store so I could pick up some soup (surprise). While in the store, we heard screaming from outside and ran out to see what the commotion was. A crowd had formed and their were several police bikes parked in front of the market. The crowd was chanting, and suddenly a guy sprinted out, police following in his wake. The guy came straight towards us, and I grabbed sorenne, trying to hide behind the entrance. He ran inside the store and five cops went in after him. The security guards slammed the doors shut, closing the store and locking the guy inside.

Somewhat shaken and wondering what the hell was going on, we started walking to the other store. As we turned the corner, a creature dripping in seaweed jumped out at us, causing us (ok well me) to scream. No clue what this thing was, other than terrifying.

Anyway, we eventually found a store and made it home alive. Later that night, the Canadians grabbed dinner with us and we wound up staying out until 4 am. I made out with one of them but they wound up being douchey and way too persistent. ✌🏽

Day 5 (Tuesday)

Sorenne and I booked a tour to visit a nearby volcano. The tour was supposed to take us to the mud pit, and after rinsing off in the lake, continue on to the beach for some lunch. Everything was going as planned, but after we all emerged from the lake and dried off, we were told that there was a protest for water down the street, and that the roads were blocked. They weren’t sure how long it would be closed, but there was no other way to get around it.

To pass the time, we played heads up on my phone with others from our tour. We eventually all got hungry, and ventured out to find some food. Let me tell you, we were in the middle of nowhere, so our options were very limited.

After being stranded for four hours, we finally piled into the van and took our chances on the road. Crowds of people were milling around, and kids were fleeing from SWAT officers, pausing only to flip off our van before taking off again. We made it through the mass of people, and continued to the beach in time for sunset.

That evening, sorenne and I changed hostels and went to one called Media Luna. There was a pool! Two younger girls offered us a beer and we spent the evening with them and some boys from the hostel across the street before turning in somewhat early (1 am).

Day 6

I woke up early, packed my bags, ate breakfast with the two younger Argentinian girls and Sorenne. We said goodbye, and I headed for the airport. Medellin!

I arrived in Cartagena Thursday afternoon, after a few unnecessarily long layovers and multiple flights. But I made it! After a slow jaunt through security, I was handed my customs card (in Spanish). A small group of English speakers and I spent about twenty minutes deciphering each question (incorrectly) before someone took pity on us and hunted down forms we could understand. After promising I had brought no food/goods from America–aside from the peanut butter and oatmeal cookies my mother had slipped in my bag the day before–I finally made it through to hail a taxi. Eventually, I found myself outside my hostel, exhausted, but without any trouble.

El viajero hostel is situated somewhat like a motel–doors all facing in towards each other with leaning chairs littered throughout the courtyard and an outdoor shower at the end (thankfully, not the only shower). A bar can be found through a little tunnel, where events are held every evening and hostel squatters can participate in salsa lessons, happy hour, live music etc. There are also two hammocks, which I made a beeline for after tossing my bag (yes mother, I locked up my passport) in my room.

My first evening, I befriended a few girls and sat in the outdoor bar chatting with a group of about ten, all from scattered places around the world. In un-Maya-like fashion, I opted for bed around 11 and was out in seconds.

DAY 1:

Friday morning I woke up early, refreshed, and hit up the breakfast with a Canadian from my room (empanadas!). We chatted about the possibility of a walking tour, but really I only had one destination in mind–the beach. On my way to the bathroom I ran into one of the German girls, Lena, from the night before, and together we decided to explore outside of the old city and take our chances on one of the islands. We got (minimal) directions from the front desk (just say “hospital”) and hopped in a cab, hoping the driver would figure out where we were going from our broken Spanish.

“Tierra Bomba Tierra Bomba!” I kept saying. He seemed to suddenly understand, and nodded vigorously before pulling away from the curb. We settled back and waited to see where we would arrive. Twenty minutes later we found ourselves amongst mini skyscrapers (resembling Miami), turning the corner of the local hospital, where we were greeted with views of a distant island and a swarm of locals trying to get our business first. I paid the driver and we scrambled out, trying to wade past the yelling mess around us. Finally, we chose a deal from one local and he ushered us to a small dingy boat, promising he would come back and pick us up in a couple hours if we paid round trip. Lena and I agreed and hopped in, eager to get the other side.

Tierra Bomba is about a ten minute boat ride from Cartagena, but in the one we chose, it took about twice as long, the little engine fighting each wave and swaying violently as we made our way across the bay (I couldn’t help but be thankful I had emergency insurance and a hospital within sight). Lena and I found an abandoned area to settle down, and spent the day dipping in the sea and reading on the white sandy beach, occasionally repeating “no, gracias” to every vendor who approached us.

By the time we got back to the hostel, a group had moved in next door, into Lena’s room. They were three American doctors, blasting music from their open door with a few beers in hand and a neon green stuffed teddy bear. We sat with them, chatting, and a younger girl eventually joined us, saying she was from Arkansas on spring break. The six of us decided to find some food (seven, if you include Max, the bear) and exited the hostel to watch the sunset from the old city walls, then to search for a local restaurant.

Over dinner, Jeff told us the story of how Max came to be. Apparently they were in Hawaii at a “fur” party (not to be confused with a furry party, but to be honest they sound pretty similar) which turned out to be a sex party where people wear limited amounts of fur. During this rave they discovered Max, who was part of the decor, and rescued him from sex slavery. Since he’s been liberated, Max has traveled with this crew of doctors to over twenty locations around the world (kinda like dragon but not as cute). The rest of this crew would be arriving tomorrow, they told us, nine total.

The hostel offered an hour of free salsa lessons that night, so after a quick stop to the liquor store we joined the rest of our fellow travelers in the backyard bar. Holy hell it was hotter than Haiti’s, dripping sweat and heaving with laughter we quickly learned the basics, rushing to the fan between songs to dry off.

The night was interesting. We picked up another girl from the hostel (Eleni from Cyprus) and set out on the town. We watched some alarming, somewhat impressive Michael Jackson impressions in a square, got hit on by a bartender who was disturbingly vulgar, and accumulated a lesbian couple from Spain as we trekked across the city in search of a club.

Eventually, we found an outdoor disco and went inside. It became increasingly apparent that Eleni and I were the most sober, which turned out to be a cause for pure entertainment as our crew became more and more intoxicated. The young Arkansas girl was dropping it like it was hot (to be fair, it was sweltering) with one of the doctors, and during some point in the night they disappeared entirely. Another doctor was about thirty minutes in to heavy bumping and grinding with a local, who, it turned out, was a prostitute and was whispering prices in his ear.

Eventually I became fixated on the idea of pizza, so the remaining doctor (Lane), Eleni, and I set out in the hopes of finding a pie. By this time it was around 3:30 in the morning, and we quickly realized we would have to settle for street food. We found a woman selling street meet and corn, and chose the latter. Uncooked corn with a shitload of butter is more satisfying than one would think.

Follow along as Dragon and I embark on our adventures around the globe!

Well. I haven’t made it very far yet. I’m currently sitting in the Long Beach airport (who knew it even existed) in front of a fire, waiting for my delayed connection to Florida. Two more hours!

My four day dip in Portland proved to be quite eventful–think I only slept two out of the four nights, but managed to shop, got a years supply of BC (really, PP for the win), pack, grab my last Sushi Hana, even slid in a visit to Acropolis (one of our famous strip clubs) for the best steak breakfast in town, and still managed to say goodbye to my Portland people. Forgot my retainer and nail clippers, so we’re in great shape already. Crazy to think that just 5 days ago I was “working” at my desk in New York.

Which reminds me–Fred/Gary, you will be pleased to know I bought travel health insurance, but I will still call both of you if and when everything goes wrong.

Anyway, I don’t have much to say–considering I am closer to home than I have been for the last three years–but I will say thank you to Aunt Ellen who drove an hour to come see me, even though I only gave her two hours notice. Thank you for feeding me, and thank you for caffeinating me. Seeing you certainly made this layover worth it (I also don’t mind the wine and fire).

I have a solid 18 hours of travel left before I arrive in Cartagena, so enjoy the freedom out there. I’ll be watching Finding Dory for the third time wishing dragon had made it out of cargo to keep me company #findingdragon