The Hitchhiker's Guide to Albania Part 3: The Beach at the End of the Universe

Author's note: All stories and other nonsense herein are meant as homage to both Albania and to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.  I adore them both.  However, I offer my apologies in advance to the former for being a smartass, and to the latter for being a shamelessly inferior exploitation of a classic.  The sections in italics are asides representing (mostly fictional) reference articles from "The Hitchhker's Guide to Albania".  British accents are encouraged.  

Perfectly Normal East
The American expression, "road trip" is frequently used to describe an overland journey made in a private vehicle, but it makes two fundamental assumptions which render it useless in Albania.  First, it presumes the necessity of a road.  Ancillary terms and expressions such as "trail", "goat path", "that reasonably flat stretch over there", and "I think the curb is low enough to drive over" must all be incorporated into the lexicon of the Albanian traveler.  Second, the word, "trip" implies a movement of relatively short duration between two fixed points, designated A and B.  This idea must be wiped completely from one's mind while traveling through this region of the western Balkans.  Anomalies along the space-time continuum are common here, and not even Google can aid the traveler who finds themselves caught unexpectedly in 1894.  Additionally, Point B exists in only a handful of realities that may or may not be one's own, thus calling into question the ability to arrive at one's stated destination.  As a result, the editors of The Hitchhiker's Guide to Albania encourage the substitution of "road trip" with the term, "adventure," and leaving subtleties of tone and eyebrows to do most of the leg work.

Other terms must be discarded as well, but for entirely different reasons.  For example, the Latin term "Manic Purgamentum" is the most common idiom used to describe "the abject inability to enjoy oneself due to a ferocious and all-consuming need to find a toilet."  In such instances, the Romans were also heard to use the phrases, "stercus accit" (shit happens), "nulliam prandium est" (no such thing as a free lunch), and, to the confoundment of etymologists, "non sum pisces" (I am not a fish).  In order to have any kind of expression, however, there must be a corresponding and pervasive experience among the constituents of the language.  Albanian fails this test.  By all observations, there seem to be no coherent regulations regarding inappropriate receptacles for defecation, nor for where one is permitted to stop their car.  Thus, the frenetic search for a roadside bathroom is rendered obsolete, and the phenomenon of Manic Purgamentum remains unknown to the region.  

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The Albanian Car Rental System
Albania has much to discover away from the beaten paths of public transportation, and renting a car makes most of the country accessible for a weekend getaway, even if on less-than-ideal roads.  By late fall last year, Cary and I were feeling brave enough to embark on just such an adventure, and went about learning how to rent a car.  The detailed process is described below:

1) Look for a place that has pictures of cars out front.
2) Show them your driver's license and pay 25 euros in cash for each day that you want the car (credit cards not accepted).
3) Wait 10-100 minutes for the car to be delivered, get in, and drive immediately to a gas station, as only fumes have been left in the tank.

Voila!  Our ticket to the whole country was punched.  Previous experiences with furgons and trains allowed us to skillfully ignore the nagging questions about how this rental system could possibly function, and we threw a bunch of bags and a 6-year-old junior adventurer into the trunk and backseat.  Respectively, of course.

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Roles and Duties of Albanian Adventurers 
A streamlined system with defined responsibilities must be established to return from an Albanian Adventure in mostly the same condition as one left for it.  Some of the basic roles are as follows:

1) The Pioneer: Strictly speaking, "Driver" does not quite cover what is required in order to get around here, and implies far too much control over the situation.  "Pilot" gets a little closer, as one may find potholes large enough to bounce the vehicle momentarily off of the ground.  This must be done calmly and in such a way that lands the automobile still oriented in the proper direction.  Pioneer is the best fit, though, as paths must sometimes be found, forged, or bushwacked, and surprises must be recognized and addressed around each turn.  

2) The Cartography DJ:  Due to the situations described above, the commonly used "Navigator"  falls short for the adventurer who finds themselves in the passenger seat.  "The Map is Not the Territory" is a poignant saying to bear in mind, and it is often advantageous to ignore a map altogether in order to better accept the reality before one's eyes.  Cartography DJs, then, must be constantly creating and comparing mental maps of where the adventurers have been so far versus where they are intending to go.  This skill is sometimes referred to as having "metal boogers", which seem to magnetically pull the team in the right direction.  In addition to literal mapping, they must also plot an appropriate musical playlist of between one and six hours in duration.

3) Junior Adventurer:  The primary responsibilities of this adventurer are to provide comic relief and cuteness.  Overwhelmingly, their time is spent coloring, napping, snacking, and asking if they are there yet.  

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Trip to Kruje
The itinerary for our first Albanian driving adventure was to head to Kruje on the first day, and Mt. Dajti National Park on the second.  Historically, Kruje was an important stronghold for the famous Albanian nobleman and general known simply as Skanderbeg.  Or Skanderbej.  Or, sometimes, Skanderbeu.  Regardless of which one you choose, the guy needs just one name, like Prince, or Madonna.  His regional rockstar status is due to his famous 25-year defense of Albania and the wider Balkans against invading Ottoman Turks in the 15th century, and today his name is found everywhere from city squares to commercial vineyards.  

The castle at Kruje was an embattled and bloody site through much of this conflict, so naturally its leading industry today is selling trinkets to tourists.  Mixed into the more typical shops with shot glasses and refrigerator magnets, though, are some serious antique stores that border on museums.  Many of the "postcards" for sale are vintage photographs from the early 1900s, and the collections of old watches, traditional clothing, compasses, bayonets, and WWII-era military apparel will make you very nervous to touch anything.  Luckily, this will usually be countered by the friendly shopkeepers who will encourage you to touch everything.  I challenge you to get out of there without something that you absolutely don't need.  Cary and I were able to get bargains on a pair of Albanian slippers and 1/3 of a rug, while Willow got a piece of free candy in every place we entered.

Albanian slippers really compliment
Ecuadorian pajama pants.

Part of the walls surrounding Kruje castle

After a little meandering and some lunch with a side of power-outage, we hit the road again.  We were heading to Dajti National Park, with reservations at the conveniently named Hotel Dajti.  We had only a vaguely southeastward notion to follow, but luckily we had our handy Albanian Adventure Pack.

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The Albanian Adventure Pack
Any adventure pack worth its salt must accommodate a wide range of possible trips, and should contain only items that are suitable for planes, trains, ferries, and automobiles alike (sorry knives and lighters).  Typical items include but are not limited to: a towel, toilet paper, wet wipes, granola bars, spices, sunscreen, insect repellent, ponchos, pen and paper, a first aid kit, art supplies, and a wine screw.   

The contents of an Albanian adventure pack, however, should include a few specific items that one might not naturally consider. 

1) One-third of a traditional, loom-woven Albanian rug bought in Kruje.  While the absence of the remaining two-thirds has never been properly explained, one's own portion is quite conveniently sized and may be used as a geometrically unique towel, a festive cape, or a picnic blanket for exactly two and a half people.  

2) A portable speaker so that one may use their phone to listen to more than just the four most popular songs of the moment being played in a loop on Albanian radio.  The Guide strongly recommends to the Cartography DJ the substitution of 90s hits.

3) A phone-charging adaptor for even the shortest of trips, as music plus Google Maps' inability to handle frequent u-turns in a sensible manner can deplete a battery in less than one hour.  

4) A collection of 50 and 100 leke coins for when credit cards and large bills are not accepted, for when ATMs don't work, or for encouraging a junior adventurer to practice diving to the bottom of a hotel pool.

5) Burn cream for when said junior adventurer blisters her hands while serving flaming marshmallows on rocks found by the shore during a camping trip.

6) Headlamps that will be used at least as frequently indoors as out.

7) An Albanian Bingo card (pictured below) for keeping up one's spirits.  

The Albanian adventure pack also has some notable exceptions.  These items are typically thought of as useful, but are rather pointless to carry along in this particular region of the world

1) A can opener.  In a strange turn of convenience, all cans have pop tabs.

2) Coffee.  While instant coffee may be recommended for camping trips, the nationwide average distance between cafes is less than 50 meters.  

3) Travel games.  One is either a) already playing Albanian Bingo, b) cannot safely divert their concentration from pioneering and/or cartography duties, or c) have plenty outside of the window to keep them entertained.  A live goat on the back of a moped near Shkoder, for example.    

4) Flares.  They won't save you, so please just get out of the road.  

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A Day on Mt. Dajti
We reached Hotel Dajti and discovered that the hotels have similar practices to the car rental companies.  You show your ID, pay twenty-five euros per day in cash, and are treated to just a faint whiff of gas left in the room.  From here, our impeccable research told us that in the morning we could easily drive to a cable car that would take us to a scenic overlook.  The attendant at the reception desk had other information, however, and between tips from hotel staff and online research, the locals will almost always prove right.  We were told it was closed for "the season", and indeed it was.  While "the season" remained only vaguely defined, and though November in this region doesn't typically require much more than a stiff windbreaker and a plucky spirit, never underestimate the mere threat of winter to the Albanian psyche.

No matter.  We had all of Sunday set aside for exploring, so we drove into and through the park on our own.  No serious weather was encountered, but as we drove over the mountain and deeper down into the park, much of the road and a few bridges were washed out.  We were alerted to these and other obstacles through a series of yellow signs bearing a simple, yet effective, exclamation point.  Its mental effect was jarring, causing whatever objects or features that followed on the road to be internalized as a scream:  U-TURN!  ROCK!  GOATS!  And so on.  The road proved passable if you went slowly, but each hazard crossed on our descent into the valley raised increasingly legitimate concerns about getting back out, especially if "the season" actually arrived to slicken the path.  Thankfully, it did not. 

At some point in all of this, Willow managed to fall asleep.  Cary and I noticed this only when we got to a clearing and parked the car for a picnic.  We decided to let her keep sleeping while we set up a blanket a little ways down the road.  We found the right spot, spread the food and snacks around, and went back to retrieve Willow.  Rather than needing to rouse her, though, we arrived to find her wide awake and bawling, with tear-streaked chocolate melted all over her mouth, cheeks, and hands.  In her perceived abandonment upon waking, she had quickly found one of her candy bars to dull the pain, and I assume ate at least some of it.  There was nothing in the Albanian Adventure Pack to remedy this.  Luckily, after getting her out of the car, we found the area surrounding our picnic blanket littered with acorns and fallen leaves, and she tasked herself with collecting as many as could fit in the belly of her shirt.  Even the moments of solitary, sugary anguish of just moments before were no match for the unbridled joy she found in collecting (and individually naming) those miscellaneous items of nature.

Those windows are painted on...I have no idea why

Stop. Who would cross the Bridge of Death must answer me
these questions three, ere the other side he see.

Junior adventurer fulfilling her role

GOATS!

Late Fall in Albania

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Macedonian Girl Nuts
Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the of the western spiral mountain range of the Balkans lies a small unregarded lake.  This "Lake Ohrid" finds itself along the migratory path of the Albanian expat community once a year, during the part of their annual cycle in which they are highly social creatures.  They hop in their cars and drive in file to the neighboring country of Macedonia, where they purchase enough spirits to tranquilize a hovercraft full of eels* and dine in groups of no less than fifteen (always insisting they pay individually, to the chagrin of workers in the local service industry).   The weekend is then leisurely passed on boats, in the water, and playing a rather odd game involving silly hats that prompts its participants to consider such hard-hitting questions as whether they would rather never trust their seat, or never trust a fart.  They are a sophisticated lot.

Moreover, there is the recent and curious tale of a small expat cub who quite accidentally came upon the rarest of natural wonders indigenous to the region.  After being sent by her mother on a mission to count as many different plants as she could along the shore, she instead returned bearing two acorn-like objects in the bottom of her bathing suit.  "Look at my girl nuts!"  she innocently proclaimed, having no doubt given them female names and, lacking pockets, placed them inside of her swimwear.  As of the publishing date, the guide's research department confirms that this is the last known sighting of the elusive Macedonian Girl Nuts.

* Bingo!

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The Beach at the End of the Universe
We returned safely home to Durres from that weekend excursion to Kruje and Dajti, and explored many other places in and around the country during the year and a half that followed.  However, the trip that most captured the spirit of an Albanian adventure was our journey to the Cape of Rodon that same winter.  According to the map, the cape is located less than 40 kilometers up the coast from Durres, but getting there required us to take a very circuitous route on the highway that would have tripled the distance.  Being in the mood to ignore the advice of Google in favor of a direct route, we decided to forego the map entirely and just keep the sea on our left.  

In hindsight, this plan was obviously doomed to comical failure, but we were filled with the confidence of a crisp Saturday morning.  We drove north out of Durres along a main-ish road, which beyond city limits evaporated into a 2-track path, which soon after narrowed into a 1-track suggestion, which then concluded abruptly at a chain-link fence.  We turned and followed the fence to its end, where we spotted a decent-looking road on the other side of a creek bed.  Gingerly, we coaxed and sweet-talked our rented Toyota Yaris over the rocks and divots of the dried-up stream, and drove a few kilometers to the entrance of a wood.  To this day I'm not sure if the road really continued through this forest or if the trees were just conveniently spaced, but either way, we drove on through to more and more implied pathways.

Hours passed, with Cary providing tunes and following her metal boogers, until reluctantly we consulted our phones to bail us out.  This was a mistake, though, since what we most needed at this point was a place to stay, and Google insisted on many options that were either closed for "the season", still not completed, or outright imaginary.  By this time it was getting dark, and we had been treading the same road, back and forth, for over an hour.  We had passed a restaurant called "Fishland" 6 times, which as it turns out is exactly the number of times it takes to evolve from a joke into a realistic option.  

Finally, enough was enough, and we stopped at a giant "Hotel-Bar-Car Wash-Restaurant-Pizzeria-Gas Station" thing that we had been actively avoiding in hopes of staying in a place that was maybe a bit more specialized.  Other than the taxidermy in the main lobby (which seriously rattled Willow), it turned out better than we thought.  We showed our IDs, paid 25 euros, and enjoyed our slightly gassy residence for the night.  We went downstairs to check out their dinner options and despite advertising both a pizzeria and a restaurant, there were only two menu options: pizza with meat and pizza without meat.  The type of meat was never clarified.  After eating we retired to our room, drank a little bit of wine (juice for Willow), and laid down for some long-awaited sleep.  The coffee was naturally on point the next morning, and we got an early start, finally reaching the Cape of Rodon in the daylight.

It was like someone had photoshopped every natural possibility into a single field of vision. 

For me, this has epitomized my experience here: nothing goes as planned, which is fun at first, but then frustration begins to loom just before I'm smacked right in the face by something beautiful.  Sometimes it's snow-capped mountains towering over the Adriatic Sea, alerting me to the fact that "the season" might be a real thing.  Sometimes it's the goofy, stumbling exchanges in broken English and my terrible Albanian, leading to a serious case of the giggles with a stranger.  Sometimes it's a 6-year old bringing me her Macedonian Girl Nuts from the shore of Lake Ohrid.  You just never know, but I'm glad I'm still around for awhile longer to see what will happen the next time I grab my Albanian Adventure Pack and hit the road.  Or path.  Or whatever.  

Communist-era bunkers fortifying the beach

A pick axe is not recommended for the
Albanian Adventure Pack

A repeat visit to the Cape of Rodon
the following spring

The path to the fortress

Totally comfortable nap

Will they stop this time?

Yes they will :)

Going the Opposite Direction in this Too-Big World

Well, fuck.  If I'm going to quote Jack Kerouac in the title of the post, I should probably attempt some kind of stream of consciousness and live with the results.  Live with, but maybe not publish.  See, he needed less discipline, having written on a roll of toilet paper, and backing up and editing being quite problematic.  He also likely needed more command of the English language, as I have already cheated and fixed more than one typo.  No matter.  The road is life, and so are your thoughts.  

I was anticipating recounting some of my latest adventures, which I will inevitably do, but this may be more of a drunken ramble than anything else.  Yes, drinking and writing go hand in hand more often than I've cared to admit.  So has writing and staying up too late on a work night.  Fine...so has drinking and writing and staying up too late on a work night.  

I've been thinking as I've been plotting my next entry that this blog has become a little too well-crafted.  Too much memoir and too little of what I'm thinking at a particular point in time.  Not that there's anything wrong with that, but some balance may be in order.  

Stormy skies at the Kotor Fortress

I will paint the picture of myself at this moment.  It is 1:27 am as a type this sentence, and I am sitting in the bar in the common area of my hostel.  I am in Zagreb, Croatia.  Wiz Khalifa is playing.  It smells of...pine? There are 6 people still up with me, and they are smoking and drinking and seem for all intents and purposes to be good chums, supported by long, sordid histories.  But I'd be willing to bet any sum of money that none of them have known each other for more than a week.  As for myself, I am drinking a beer called Ozujsko, which I have repeatedly failed to pronounce correctly to the bartender, and have given to tilting an empty bottle in his direction with pregnant glances of longing whenever requesting another.

How did I get here?  Well, short version is that I hitchhiked from Tirana to Shkoder, then got a cab to Kotor, Montenegro, where I stayed for 2 nights.  From there, I bused to Dubrovnik, Croatia, where I stayed for 4 days before hopping up to Split for 2 days of rotting on a beach and watching movies, and now here I am in Zagreb. 

I'm 90 percent sure this was sunset...

*That brief version of events has skipped kayaking my way into a group of no-good Irish who were inappropriate at every turn, and stole my heart.  It missed skinny dipping in the full-moon shadows of Dubrovnik's ancient walls.  It missed cursing my way through Split's historic old town, barely registering the impressive remains of Diocletian's Palace because I was seriously concerned that the volume of back sweat I was generating would soak everything in my pack before I found my Airbnb.  It missed losing my bathing suit and towel at my hostel.  And my watch on Cwytch Beach.  And my sunglasses...somewhere.  And a raincoat.  

It missed getting caught in a thunderstorm, alone, inside Kotor's ancient fortress on the top of a mountain, and later that day hearing a complete stranger telling me that I was beautiful, and that at some point in the night she was going to kiss me.  I blame (and thank) translation and alcohol.  It also missed going our separate ways just after, and likely not seeing each other again.   And the cuts on my foot (see: Dubrovnik) that have been dogging me the whole way.  That at some point, after getting to know some really great people, we all started going the opposite direction in this too-big world.  

With a little CGI magic, this becomes the Red Keep!

Kayaking around Lokrum Island

Shane and Heather, a couple of the aforementioned Irish rascals.
See you back at Scum Bar?

There's no denying it...even with full summer crowds, Dubrovnik
is fucking cool.

It has also missed the fact that little to none of this outside of, "Hey, I should head to Montenegro and Croatia while I'm still in the Balkans this summer," was planned.  That it has been an exercise in letting go; in not managing all of the details.  

It never seems that way, though, once the ink has dried.  Of course you met these people, and of course you did those things.  With enough time, you'll even start thinking that you intended to do it all.  At the very least, others probably will.  To bring it back to Kerouac: 

"I realized these were all the snapshots which our children would look at someday with wonder, thinking their parents had lived smooth, well-ordered lives and got up in the morning to walk proudly on the sidewalks of life, never dreaming the raggedy madness and riot of our actual lives, our actual night, the hell of it, the senseless emptiness.” 

I don't find existence as hellish as old Jack, but I've sniffed the edges of that emptiness, and I can feel the distance between my actual nights and the nights that reside in memory.  In writing this blog the way that I have been, I've given an impression of things being planned, and somewhat orderly, and making sense at the time.  I wrote an entire post trying to make sense of my failure to summit Cotopaxi after five tries.  That's bullshit.  It didn't make a goddamn bit of sense when I was standing on that mountain, nauseous, weak, and questioning my resolve.  Five fucking tries!  You can attempt to make sense of it all later, but in the moment, you often have no clue what you are doing, or what the point of it all is.  Why am I in Croatia, not knowing a soul?  What am I doing here??  Is it to meet new people?  To experience the world?  To test myself?  To feel utterly lost amid a thousand languages?  The truth is, I don't know, but maybe I will.  Tomorrow, the next day...just as long as I don't start thinking that I did when I got here, I think I'll be alright.  

Entrance to Diocletian's Palace in Split

The narrow streets of old town Split

*Disclaimer: Okay, so the whole stream-of-consciousness thing was fun, but I had to go to sleep.  The rest of this is an uneven mixture of rough, drunk ideas I had scrawled at the bottom of the page and what's been written months later.  I wasn't actually going to publish any of it, but what the hell :)

Chile: It's not you, it's me.

I went to Chile for a few reasons.  First, it was a new country for me, and I was in the mood for some box-checking in my travels.  Shallow, perhaps, but sometimes getting a new stamp in your passport trumps all else.  Second, I thought that I'd need a break after what I was predicting to be an exhausting adventure in Bolivia.  I was correct about Bolivia being an adventure, but I was wrong about needing a break.  As I wandered through the humming and beautiful streets of Santiago's Bellavista neighborhood, as I utilized the orderly and well-functioning metro and bus system to reach the coast, as I played amateur photographer with the arresting hillscape and brightly colored buildings of Valparaiso, I was a

Welcome to Valparaiso, the most photogenic city
in the world!

little...bored.  It was shocking.  And it wasn't at all Chile's fault.  I thought I wanted to take it easy and meander through the city streets with a book and no formal plan, but I was wrong.  Turns out, that's not me.  For a weekend, maybe, but for a whole week?  Nope, throw that book into a backpack and strap on some boots.  Instead, I spent a large portion of time wishing I had stayed in Bolivia longer, or gone to Peru with my friends.  I had forgotten what had drawn me to Chile in the first place, and why it had stood out for so long in my mind as a travel destination.  And either through stubbornness, laziness, or misguided patience, I did not change my plans.  So this post is a formal apology to Chile, which doesn't deserve my negativity.  Here are the things I should have done:

1) Torres del Paine
Sure, it was winter time in the southern hemisphere, but that would have meant no crowds!  I should have charged up my iPod, hopped a 24-hour bus from the capital, and gotten sick of all of my music on my way to the tip of the continent.  During the long nights, I would have emerged periodically from the relative warmth of my tent to relieve myself, and I would have stayed outside just a little too long in the freezing cold, captivated by the nearby mountains backlit by the Aurora Australis, before desperately clawing my way back into my waiting sleeping bag in a shivering palsy.  I would have gradually warmed up, my breathing would have slowed, and I would have fallen profoundly back to sleep, nice and toasty, with only my cold, damp nose and the sound of the wind to remind me of where I was while I drifted away.

Torres del Paine in the winter.  Photo credit and article.

2) Skiing Outside of Santiago
I haven't been skiing in years, and why I didn't take advantage of the many slopes close to Santiago, I may never know.  Temporary insanity.  Also some very valid budgeting concerns as I was planning to move to Spain.  But mostly the temporary insanity, I think.

Portillo Ski Resort, 2 hours from Santiago by car.
Info and photo credit.

3) Climbing Volcan Villarica
Regular readers (both of you) probably know that I am a sucker for a good climb.  Make that climb an active, sulfur-scented volcano, and I am nearly helpless.  Aside: I may not have very good survival instincts...

All this at less than 10,000 ft/3,000 m!  Photo credit.

4) Colchagua Wine Tour
Chile's reputation for wine is well-deserved.  I indulged a bit in Santiago and Valparaiso, but as I was standing in the Duty Free shop on my way back to Quito, it occurred to me that I know nothing about wine.  My perception of wine quality and therefore my purchase was guided entirely by the price of the bottle.  A wine tour would have been a good idea in Chile in order to dispel some of this ignorance, but luckily I hear that this is also something I can remedy in Spain.

This vineyard may have been a little more barren, but I hear
the wine cellars are beautiful in July. Photo credit.

My biggest problem, I think, was that I gave neither Bolivia nor Chile enough time this past July.  Really, I should have done one or the other and given it two full weeks.  Or three.  I certainly didn't give Iceland enough time.  After running around Maryland, Delaware, and DC for a few weeks spending some much anticipated and cherished time with family and friends, it was time to make my move to Europe.  I flew from Dulles to Barcelona via Iceland Air, and one of their promotions is that you can extend your layover for no extra cost for as long as you want.  I had to report to work, so I couldn't go nuts, but I managed to sneak in three days around Reykjavik.  A day trip around the golden circle had me in awe of Iceland's waterfalls and geothermic gifts, and a morning in the Penis Museum had me oddly spellbound by the astounding phallic diversity of the animal kingdom.  If you ever want to know what a sperm whale is packing, or a goat, or the 2008 Icelandic National Handball Team for that matter, just pay a visit to the Icelandic Phallological Museum in the heart of Reykjavik.  You may be a lot of things, but you're unlikely to be disappointed.

I was not kidding about the handball team.

Sadly, this is not the Penis Museum, just a
regular church that happens to resemble a penis.

A sperm whale penis, shaped like a church.

Downtown Reykjavik

Gullfoss Waterfall on the Golden Circle tour.

Friends from the tour by a boiling natural spring.

This tourism initiative by Iceland and Iceland Air is really something to consider.  Reykjavik is a down-to-earth city that still has a lot going on, and the surrounding area, tortured as it is by volcanic activity, plate tectonics, and glacial movement, is breathtakingly gorgeous.  And while the Icelandic language is a little tricky to master (try saying "Eyjafjallajökull" five times fast), English is almost universally spoken.  I certainly plan to return.  But for now, it is time to acquaint myself with Barcelona, my new home.  More to come soon.

Beautiful Bolivia

Me and a friend caught in a candid moment.  I'm much
more handsome in black and white.  Photo credit.

Bolivia.  It has tickled the fancies of everyone from Victorian "gentleman explorers" mapping the Amazon, to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid fleeing the long arm of the law, to Che Guevara stirring up a revolution and severely pissing off the CIA.  And this is to say nothing of the Bolivianos themselves, who even within their own borders can find themselves in cities, jungles, mountains, and deserts of salt (sorry about the ocean, guys, but you'll have to take that up with Peru and Chile).

Presently, however, the massive and landlocked Bolivia is firmly on the Gringo Trail and finds itself hosting a smattering of Americans, much of Europe, and, more specifically, what has to be a third of London.  Seriously, there couldn't have been many people left living there this past July.  But I digress.  I found myself a happy member of this crew, and Bolivia stole my heart.  Seriously, just wow.  It also stole my breath...even coming from Quito, La Paz and Lake Titicaca are HIGH.  I spent a week there, and never adjusted to the 13,000 ft or so elevation of the region.
 But as my altitude issues have already been sadly documented on this blog, I will get on with it.

Entering La Paz

At over 21,000 ft/6,400 m, Illimani stands watch over
Nuestra Senora de la Paz

La Paz is a tough city to fly into, for pilots as well as for passengers.  The pilots have to land in El Alto, the town that lies above the rim of the valley that contains, as best as it can, the sprawling La Paz.  The elevation is about 13,300 ft, and so has predictably unpredictable weather.  When I left, for example, it was snowing.  I was then delayed on the runway for over 2 hours because fog had reduced visibility to about 10 feet.  Add wind shears to all of this and the fact that there isn't much around it in terms of backup plans, and you have an unsavory situation for anyone but the most experienced pilots.  So there's that.  For travelers, La Paz will either be hard on your wallet, or hard on your sleep habits.  Flights at reasonable times charge you your first-born child.  Reasonably-priced flights take you through 3 other layover cities in the middle of the night.  As I have no children to sell, I took the second option and arrived strangely alert and just in time for sunrise.

Loki Hostel

I stayed at Loki Hostel, which is a total shit show, but in the best of ways.  To call it a hostel is misleading; it is a hostel, a bar, a restaurant, and a tourist information center all packed into a renovated, seven-story mansion in downtown La Paz.  The bar, which is all of floor 7, has a great panoramic view of the city and is open all day, to the hazard and enjoyment of all.  Things really gets going around 9 or 10 pm and last until the bartenders decide that they are done.  When exactly that is, I can't say with certainty.  I made a good run at it one night, but 4 am found me turning in with the whole place still packed and going strong.  The main advantage of a staying at a place like this for a solo traveler is that it affords a lot of opportunities to meet up with others heading your way.  Many maps have been drunkenly stooped over, and many a friendship forged as people realize that they are going the same direction, or they hear about something interesting that they would like to jump in on.  Even if you stick to your plan and do your own thing, it can at least be fun to share stories, or to belt out karaoke in front of some likeable strangers and nightlong friends.

The busy and colorful streets of La Paz.  Get out of the
hostel, people!

On the negative side, these places can be dangerously self-contained.  A lot of people end up barely leaving the hostel.  To be fair, La Paz is a huge and confusing city, and if you don't speak Spanish, you are more or less going to be lost outside of tour companies.  But come on, you didn't come all this way without a sense of adventure, did you?  Are you really just going to sleep until afternoon and then get drunk at the bar again?  So you can hit on that Aussie guy/girl?  Oh, okay, it looks like you are.  Cheers.

In addition to the time-suck and the temptation of what's comfortable, these kinds of places can be anything but restful.  If you count yourself among those who like to sleep at night, this may be hard on you.  And there are no nights off.  "Sunday" has no real meaning for anyone who's been traveling for more than a week or two.  The bottom floors are okay if you're looking to get away from the noise.  I paid a little more for a room to myself on the 2nd floor rather than sharing a dorm with 10 others and a techno beat.  What can I say, I'm getting old.  In Bolivia, though, this isn't even much of a financial hit, as everything is absurdly cheap.

Around La Paz

Photo Credit 

Historic La Paz is quite beautiful, with large plazas, colonial-era Spanish buildings, and the Basilica de San Francisco.  You can spend a day among the crowds just walking around, popping into restaurants, and building your collection of alpaca-wool sweaters.  I have heard many, many horror stories about people getting sick in Bolivia, but if you are strong-stomached and/or have some antibiotics handy, you should try some of the street food as well.  Something you will also most likely notice in La Paz is the large number of shoeshine men and boys that are all wearing baseball hats and balaclavas to cover their faces.  I didn't know what to make of it at first, so I looked it up and found this article on BBC News that explains that they need to hide their identities to avoid discrimination.  It is a highly stigmatized profession due to class issues that still haunt Bolivia, as well as due to the reputation that the "lustrabotas" have as thieves and alcoholics.

Spiderman seems to have lost some confidence...

Starting out, with the Basilica de San Francisco in the
background

The most fun thing that I did in La Paz, however, was called Urban Rush.  There is a tall hotel building in the downtown area called Hotel Presidente.  This hotel rents out their top floor to a rappelling/abseiling company.  What they offer is the chance to repel down the side of a building in the middle of the city while wearing a superhero costume.  It is exactly as awesome and ridiculous as it sounds.  I tried really hard to squeeze into the Batman onesie, but it was a little too reminiscent of Chris Farley in Tommy Boy.  After donning the outfit of your alter ego (all that were left for me were orange jumpsuits, unfortunately), you have a brief tutorial before stepping out of a window on the 15th floor and walking down the wall.  For your descent, I recommend an emotional mixture of giggly and terrified, which is what I went with.  When you are 20 meters from the bottom, the people working the brakes on your rope (you use your own belay device, but there are 2 other people spotting you) ask you to let go of the rope, count to 3, and jump out away from the wall for a free fall.

Moments before the free fall.

Death Road

Did I mention that Bolivia is beautiful?

A more well-known attraction of Bolivia is the opportunity to bike down the road formerly known as "the most dangerous road in the world."  It was called this because until 2006, this narrow, winding road with sheer cliffs going up one side and down the other was heavily used by car, truck, and bus traffic.  Tragedy here was far too routine.  Ever since a new road has been opened, though, the death toll has gone down dramatically.  The old one has been renamed "Death Road," mostly as a promotional gimmick for bike trips.  Now, I don't want to downplay this: one side of the road is simply a void, and there are big consequences for ego on this road, so proceed with caution and go at a speed that is comfortable for you.  And please, no selfies.  But the Cliffs of Insanity aside, it is not an incredibly challenging road, and it is 4-5 hours of almost entirely downhill mountain biking.  I absolutely loved it.  The two best companies to go with are Gravity and Altitude.  I went with the latter for about $75 US.  You can certainly find cheaper, but really, do you want to?  I know people who haggled other companies down to $30, but think about what you're doing.  A shitty bike that hasn't been maintained makes for a rough day in the best of circumstances, and you don't want any surprises on this trip.  If you know more about bikes than I do and can do a more thorough self-inspection, by all means, go for it.  But don't get cute here.

Getting to Isla del Sol

After three days in and around La Paz, it was time to head onward to Lake Titicaca and to one of my

Our sure-footed Captain

favorite misadventures to date.  From La Paz to Copacabana is a pretty easy 3-4 hour bus ride.  You can either get a ticket at the main bus terminal, or you can book through a private company that will pick you up at your hostel.  Copacabana is the biggest Bolivian town on Titicaca, and if you are looking to catch the ferry out to Isla del Sol, then you will want to make sure you arrive before 1 pm when the last boat embarks.  Isla del Sol is the mythical homeland of the Inca; it is where their origin stories indicate their civilization began and their first king was born.  It is also an island in the middle of the world's highest navigable lake with no roads or vehicles, only hiking paths.  Because there are no roads, you can catch a ferry to either the south end of the island (closest to Copacabana) or to the north end of the island, 8 km away.  I had booked a hostel for 2 nights on the south of the island.  I bought a ticket for the south ferry, showed it to the man on the dock, and he directed me to the boat on the left.  As you may be surmising from my tone, this was not the south ferry.  I had mistakenly boarded the

I think I can live with this error...

north ferry, which is a full hour longer, and I was ultimately dropped off at 4 pm with a very large backpack and 3 hours of walking to do if I wanted to make it to my hostel.  So, that didn't happen.  Luckily, I had started playing cards with a few other travelers and by the time I realized my error, we were four games deep into Spite and Malice and it didn't seem all that important.  When I got off the boat, I had new friends in Mike from England and Josefien from Holland.  Like me, Mike had boarded the wrong boat, and Josefien had a hostel in mind that she had read about, so off we went.  All three of us had been traveling solo, but when you meet kindred spirits, you know it pretty quickly.

Three of a kind en La Ruta del Sol.

Bolivian Wedding Crashers

As it turns out, the north end of the island is really where I wanted to be, anyway.  Most people opt for the

Dancing their way into the party.

shorter ferry ride, so the south tends to be more crowded.  The north has only 2 restaurants that seem to observe no regular hours, and a few tiendas where you can pick up snacks.  There is a trail called the Ruta del Sol that runs the length of the island, offering elevated views of Lake Titicaca, which may as well have been an ocean from where we stood.  There were no lights in town, so you needed headlamps and flashlights to walk around after dark.  From our hostel, you could see every star in the sky, and we drank quite a few bottles of wine as we developed cricks in our upturned necks, listened to a storm across the water, and laughed giddily when it started snowing lightly around midnight.  Josefien and I made it our mission, no matter how cold it was, to go swimming in the lake before we left.  Mike quickly volunteered as photographer.  We also may have crashed a Bolivian wedding.  It began with curiosity, and we ended up being invited into a seated circle of Bolivian women in traditional dress and gold teeth to eat chalky potatoes and savory, savory pork.  We left after a little while, but when we heard it still going on after sunset, we had to make our way back to investigate the state of things.  What we saw was very clearly the after party, and we found ourselves among the more dedicated Bolivian party goers, dancing in the pitch black night with no lights to blaring salsa music.

The Roads not Taken

Like all travel stories, our magical time on Isla del Sol had to come to an end.  We took the same ferry back to Copacabana where we would part ways.  Mike and Josefien were both heading to Cuzco, Peru to see Machu Picchu and to do some jungle trekking.  I had already been there, years before, but I was a half a second away from abandoning my trip to Chile to keep our gang together a little longer.  Ultimately, I said so long, with vague and hopeful plans of meeting Josefien in Amsterdam, and Mike in Munich for Oktoberfest.  Sitting in the van on my way back to La Paz and a flight to Santiago, I couldn't help but feel that I had made the wrong decision.

We did it! I might lose some toes, but we did it!

And who knows what was waiting for me at the south end of Isla del Sol.  What would my trip have looked like without my two friends?  I would have hiked around, read my book, and met other people, and never have been the wiser.  Robert Frost very famously wrote about this phenomenon, and how way leads on to way, but there is something else this makes me think of even more: a very weird, very cool podcast I like to listen to called Welcome to Night Vale.  You should check it out, because it is nearly impossible to explain.  In one episode, the radio host is talking about nostalgia, and he points out that we don't actually feel nostalgia for the way things were, but rather for the way things weren't.  I could spend an eternity exploring all of the choices I didn't make.  Who the hell knows, maybe that's exactly what we do.  But not in this lifetime.  Here, we all just have to wonder how things might have gone differently, and to be both tortured and encouraged by the fact that all of it was our choice.  And to remember, of course, that there are many more choices to be made.

Coming soon: 

From Chile to Iceland

or 

Why the Hell Didn't I Choose Somewhere Warmer?