GO VEGGIE. NOW STAB YOURSELF IN THE FACE!

Wait, that came out wrong. I’m not implying that if you kick your meat habit you may as well stab yourself in the face (I’m also not not saying that). But this isn’t about you. This is about a certain festival in Phuket, Thailand (all of Thailand actually), where revelers, mostly Chinese Thai, renounce meat for a week, gather and pray in Taoist shrines and parade through the streets in a weeklong purification ritual that also incorporates a fair bit of self-mutilation.

I arrived at Phuket’s most important temple, the Jui Tui shrine before 6am. The grounds were thick with locals dressed in all white. The plaza was decorated with lights, candles and banners, and perfumed with incense. Dozens knelt, bowed and meditated. It was a serene, calming scene. Then out of nowhere a man kneeling next to me began dry heaving and gagging, white spittle gathering in the corners of his lips. He lept to his feet and began kicking in every direction. People scattered, as he did his best schizo-Chris Tucker impression.
Somewhere along the line he grabbed a whip and began spinning and cracking it. It missed my face by mere inches. Two elders grabbed him, his body shook and vibrated. They tied an apron around his neck and brought him to “the man who stabs people, ” who proceeded to pierce his scarred cheek (evidently, he’d done this before) with a silver needle then widened it with a piece of pipe that he attached to large silver rod decorated with flowers. It was relatively bloodless, but still intense.
Over the course of the morning that sequence repeated itself more than one hundred times. Cheeks, necks and tongues were pierced with needles and pipes of varying gauge and length. One man had six samurai swords sticking through both cheeks (um, he was bleeding). Another was stuck through with a barrel of a revolver. A fat man was draped in a coat of barbed wire, a misguided one was stabbed with a Volvo ad (yeah, is that spiritual?), and one brave soul’s cheek was hollowed out with a picnic umbrella!
Afterward this trembling, oozing flock of mediums paraded through the streets, blessing street shrines set up by residents and shopkeepers. Legend has it that these heroic acts of self-mortification will persuade “the nine deities” to descend to earth and heal our wounds. They are like self-appointed agents, here to take on the pain of the world. And by blessing the shrines, they are in effect, blessing the people who created them. And maybe it works, because these streets were saturated with energy that bounced from soothing to manic and back again. It was a palpable thing that exploded all around like so many firecrackers set off from second story shophouse windows, and cooled my skin like holy water splashed by would-be bodhisattvas seated on lotus leaf pillows in the middle of a people drawn cart. One had her long, elegant fingers twisted into a powerhouse mudra. She was like Chinese royalty from some other time or some alternate dimension.

Bonanza!

This was one of the weird days.

I landed on a rutted earthen landing strip in the rain; blatantly lied to indigenous people (has anyone else ever done that?) then fed them drinks for information. I got hustled twice (once by a cabbie, once by a restaurant owner) for a combined $50, and then retreated to the best hotel in town, which has wafer-thin, mouse shit-stained walls, suspiciously splotchy pillowcases, and a dubbed Bill Maher on TV. Welcome to Bonanza, Nicaragua. The town that finally pried another blog out of me.
First, though, let it be known that Bonanza is not without its charms. Even that runway is something everyone should experience once. It appeared as our pilot, who spent most of the flight reading the morning paper while letting his 18 year-old son man the controls, veered his 12-seat prop plane hard right out of the clouds, wings teetering, tail skimming in the rain, as a strip of red clay etched into a landscape of jungled mountains.
Then there was another banking turn a disconcerting increase in velocity (or maybe it was an illusion) and a thumping stop as stilted shacks and military trucks flashed by. And with that, after two weeks in Nicaragua’s up and coming coffee country, where comfort and caffeine could be sourced without too much effort I was in Las Minas – a gold mining region run by a massive Canadian mining company and peopled with Nicaraguan workers (most of them men from elsewhere in the country), and Mayangan Indians – the same ones who met Columbus when on his 3rd trip to the New World (the one were he dodged mutiny and returned barely alive clinging to a fruiting twig of wild Nicaraguan Coffee).
Not that I’ve been to a ton of mining towns, but I have seen a lot of Deadwood and this feels like a mining town should. There are cowboys on horseback, casinos, and almost as many bars as girls. I wasn’t surprised to hear that weekends get violent. That’s what happens when men don’t have women to keep them honest. We (well, not me… but…) we drink till staggering and then try to stay vertical while shouting and swinging wildly. In fact, I saw that exact scenario unfold today (a Monday) at 6pm.
But back to the town’ charms. Aside from the fact that you can pan for gold or take a three-hour tour of a massive multinational gold mining plant that plumbs 400m beneath the earth to extract 24,000 tons of gold each year, Bonanza is on the doorstep on the world’s largest expanse of rainforest north of the Amazon. At 20,000 sq km the Reserva Natural de Bosawas is home to 30,000 Mayangan Indians who live in 16 villages accessed by roads that are washed out half the year. I wish I could tell you that I’m here to hack my way into this remote jungle. But, alas, I don’t have time. This is a Lonely Planet gig, which means I have to pick and choose which excursions make sense to take on. This would be a 4-day trip, minimum, and considering no tourists ever get out here (only scientists) I’ve chosen to simply glean the Bosawas how-tos, and save my adventuring for more popular locales. Like diving off Corn Island.
But getting the info isn’t so easy. The Bosawas Office, which I’m told is the only resource in town, is closed for the week. Then I’m told of a Mayangan man named Fredencio Devis who leads tours into the Mayangan villages of the Bosawas. So I go to his house, but he just looks at me like I’m insane. But he gives me the name of his cousin who is a Mayangan territory leader and has an office in the city government building. Or he did. I checked. That office doesn’t exist. But my cabbie knew where the cousin lived. So we visited his daughter and got his phone number. Ten minutes later I was getting a welcoming bear hug from Rolando Devis, a Spanish speaking Mayangan Indian with a thin mustache and a beret. Oh, and he was shit-faced.
He was accompanied by a much more composed gentleman with Jimmy Johnson hair and a suspicious gaze. I took out my notebook and asked questions, like “How can I go to the Bosawas?” “How much will it cost?” “What do I need to bring?” But they wanted to start with questions like, “Who the hell am I?” “How did I get his number” “Am I a missionary?” “And can you get Univision and CNN down here?”
I put my notebook away and soon found out that I’m the first international journalist they’ve ever met. And that the drunk Ronaldo, who also happens to be a black belt in Shao Lin Kung Fu, is the leader of the Mayangan people.
It was somewhere during this dicey period that I decided to lie. Mainly because telling them the truth would be to difficult to manage given the levels of sobriety and Spanish fluency involved. I’m not sure if I ever said, let’s all go to Bosawas together, but that’s definitely what Rolando heard.
“When are we going?” He asked. “We all go together. You, me and I’ll hire two guards. They will keep you very safe my friend.”
“Bueno,” I said with a smile plastered to my face as he slugged his beer
“Okay, so when are we going?” He and his partner just stared, while I considered the very basic question. Now was my chance to better explain the book, tell them that I just didn’t have time to visit and I hope I haven’t been a bother.
Instead I said, “Thursday? I mean… Thursday.”

He mulled that one over, and said, “How about Saturday?”
“Perfect,” I said.
Then he stood up in affirmation and shouted. “Let’s go see a Mayangan Pueblo!”
So he, the Mayangan Jimmy Johnson and three younger Mayangan guys, and I all piled into his (thankfully) chauffeured old school Land cruiser and hit the muddy backroads. We bounced over boulders, splashed through rivers and skirted a dirt poor village dotted with stilted, one-room wooden shacks with naked children swinging on porch side hammocks. The late daylight was angled perfectly on the jungle, illuminating the dozens of variations on green visible in all directions.
“We are very poor,” said Rolando – who seemed to be sobering up as we drove. “Ortega gave us this land after the revolution in the 1980s. We have no industry, no money in Bosawas. We get no income from the gold mine or from the scientists. We are on our own.” Words tinged with sadness but also with a smile. “At least we have our autonomy.”
Then his eyes narrowed on mine, as if looking through me. “How did you get my number?”
I should confess that when he first asked this it was back at the hotel, and he asked it with a bite of resistance, anger even. Like he wanted to know who was nosing around his business. So, I didn’t want to tell him about my drop in on his daughter. I mean, who wants to hear about a foreigner dropping in on their daughter asking weird questions. Instead, I said his cousin gave me his number. He accepted it, but I could tell he didn’t believe it. I took a deep breath. “Your daughter,” I said as I averted my gaze. He smiled wide and nodded. The fucker made me.
“Todo tranquillo,” he said.
Then we stopped at the highlight of the trip: a foaming mocha colored waterfall that bursts over black granite and disappears into thick jungle. This is where the Bosawas reserve begins. By this time all suspicion and apprehension had faded from both sides and we were simply enjoying a slice of raw wild.
“Politics and power changes,” he said referencing our on-the-road conversations about Osama, the Sandinistas and Reagan, “But nature is forever.”
This was the Shaolin Mayangan madman at his best, feeling nature and wearing a beret. Which is why I was startled when he abruptly asked, “Who needs a drink?”
We all ended up at a restaurant where we (well… not me) ate fried guinea pig (a local delicacy) and shared a bottle of the wonderful Floor de Cana Gran Reserva rum. One slug of rum and he was back to the brink of incoherence. He kept shaking my hand, wiping his greasy guinea pig hands on my shirt, fingering ice from the bucket and throwing it into my glass, and making loud meaningless proclamations like:
Him: “These are the principals of the revolution!”
Me: “Um… what are?”
Him: “Exactly!
Both: (awkward pause)
Him: “When are we going?”
Me: “Sabado!”
Everyone but me: (loud cheers!)
Me: (awkward pause)
Through it all – which included a near brawl between staggering drunks at the other end of the restaurant – his beret remained perfectly askew. Then the check came, and it was easily twice as much as it should have been. I have been in this country for three weeks, and I know how much things cost by now. He demanded to look at the check, but I just smiled and paid it as it lay – just the latest extranjero buying his way out of his lies on indigenous land. I know… so 500-years ago.
He smiled, poured me another and raised his glass. “To friendship!” He said. We drank. Everyone did. Then he asked me for $100. I mean, seriously Rolando.

Arkansas On My Mind

I may have to cut Arkansas from the top ten states. My decision has something to do with an aging resort hotel crammed with “Grottoes”, an obscure sect of silver-haired Masons who are all a minimum of 50 pounds overweight and wearing suits and ridiculous golden fez-type hats that only Mr. Cunningham would wear on his way to grand poobah meetings. (If you were born after 1980 please, for the love of god, search happy days on imdb or you tube. and remember… Joanie loves Chachi).

The banner above the Arlington Hotel lobby reads, and I quote:
Supreme Council Session
GROTTOES OF NORTH AMERICA
Mystic order veiled prophets of the enchanted realm

Um… if its so freaking mystical and enchanted and veiled, why the banner and public display of goofy hats? The only thing veiled about these guys are their abs. which is part of the reason the elevators at this massive, charming but seriously aging hotel that recalls The Shining are either overcrowded or overloaded. More than once the doors wouldn’t close and the elevator kept beeping because the Grottoes are so big. All it took was one of the “big old boys” (as another observer called them) stepping out of the elevator and we would rise.

Suffice it to say, I am slightly annoyed. And to think, earlier today I boldly proclaimed to my friend, Dan, that I was gonna sneak my newly beloved AR into the 9 or 10 spot. That launched a furious debate. Dan dismisses anything in what he terms, “the flyover” – aka anything between NYC and LA. He even said his native Pennsylvania should rank above Arkansas – a state he has never and will never visit. This was blasphemy to me… a new convert to this overtly beautiful, funky, poor, and quite religious state, but one that also feels pretty damn free and has plenty of pristine nature, space, and warmth to spare.

But, even before I got here… to the Arlington hotel in hot springs, where even the non-smoking rooms still stink like your octogenarian uncle’s smoking chair, and the lobby bar is serenaded by a jazz band in white dinner jackets straight out of the Catskills, and there are far too many grown men in shorts (please, if you are male, over the age of 25, and can legally rent a car, and are not exercising in public at the time, please keep your bare legs to yourself. okay? treat them like orthodox Jewish women treat their hair. cover it. show it only to your wife and kids. please. don’t make this hard)… even before this… I knew I may have been giving Arkansas too much credit. But at the time I meant it. Those first few days, my first stops in the state were that good.

This seems like a good time to discuss the aforementioned state-ranking criteria… in the discussion are the following categories, in no particular order: nature, food, weather, activities/nightlife, hotness of chicks (or dudes, if you must), freedom (of choice, of thought, or unlimited parking without retribution, or religion, or behavior, or of the right to dig chicks and/or dudes publicly even if you’re a chick and/or dude), and, of course, the asshole quotient.

Now… to make it into the top ten, your state must excel in at least three categories, or show tremendous balance among all the categories. Given these categories it is no surprise that California and New York have always and will always run 1 and 2.

California has nature (amazing mountains, beaches, deserts and rivers up and down the state), plenty of gender-neutral hotness, insane weather, phenomenal food, tons of things to do, sweet weather (perhaps the best in the world) and tremendous freedom of thought and behavior. Yes, the asshole quotient in Beverly Hills, Hollywood and throughout the elitist, lily-white living rooms of the bay area is high, and the parking rules are historically absurd, but the goods outweigh the bad here. New York city has such high quality hotness (some dudes, but, really, mostly women), food, and activities/nightlife, plus some damn fine freedom of thought and behavior and a surprisingly low asshole quotient, that it carries the entire state into the top 2 every time. As for the rest of the top ten… I’ll leave that to you. The real question here is… will Arkansas make the cut?

Let’s just say, that when the Grottoes entered my life the jury was definitely still out.

But then, I kept flashing on my Arkansas highlight. The obscenely gorgeous North Buffalo Wilderness in the Ozark Mountains tucked into a hyper-religious quadrant of counties in Northwest Arkansas. These are dry counties, so if you travel here – and you should – remember to bring your own booze. I didn’t. Of course, I had no idea that we even had dry counties in the US, so, there’s that. But… we do. Lots of them.

I should have known just by looking at the sheer number of churches on the side of the highway that morality is supreme here. There were all kinds –massive ones built like an arena surrounded by soccer fields and decorated with a neon cross, dignified wooden ones white washed with lovely slender steeples, modern evangelical ones held in modular homes, stodgier Methodist brick house churches… new ones, old ones, Spanish language ones… some are falling apart others are gleaming with newness. Suffice it to say, the people of Arkansas praise Jesus in all his forms. And part of me was wondering what Footloose-era Kevin Bacon would do for a good time in a place like this? Is dancing even allowed here?

Of course, I wasn’t here to nitpick at “morality”, I came to paddle the buffalo river, the first ever to be protected by the national park system, and the kind of river that soothes you into an altered state of being. The kind of river that, when it comes to reflecting the divine, will trump any church anytime.

The sinuous river shifts from brown to blue to green and back again depending upon the season and the flow. Thick jade forests lean and crowd along the edges, turtles sun themselves on the rocks. Hawks and vultures soar above the black granite bluffs, which frame the river on and off for the first 20 miles. The shorter bluffs are pocked with birds’ nests and sprout with ferns. The large ones loom 525 feet high and bow out in the middle like a member of the Grottoes, only prettier. It’s a three-dimensional mind-bender of a sight.

I paddled the river for four hours and 10+ miles. At times the surface of the water refracted the sunlight into silver and gold ripples, illuminating eddies and baby rapids that foamed between rocks before smoothing out and licking gravel bars and beaches. Waterfalls streamed down the mountains above. The remains of an old homesteader’s cabin loomed on a small bluff, its majestic fireplace still intact.

But the best moment was when I came upon a regal blue heron standing on the rocks. He sensed me coming and took off ahead. His flight was silent and elegant. Then, five minutes later, I came upon him again and before I could get up alongside him for a good long look, he took off once more. And it went like that, our little game of tag, until finally, he became more comfortable with me, and he allowed me to float next to him. We locked eyes for a few seconds before he took off one last time.

After the paddle I spent time with Mike Mills, the owner of the Buffalo Outdoor Center, the longest tenured canoe outfitter on the Buffalo. This man is not just a skilled oarsman – he’s run first descents of angry, boiling rivers all over the world – always choosing a canoe (over a kayak or raft) as his primary mode of floatation, he’s also a tremendous businessman. How else can you explain a guy who has turned a modest canoe shop (one he still runs from behind the counter) into an estimated $10 million empire? The man owns 1,500 acres of the best real estate in the Buffalo – all of it overlooking and abutting the national park. He also owns 18 log cabins that he built himself. They are immaculate and comfortable. I should know, I stayed in one. And he has his own plane (yes, he’s a pilot), a hot air balloon, a great wine collection, and is on a first name basis with President Clinton. Oh, and his house has a full screen movie projection system and floor to ceiling windows with the best views in Arkansas.

If there’s one reason not to be jealous of this man, it’s the fact that he lives in a dry county. The closest liquor store is 47 miles away. But rumor has it, Ponca, his tiny town of 317, has a bootlegger.

The next day I hiked for 5 miles then drove through the Ozarks to another fantastic town in Northwest AR, called Eureka Springs. If Northwest Arkansas has a groovy liberal heart, it’s in this funky town. The streets wind up and down the hills, which are blanketed with trees and strung with dozens of restored Victorian homes and hotels. The food’s good, the vibe is terrific, the weather rocks – except for January and February, when the town basically shuts down and even the locals flee, and this place ain’t dry. It’s also known to have the only openly gay community in Arkansas.

Isn’t it strange that bible thumpers are scared of gay people, even though gay people (in general) seem to have a much better idea how to make a town fun, more livable and loveable? I’m telling you, Footloose-era Kevin Bacon would fucking LOVE Eureka Springs. There’s definitely some dancing here.

Of course, by the next evening I was in Hot Springs, knee deep in the Grottoes.

Hot Springs does have some interesting history – the springs here – similar to the artesian (read: cold) variety in Eureka Springs, were used by Native Americans and then settlers to heal a variety of muscle and skin problems. And both towns were linked to Chicago by railroad, so a steady stream of gangsters – including Al Capone himself – vacationed in Arkansas. He also made moonshine with the mineral water in Hot Springs, which he loaded onto railcars and distributed to Kansas City and the Windy City.

Throughout the 1920s and 1930s Hot Springs was a haven for gamblers and gangsters. There were bookies, casinos, a great racetrack, and plenty of brothels. And the Mafioso had a pact. There would be no fighting and killing in Hot Springs. They all kept their word.

The gambling era ended in 1967, when Governor Rockefeller went on a reformist rampage. And the Ohio Club – the best casino, and Maxine’s – the most famous brothel, are now bars that attract a local scene. Maxine’s gets Austin bands who are doing the Southern club circuit, and Capone’s (formerly the Ohio Club) is more refined and laid back, with a tremendous bourbon collection. That’s where I spent my time later that night. Sipping a healthy pour of Basil Hayden from a snifter and contemplating the state of Arkansas and its wild rivers, spectacular trails, canoe empires, funky mountain towns, gangster past, and favorite son, William Jefferson Clinton. Three drinks later (of premium booze for just $20 – try that in Cali or NYC), and some good conversation with friendly strangers, and this state was back in the top ten, after all.

Naked Man in the City of Lights

My recent NYC post notwithstanding, its been a damn long time since I’ve done anything with this blog. Yes, I’ve been busy traveling and writing a ton – and its hard to make blog time when you’re overloaded. But that hasn’t been the only reason for my cyber neglect. See… the blog I’ve been writing hasn’t been a blog at all. Instead of bullet points and quick hits I’ve been writing columns and telling longer stories. And that’s he kind of editorial commitment that will keep a busy man away from a good blogging habit.

But no more! From this point forth I’m changing the format to the traditional quick hit and run blog style. And I will be posting with something resembling frequency beginning with:

NAKED MAN IN THE CITY OF LIGHTS…

Paris is intoxicating. The architecture, the street side cafes, the homeless poets, beautiful women and art parks are enough to make you dream of a parallel universe where you have an apartment in Montmartre, a BMW motorcycle in the driveway, a designer wardrobe, and of course unlimited funds and zero responsibility. I’m here on a press trip, where among other things we will be staying at Le Grande with terrace views of the Opera House, watching mod abstract opera, eating and drinking a lot, and generally enjoying this fine city.

The best meal we’ve had so far was our first dinner. After arriving in mid-day, with traces of tramadol still surging through my sleep-deprived arteries, I somehow managed to stay awake for dinner. And I’m glad I did.

We ate at Georges, a fabulous terrace restaurant on the roof of the Georges Pompidou Centre, Paris’ great and colorful modern art museum. You know that trend of exposing a buildings’ utilities to give a room or loft that industrial urban vibe? It was launched when the architects behind the Pompidou Centre, Renzo Piano and Sue & Richard Rogers, not only exposed the utilities, but painted and accentuated them inside and out. It was daring and striking and even after all these years, the building still looks cutting edge.

And the view from the roof is absolutely insane. You can see every quarter and all the great landmarks. Eiffel Tower, check. Hotel De Ville, check. The Louvre, the arc du triumph, Notre Dame, the Sacre Coeur (aka… the church in Amelie), check, check, and check. At night, lights blanket the city, and when the Eiffel Tower erupts into a twinkling, sparkling champagne burst every hour or so, it’s a conversation stopper.

And the food, served by young and beautiful Parisians dressed to the nines (our waiter was so well-dressed I had suit-envy), was equal to the setting. Think about that for a second. When does the food ever live up to a landmark location? Isn’t it true that almost all restaurants blessed with sublime real estate live off their geographic good fortune? They will always get a steady flow of business so they don’t actually have to strive for something special food-wise. And, sadly, most don’t.

Georges bucks the trend. Their brand of Asian fusion was superb. We started with tuna tartar layered on a bed of ripe avocado salad, steamed lobster claws tossed with spring greens, a king crab salad and the most perfectly tender and sweet asparagus I’ve ever had. We followed it with a miso silver cod, shelled king crab in a tom yam curry, crispy mandarin duck, and a spicy, seared steak.  All of it rocked. We downed it  (I was joined by Linda, a sweet and bubbly food writer and avid cruise aficionado from Houston, Nicole, a lovely thirty-something Aussie newlywed living in NY and writing for Modern Bride, and the hotel’s PR director, Philippe) over a two hour meal lubricated with wine – red and white, and crowned with warm chocolate cake with fresh strawberries picked in the south of France.

We staggered back to the car at about 11pm, full and happy and ready to sleep. It could not have been a better first day in Paris. But there was one more sight to see. As our driver turned onto Boulevard Houssman I saw a gaunt, pale figure lumbering down the sidewalk, nearly bumping shoulders with couples out for a late Sunday night stroll. The man had a beard, and a certain drug-addled glassy eyed gaze about him. Oh, and he was completely and utterly NAKED!

Now, I’ve been to a few places, including some crazy cities. Never have I seen full frontal on the city streets.

“Naked!” I yelped. “That dude’s naked!” Only Nicole turned in time to glimpse the naked man. By the time Linda and Philippe swiveled around, he was out of sight.
“I think he had a six pack. I know he had good abs,” I said.
“I wasn’t looking at his abs,” Nicole said with a slight blush.
“How was the plumbing?” I asked strictly out of curiosity. I already knew what I thought.
“It was disproportionately complimentary, actually. I mean he wasn’t really that tall.”

Translation: the man was hung like a bull. Which is no doubt why he’s walking around naked.

So take heed of the Naked Man’s message. When in the grips of love, war and existential psychosis, it’s always a good idea to lead with your best asset.

ZEN, THE NFL DRAFT, AND THE MUSIC OF MANHATTAN

My friend Dan said that if the sun is shining I should go to Sheep’s Meadow in central park. “Two words,” he said. “Topless sunbathing.”

Good advice considering the high beauty quotient in Manhattan. So I strolled over to inspect the, ahem, lawn. It was sunny, but the wind was a bit too brisk, which meant there was no visible flesh. But there was music.
A saxophonist blew the blues on the edge of the grass. A string quartet floated through Brahms on the curb, a twenty-strong ivy league a capella group in preppy haircuts and blue blazers serenaded to a group of upper eastside girls, and a ragged acoustic band, think: three guys with guitars – a twenty-something, a thirty-something and a forty-something, and a young female fiddler, stopped me cold. The twenty-something guy was barefoot and hunched over beneath a hooded sweatshirt. He was the singer and he rocked back and forth on the grass, as he belted out the ballad, Waiting On A Friend, which may just be the perfect song for springtime in NYC.
You could tell that they hadn’t played together long – this could have been their first session in fact. Because they too were astonished and thrilled with how easy it was and how well they blended, riffed and harmonized. The kid sang flawlessly, and the fiddler filled empty spaces, alternating solos with the eldest guitar man. This was funky, sweet music. When the song was over I wanted to clap, and so did the others who gathered. But it was unnecessary. Our smiles said it all. This was a gift. One of those simple moments that burns deep.
What a contrast to a much more complex series of events that marked the previous three days. I came to NYC to witness the draft of Darren McFadden, the NFL’s next great running back, for Men’s Health. I’d interviewed him in Dallas two months before when he was training for the scouting combine with world champion and Olympic gold medal sprinter, Michael Johnson.
Back then he was still just a 20-year-old kid from Arkansas who loved football. His anticipation of fame and fortune was palpable, but he was so laid back, and immersed in an athletic setting that the buzz of the future hadn’t yet saturated him. I interviewed him twice, hung out around the workouts. Glimpsed quiet flirtations with local girls, and the effusive worship of local football fans (of which there is no shortage in Texas). And I learned of his own demons – a crack-addled mom, a broken home. Jailed brothers. Gang wars out the front door of a house he shared with 12 siblings.
The field was always his salvation. But he didn’t transcend his peers until his sophomore year in high school when he suddenly became a threat to score on every single play. At the university of Arkansas he became a legend. He was a Heisman runner-up twice. According to the Southeast Conference Record books, only Herschel Walker racked up more yards in a three-year college career.
But he never quite outran his hood. Twice he was involved in late night melees, both times defending bloodied brothers. Once he almost lost a toe. He never missed a game, but he did scare away some pro teams and injure his draft status – or at least that’s what was reported in the media.
So when he landed with Michael Johnson in Dallas he was preparing to shock the scouts back into reality. Which was that this young stud was the equal to recent rookie star Adrian Peterson, with more durability. That he was a prospect too good to ignore.
And it worked. At the combine in Indianapolis Darren outran speed-demon receivers who he outweighed by 50 pounds. And now he was in line to receive his riches – a pot of guaranteed gold worth at least $25 million.
The weeks between the combine and the draft were a whirlwind for Darren. He was never in a city longer than three days. He’d signed deals with EA Sports and Nike; he met and worked out with a dozen teams. He did scores of interviews and was alternatively the whipping boy and prince of ESPN draft pundits.
My goal in NYC was to interview him again, on the eve of his uprising, and to get next to his agents and his family during the draft so I could feel the buzz of energy that comes with a transfusion of fortune.
But first I would have to wait.
Originally I was scheduled to meet him on Thursday afternoon, immediately after landing in New York. His handlers – who had multiplied to a half dozen – referred to packed schedules and overflowing commitments. But as soon as I landed plans changed. I was now booked for Friday evening, the night before the draft.
Instead I would check into my Greenwich Village hotel, The Bowery, a sweet slice of plush Bohemia, have a late lunch with a writer friend in an Italian café that has turned the donut into culinary art, buy some funky sunglasses, and then head to the EA Sports party at a midtown club.
I found Darren in the VIP room in the midst of a media swirl. Then the cloud of cameras and microphones parted and he relaxed into the leather booth next to his lovely, enigmatic cat-eyed publicist.
I walked over, a bit nervous. I wondered how I’d be received. The last time we spoke, he was candid but there was some distance. I would learn, however, that familiarity is a beautiful thing. For weeks Darren has been interfacing with new and strange media types in cities all over the country. Now, suddenly, I was the friendly face in the crowd not the suspicious outsider.
“Hey man, how you been,” he said as I slid into the booth. This wasn’t an interview. My notebook stayed in my pocket.
“How you feeling? You ready for all this to end?” I asked.
“Man, I can’t wait for it to be over.” He said with a smile.
We chatted about the combine and his draft position. Then he was back in front of the cameras. The best dressed man in the room.
And I went to meet some friends at a bar in the East Village.
—
This was my first trip to NYC in two years, and it couldn’t have come at a better time for me. I had recently returned from another two-month stint in Asia, and my transition in LA was bumpy. I’d broken up with Jordan and submerged into a 5-day marijuana binge. When I came to I won Jordan back then got on a plane for NYC.
The best part about life in Southeast Asia is how free and easy it feels. Smiles are natural and ever-present… they are not considered hostile or intrusive. There are no parking rules, waiters do not want to be actors, a kind gesture is not an angle, and security personnel maintain their sense of humor even on the job. There are a million examples, but it all adds up to the fact that in SE Asia people are real. They are human. In LA, too often the people behave like drones. Interactions can be stilted and uncomfortable. Rules trump humanity.

But not so much in NYC. It’s too big and seething to control. Art and urbanity, music and chaos leak out everywhere and flood the streets. The energy is all encompassing and beautiful, even when the streets are rugged and filthy. You can feel it in the speak easies with their hand cracked ice and premium cocktails and live jazz bands, in the renaissance inflected wine bars, in the halls of the superbly remodeled MOMA, and on board the grimy 6 train. Within a few hours my perception had shifted. I wasn’t seeing robots anymore. I was back in the flow of life.
(Author’s note: of course I realize that I’m probably the problem here. I’m always traveling, so when I get home I sometimes get petrified of stability. My perception can become fixed and hazy, and I latch onto Southern California flaws like phonies and robots and phony robots who cross my path – and they def. do exist -and use them as a way to distance myself from not only the increasingly homogonous and corporate western lifestyle, but also the love of friends and family and the natural beauty that is always at So Cal’s fingertips. On the road… I pay the robots no mind. I get lost in the new. Enjoy a kind of Zen mind. So do NYC, Bali and Thailand have fewer robots per capita than LA? Or do I just notice them more often?)
Of course, I wasn’t in NY to get my headspace fixed or to explore pubs and speak easies or even to sample some fine music. I was here to rub shoulders with the NFL and interview Darren McFadden. And that was proving more difficult than I ever imagined.
My Friday night interview fell through because his agent wanted him to go on Fox Business – a channel nobody has ever heard of, instead of honoring the interview time with Men’s health – the biggest men’s mag in the world. Strange decision. It was really just a ruse for the agent to get on TV – however obscure. It pissed off his publicist, and I was shuffled to a Saturday morning slot. I was given an hour on the morning of the draft.
But there would be one event on Friday night worth witnessing. This was the pre-draft ESPN party, which attracted the likes of Glenn Dorsey (the top defensive prospect in the draft) and Adrian Peterson, the record-breaking running back and the reigning rookie of the year.
I learned two things at this party. First: I’d much rather be a rock star than a pro football player. In the upstairs VIP area, where I was huddled around a table with Darren’s team of agents and marketing staff, I saw Adrian Peterson; decked out in Armani and making his way through the scrum. It wasn’t easy. Everywhere he turned dudes, full grown men in their 20s and 30s, wanted to take his picture, get his autograph, and shake his hand. StraIn fact, I would be willing to wager that 9 out of 10 women in the US don’t even know who he is, and even fewer would ever recognize him at a nightclub.
Rock stars, meanwhile are recognized and bum-rushed far more frequently by women. And their star turn can last into their 60s. So… if you are keeping score at home. Rock stars win in a rout.
Second: I have grown to detest nightclubs. Especially popular ones. I don’t like the pretentious doormen, the velvet ropes, the uncomfortable crowds (unless the ratio works – it didn’t), and all too often the music sucks. In this case, the music was actually quite good. An R&B singer I’d never heard of was performing live, and she sang her ass off. Regardless, the point is I’m a happier guy when I can sit, listen to music, and chat…. and not watch grown men grovel and embarrass themselves before football stars, which probably also means I’m getting old.
So it should come as no surprise that I left early. I met my friend Chris for a drink at the Bowery. He was in town to meet up with a girl he’d been dating long distance. It was gonna be one of those relationship defining kind of weekends. He was set to meet up with her the next day, and he was antsy. We drank bourbon til 2am and then I drifted upstairs and faded into black.
The next morning I took a cab to the midtown Westin where the six athletes who were attending the draft were staying with their families… Finally, Darren and I re-connected. He was nervous and excited and we had our best chat yet. He was a different kid now. A bit more present, polished, articulate. But he still had his laid back, country charm.
I decided early on that I liked him. And as the ESPN news grinder continued to accentuate his checkered past, and I received emails from friends questioning his character, I became even more convinced that he had a good heart.
Sometimes I think I should stay objective and distant. That’s probably what they teach in journo school. But I never took a class and I don’t work that way. I connect. I tell stories based on intuition as well as facts. And my gut was telling me that this kid was gold. Of course, my opinion didn’t matter much. To Darren, it was the opinion of the men who ran the football teams that counted.
—
I never understood why anyone who wasn’t related to the prospects or worked for the football clubs would want to attend the NFL draft, much less line up at midnight to get a seat in Radio City Music Hall. But that was before I walked inside the building later that day. The energy in the room was thick with anticipation. There were two studio stages – one each for ESPN and NFL network. Media descended from hundreds of outlets, and fans came decked out in jerseys and were sipping beer and mowing down hot dogs like it was game day.
But it wasn’t just the TV strobes and the flashbulbs and the football fanaticism that contributed to the buzz, it was the idea that soon lives would change. The poor would become rich and the American dream would be realized in a very public forum. When dreams come true there is a vibration, and the overflow of that vibration is intoxicating.
The first pick had been a done deal for nearly a week. And if there was ever any doubt about just how much money is at stake with the NFL draft you can point to the contract of Jake Long, the Offensive Tackle selected first by the Miami Dolphins. Before he ever suits up he has already become the highest paid offensive lineman in the league.
But contracts lose value with every pick and every round, which is why the combine is so critical, and why all those McFadden quality of character stories were so damaging. See, this kid was every expert’s top prospect, but nobody was suggesting he should be the first pick. It was a combination of his past and team needs that kept his status in limbo. By the time draft day rolled around it looked like he would be the fourth pick overall or the sixth. He’d either be a Raider or a Jet. The Jet fans in attendance came to the draft hoping to welcome Darren to their squad.
I was standing with Darren’s marketing people when Oakland was on the clock. Oakland took their time and let the clock drain. Behind us were his extended family and best friends. Everyone was on edge and tense. Even me. Then the commissioner came to the podium and called his name, ushering Darren McFadden to the national football league as the fourth overall selection in the 2008 NFL Draft.

Flashbulbs popped, there were high fives and cheers and boos from disgruntled Jet fans. And later, in the interview room, there were tears of joy from his mother and sister, and a quiet pride beaming from his father, who put Darren on the field when he was young to keep him out of trouble, and ended up grooming the next great superstar.
Then, not even an hour later Darren was already on his way to JFK to fly to Oakland where he would meet local media and explore his new home. And I was in Central Park listening to beautiful music in the sun and feeling the love of New York City.

The Flores Situation

I’m in the middle of Flores, an undeveloped island in Southeastern Indonesia, and I’m surrounded by 50 angry villagers, half of whom are drunk on rice liquor and carrying machetes. This was not in the brochure.

I should have known the road trip was doomed when my guide pulled up lame within the first hour. It was something he ate combined with the relentless twisting and turning Flores Trans-Island Superhighway – a one-lane path of mostly crumbling asphalt that stretches from Labuanbajo to Maumere and traverses volcanoes, skirts the coast and arcs over raging rivers. It can fit two vehicles side by side, but barely. Jacabus, my guide, seemed fine until Ricos, the driver, pulled over suddenly and Jacabus started hurling uncontrollably. He tried to hang, but two hairpins later and his guts were roiling publicly yet again. We put him on a bus back to town, and continued on. Luckily, Ricos spoke some English… more than I originally thought, and we made our way through the countryside.

At this point you may be wondering why in the hell two Indonesian gentlemen have names like Jacabus and Ricos. The answer is simple, Flores was settled by the Portuguese in the 16th century, and 400 years later the people are still Catholic – there are churches in every village – and their names are still Latin, although, sadly, the Portuguese effect on food and architecture didn’t last. Although in Flores, indigenous architecture is striking, and nature is raw and soul soothing. There are views on the Flores Trans-Island Superhighway that make your mind go blank. If it isn’t the hip high rice paddies that roll with the wind next to swaying coconut palms and boiling rivers, it’s the young volcanoes with their perfect cones that rise from the jungle and the sea. The road itself is fairly new. Even 20 years ago it would take nearly four days to travel 200 kilometers. Now it takes half a day.

Bus connections are minimal and schedules fluctuate, so if you have a limited amount of time to see Flores then renting a car is your only option. I’ve been on limited time for the last few months – courtesy of a Lonely Planet schedule that had me bouncing from place to place so fast, and absorbing so much that by the time I arrived in Flores I was barely lucid. Arranging the car was easy, but finding a flight back to Bali was a lot more difficult. I’d hoped to drive across the island – from Labuanbajo to Ende or Maumere and fly back to Denpasar from there. I’d been told by various airlines that this was an easy hop to arrange. Not so much.

You may have read about Indonesia’s embarrassing rash of airplane accidents lately. That prompted the government to undertake a full-scale review of every airline, airport and plane in the country. The hopeful result would be higher standards and fewer bloody headlines. And this review happened to disqualify every plane that would otherwise have been flying from eastern Flores to Bali. All flights had been cancelled indefinitely. I wasn’t particularly upset about this. A bad plane is a bad plane, but I was a tad disoriented by the fact the airline reps in Bali had no idea about this. Do they think these flights still exist? Can we have a government review of all airport desk clerks to make sure synapses are still firing?

The upshot was that I had to drive across the island twice in the three days, significantly compacting my already short schedule. The main highway links all major cities, and our first stop was the foothill hamlet of Ruteng, four hours from Labuanbajo. It’s a fairly quiet city that lolls over rolling hills. We stopped at a coffee factory/cafe for lunch, where I bought a lovely ikat, a traditional hand-woven blanket that is Flores’ definitive handicraft. Mine is a beautiful, huge one of a kind piece that will make an ideal bed spread, something I’ve sorely been lacking. At $15 it was a steal.

After lunch Ricos went to replace our bald tires, thank god, while I checked email in the dustiest internet cafe’ I’d ever experienced. It was the only shop in town, packed with locals, and the connection was superb…. easily better than most in the country. It was run by a single owner/operator who was forever tuning and taping and keeping Ruteng wired with the rest of the world. I’ve come to think of these quiet internet clerks in lonely Indonesian towns as unsung national heroes. What a community service they provide.

We left Ruteng at around 4pm for the 4-hour drive to Bajawa, an attractive mountain town surrounded by volcanoes and traditional villages. One hour in and we were in a thick fog bank. Visibility was 10 feet at most and the higher we wound up the highway – the steeper the drop-offs. This was especially unnerving because all of village life happened on this highway. Children played, adults walked, chatted, and gambled, animals (read: chickens, goats and cows) grazed and roamed…But Ricos was at the wheel, calm and collected. He handled the turns like a pro, avoided on-coming trucks and buses and dodged villagers smoothly. After a harrowing couple of hours the clouds cleared and we were in Bajawa.

In Bajawa, the food is good, the hotels stove-heat water for morning showers, and traditional architecture buffs love the surrounding villages. Ricos and I stopped through Wogo and toured a compound of 25 bamboo bungalows with peaked, thatched roofs and bamboo-beamed ceilings. The entire village was working to re-roof most of the huts – something done every 5 years. Men and women worked together to harvest treat and shape bamboo. I took coffee inside one of the huts with an elderly woman who had hypnotic, luminescent eyes.

From here it was only six hours to Kelimutu Crater, outside of Moni. We skirted the seaside city of Ende and made it to Moni in record time. The whole point of this journey was to see Kelimutu and survey the lodging options in Moni, something that hadn’t been done by a Lonely Planet author in a few years.

Kelimutu is special because within its crater are three lakes, each with a different color. One is a bright turquoise and the other two are constantly in flux due to the mineral rich earth. One is yellow, red or black, and the other varies between dark green and orange. Most travelers come up for the sunrise, but we made it an afternoon session. Ricos and I were the only ones up there, and the skies were perfectly clear. When clouds roll in the lakes are completely covered. This can happen at any time and is the only concern for visitors. We were fortunate, and just sat silently and watched the lakes for a couple of hours, until the clouds wisped in.

As night took hold, Ricos drove me from restaurant to restaurant, and guesthouse to guesthouse in Moni, as I explored and took notes about each and every one. After two hours we stopped for dinner, and I told Ricos we were almost done. “Only two more,” I said. He thought his workday was done, and he was not pleased. We both knew that we had to drive all the way back to Labuanbajo the next day (16 hours at least), so I had to see these places tonight. He begrudgingly agreed, but as we drove around after dinner he complained of being sick.

“I have fever,” he said. “I think… malaria.”
Malaria?! Jesus. I gave him a warm shirt and tried to feel his brow to gauge a fever. He didn’t feel that warm, but repeated his dreadful diagnosis.
“Yeah, malaria.”
He shivered and shook as we drove to the last two hotels, and then I begged our guesthouse manager for some medicine and soup for the cold, stricken Ricos.

At this point I was legitimately concerned about Ricos. The next morning, he looked fine, and didn’t seem to be suffering or trembling or have any outward signs of illness, but could he handle a motor vehicle? He was obviously still upset about the late night work because he barely looked at me as he led me to the car for the trip home.

His mood improved when we stopped by the pharmacy and I sprung for medicine. He now claimed that malaria was unlikely. I was glad to have some semblance of our camaraderie back, but all good vibes died because of what happened next, in a village not 45 minutes from Bajawa.

This was a straight stretch of road, and visibility was perfect, but there were villagers all over the roadside and motorbikes zooming on both sides of us. Ricos took his eye of the road to make sure he wouldn’t hit a motorbike as he accelerated, but as he did so he drifted over to the edge of the asphalt – and was now right in line with two teenage boys with 100m to go. I figured he’d look up and see the kids in plenty of time. But the distance shrunk quickly. I spoke up, and then I shouted. The kids must have heard us at the last minute. One jumped out of the way, but the other took the side view mirror right in the back, between the shoulder blades. The mirror popped off and the kid was down. I jumped out of the car. The kid writhed in pain, villagers poured on to the scene from anywhere and everywhere. It was noon on a weekday, and nobody had anything better to do. Not even close. Ricos was freaked. And I was a bit nervous myself. With the ever wafting sent of alcohol and the gleaming machetes… things could have gotten ugly. Thankfully, there was one English speaker in the group.

“You take hospital, okay?” “Yeah, let’s go!” I said.

We took the kid and his buddy with us, and followed the do-gooder on his motorbike. The kid was going into shock. He was pale and breathless and crying. I wrapped him in my newly beloved blanket, which I had to double back to retrieve after leaving it at the cafe. Thank God we had it. The kid stabilized. Meanwhile, his brother was riding next to us on a motorbike and yelling at Ricos, who was engaging in the debate while driving the kid to the hospital.

“Don’t say anything, Ricos… you know, let’s just go to the hospital,” I advised.

We arrived there and so did 35 motorbikes, two minivans and a huge open-bed truck full of villagers. The entire community was going to see this thing through. We carried the kid to a gurney, and the people packed the room, hovering over him. It was amazing. The nurses didn’t clear the area, no ice was offered, we just all waited for the doctor. She arrived ten minutes later, on the back of another packed truck. She was a German nun who had lived here for 30 years. She spoke only German and Bahasa. I suggested ice to her, and she approved the idea immediately. Three different women came in and out of the room, bawling. One of them had to be the kid’s mom, but which one? Meanwhile the doctor said that he had no broken bones, and was simply severely bruised. I was relieved… this could have been much, much worse.

The next stop was the police station where Ricos and the boy’s family (his angry brother and drunk but compassionate father) arbitrated for monetary damages. It was a two-hour process in which the police listened to Ricos’ story and the doctor’s report. They even went to the missionary hospital nearby to check him out. The kid’s family wanted 500,000Rp at first (about US$56). Ricos negotiated that down to 200,000Rp(US$22). Plus he had to pay 35,000Rp (US$4) for emergency room services. He ran down a kid, could have killed him, and all he had to pay was US$26. That’s cheap in any country.

At one point during the tense proceedings I was sitting outside, when a paunchy middle-aged man came waddling over. He had seen this distraught bule (that would be me) sitting in front to the police station, and thought it would be a good time to try out some of his English on him.

“How are you today?” he began. I shook my head and didn’t respond.
“Nice to meet you,” he continued, undeterred. I waved my hand and nodded, yeah, yeah… Then he poked his nose in the room, listened for a moment and turned back to me.
“There was a problem,” he said with a big smile. “They are talking about it now. Then you can go.”
I snapped.
“I know what’s happening, okay?! I was there. Who are you?! Do you know this kid?! Do you know anybody in there?!” My brand of bitter English was not what he was trained for. He just nodded and took off. I turned toward the office, sheepishly, to find everyone staring at me, dumbfounded. “Sorry,” I said as I shrugged. They all laughed hysterically.

Before we left town, Ricos and I went back to the hospital. Ricos wanted to see the kid again, and I cracked some jokes with the locals to break the ice. Ricos said his final apologies. So did I, and we left. But I noticed something inside. The kid was still wrapped in my hand-woven ikat blanket. Was it too soon to reclaim it? I mean, what’s the statue of limitations on that kind of thing? Okay, so my rental car and probably-not-malaria -stricken driver almost killed him. But no bones were broken, there was no blood, and 18 year-olds bounce back from these accidents, don’t they? I tried to ask the nun-doc about it, but she just nodded and smiled.

Then I thought, “what would Larry David do at a moment like this?”

I knew immediately. So I went back inside and asked the nurse for a hospital blanket. She gave me a sheet. I bent over the kid, gave him a smile then slowly rolled him over, grabbed my new bedspread out from under him, and covered him with the sheet. “Feel better,” I said. He looked at me strangely. So did the locals.

“Well, it is my blanket,” I muttered as I gave them all the thumbs up. “Don’t worry… he’s gonna be just fine.”

Catharsis in Coach…

This is a confessional… and it’s fitting that I’m writing it on a plane (JAL flight 079, Honolulu-Tokyo; est. arrival time 4:49pm) because I spend an above average amount of time on jumbo jets, an occupational hazard or novelty, or something… see, I’m a travel writer. For me, the traveling came first. The sweet, endless scent of an Ecuadorian rose sent me off on a six-month journey to, well, Ecuador. That’s where I rode on the roof of chicken buses through the Andes, took psychotropic plants with a shaman, got lost in the rainforest. Got dysentery… twice. Fell in and out of love, and witnessed the forced resignation of a sitting President in Quito. The people rose up, stormed the streets, through bricks into bank windows and demanded change… all because the president removed the propane subsidy, which meant most Ecuadorians could no longer, afford to cook. It was an outrage that would not and did not stand. This turn of political fortunes was something I considered to be historically significant, until the same exact thing happened to a different dude two years later. This time I read about it in my cubicle.

I won’t bore you with the details of how I went from being a frustrated hippie in a cubicle to sitting on JAL 79 as a seasoned traveler. A traveler who has spent recent nights in the most elegant rooms in the world’s most elegant hotels (many of which continually gouge customers for internet and room to mobile phone calls, two modern necessities that ought to be included in the unspoken room rental agreement. Remind me to share a Ritz London horror story one-day soon. Just a little matter of $400 for six domestic telephone calls. Ouch!) Sandwiched around nights in certifiable fleabag joints in far-flung third world corners, where things are simpler and more precarious, and in many cases brimming with life force.

But that’s all backstory; neither here nor there. The point of this confession is that I’m addicted to travel. Frozen in perpetual motion. I couldn’t stop now if I wanted to. How else would I make rent? I’ve become unemployable. It’s true. Between trips once, I needed some extra cash so I went to a temp agency. The women who ran the place put me through the paces. I took typing tests (I’m a hunt n’ peck guy, didn’t go over), word, excel and power point tests. I failed magnificently and never got a call. Which proves that I’ve officially written and wandered myself out of the white-collar world and into a way of life I dreamed about but never actually prepared for. Now I can competently suggest hotels and wine and airlines (JAL rocks, by the way), and I make strange and exciting friends – like the Swiss Steve Martin look alike, Gonsag, an iconoclastic dive master in the Togean islands. I flirt internationally, but I also suffer surreal bouts of loneliness. Before you berate me for complaining, try staying in tropical mega suites by your self, surrounded by honeymooners and tell me you don’t feel it.

I might even go so far as to confess that I’m more prone to tears while watching poignant, quirky films on miniature seat screens surrounded by 300 strangers than I would be if I saw the same film in the theater. See, it isn’t the movie, or the strangers – the frizzy haired Japanese violinist with the warm smile or the young family of 4 crammed into 3 seats in the middle section, or the balding exec leafing through US Weekly in Business Class. It’s the biochemical response of being off on an adventure. That palpable buzz from “life on the road,” to quote my hero, Jack. It heightens our awareness, dissolves boundaries, and encourages awkward empathy.

Still, that’s not the confession. Here it is… until a few minutes ago, I had forgotten about all this. For the past few months I was still traveling, but a lot of the time, I was on autopilot. I would engage with my story subjects but would forget to lose myself in the great on-rushing magic of the road. I was just like any other business traveler – caught between the job and fantasies of home. And that ain’t how it’s done.

At its core… traveling is simply a way to brush up against life, without pretense or preparation. There’s electricity in that kind of surrender, a vitality that invigorates the soul and opens the mind. Getting lost in the jungle, that $400 phone bill in a snooty hotel, the middle-aged exec with an Us Weekly Jones – these are gifts to ponder and remember and share.

And I’ve noticed something else… even when I’m on the road alone, this life infusion binds me closer to the ones I love back home. It binds me closer to everyone and everything. No, travel isn’t the only way to cultivate such connection or tap into a wellspring of inspiration that can crack mundanity’s spell. But it’s the best way I know… which is why I’ll never, ever stop.

….