The Leaving Journal

Bali Silent Retreat

elcastleberry — Wed, 10 Feb 2016 13:12:00 GMT

Retreat. It’s a word that makes me think of summer camps: a big lake, a canoe, tug-of-war and capture the flag. Or company team building: ice breaker games and trust falls. But it also has another meaning, a verb: to back away from something. Reminiscent of war films - a desperate command, shouted by the leader of the losing army. Retreat! Away from the noise, the battle, the chaos.

My retreat is in that category.

I arrived at Bali Silent Retreat on a windy February afternoon. I already knew most of what I was told in the whispered orientation: ashram-style, do your own dishes and make your own bed. Refrain from social talking and the use of electronic devices. No wifi, no power outlets. Programs change daily - see the chalk board for yoga and meditation class times.

I woke naturally on my first morning at BSR, just 15 minutes before the day’s first yoga class. The soft morning light filtered through my white mosquito net and the hum of the jungle filled my ears. I enjoyed the peaceful surrounds only momentarily before I realized I had an earth-shattering, brain-crushing headache. What had started as a dull soreness in my temples yesterday had grown into a demonic, hairy beast grinding at my frontal lobe with a hacksaw. I’m a pot-of-coffee-a-day girl. The Bali Silent Retreat is caffeine-free.

I dragged myself out of bed and walked through the medicinal herb garden, infested with colorful butterflies, to the Meditation Octagon, an open-air, white tent over a wooden platform, grimacing through all the delicate beauty. Maybe yoga would recenter me (and relieve the skull-splitting pain). The octagon was filled with a handful of my peers - most of the guests at the retreat are women between the ages of 20 and 30.

I’ve taken a few yoga classes. I’m impatient, which makes it hard. Flexibility is also not my strong suit. This class was simultaneously the hardest and most relaxing yoga I’ve ever done, because the poses were held for 3-7 minutes: a stark change from the more main stream (and much easier) “flow” yoga. This is lovely when you’re laying in a gentle spine twist, but miserable when you’re hanging like a rag doll on cold, tight hamstrings with all the blood rushing to your already-imploding skull. My visual for meditation was my brain - my poor, spongy brain, begging me for a cup of coffee.

I wasn’t able to kick the caffeine withdrawal headache for two days. What saved me was the glorious, locally-sourced, vegan fare. The food at this retreat is its most underrated quality. Breakfast was a spread of home baked sourdough and peanut butter, papaya jam, wheatgrass juice, wilted salad greens, raw garden salsa, pumpkin pancakes with palm honey, potato and taro root “hash browns” fried in coconut oil, banana coconut dumplings, sour dough bread pudding with ginger and papaya, an array of fresh fruit including watermelon, passionfruit, papaya and canteloupe, baked apples, muesli and cashew milk, and mung bean porridge. The only non-vegan option was the rich, yolky eggs from a waddling herd of ducks who wandered the rice fields around the retreat, eating algae that competed with the rice plants. Which basically brings a new level of glory to sustainable food.

So I ate - well, and often, and slowly. I read three books. I put my pen to paper. I did more painful-yet-pleasant yoga. I did some other, really hippy-dippy shit I never thought I’d do: guided meditation, sending glowing balls of warmth to various parts of my body, realigning my chakra energy centers, chanting mantras. I took countless micro naps every day - in hammocks, on couches, in the grass. I looked at bugs and plants and the sky. I did a whole lot of nothing.

I am not a mindful person. I am hungry. Food hungry, knowledge hungry, affection hungry. Hungry for new experiences, for challenges, for more. I shovel food into my mouth - usually too much of it. I talk too much and ask too many questions. I devour books obsessively, reading them under the table while I eat and staying up too late to finish them, sometimes in a day or a few hours. I touch, hug and kiss those that I love, all the time, incessantly, to the point of clinging. I binge watch television shows. I fight tooth-and-nail, even when I don’t have to.

While this hunger isn’t something I want to change about myself, it is something I realized about myself while at this retreat. Whatever I was seeking, I discovered that mindfulness - inner peace, quiet, and calm - just isn’t a part of my life. And I want it to be. I want to have more time, to create more time, to enjoy the things that I love individually - a beautiful meal, a conversation with a friend, a good book - rather than frantically trying to consume them all at once.

And if you want that, too, then Bali Silent Retreat is the place to go.

The Perils of a Temporary Passport

elcastleberry — Tue, 2 Feb 2016 13:10:00 GMT

As I approached the passport check, I realized I was scowling. I’d been up since 3am with only two cups of coffee and I felt grouchy. Simultaneously, I realized grimacing wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I’ve been operating with a temporary passport for several months now and these passport checks usually turn into an interrogation. The temporary passport is a flimsy thing with only a few pages. It looks fake. I’ve been relying heavily on the perpetually sunny disposition and friendly nature of my boyfriend, Chris, in these situations, while I sulk in the background. But now, Chris is on a plane back to the US and I’m alone at a passport checkpoint in Bali, Indonesia.

So I put on my best smile, beaming at the officer with remarkable cheer for someone just off a 5-hour flight. He smiled back, looking a little startled. (Perhaps I’m out of practice.)

“Why is your passport like this? It’s not normal,” he says.

“Yes, it’s a temporary passport. I had to get it because my permanent one was lost,” I answer, trying to sound perky.

“Where did you get it?”

“Bern, Switzerland.”

“Where?”

“Switzerland. At the US Embassy. In Bern.”

“You were in Switzerland?”

“Yes.”

“This passport is from Switzerland?”

“Well, yes. The US embassy in Switzerland.”

He fiddles with the passport, turns some pages.

“How long are you in Bali?” he asks. The beginning of a typical series of questions from a passport officer.

“9 days.”

“Only 9 days?”

“Yep. Only 9 days.” Sorry we don’t all have unlimited vacation time, bro.

“Where are you staying?” Another common inquiry at a passport checkpoint.

“Ani’s Villas, in Ubud.”

“Ubud?”

“Ubud? Ubud. Ubud?”

“Ubud.” (This exchange was a matter of pronunciation. For the record, it’s “oo-bood.”)

“Any friends in Ubud?” he asks, expressionless. I’ve never had this asked of me at a passport checkpoint, but it’s a question on the visa application for Indonesia, so I’m still game with this line of inquiry.

“No, I have no friends here.”

“Would you want to go out to dinner with me while you’re here?” He asks this in the same tone he’s used for this entire interview, without a smile or a nod or a wink, just a question. As if my answer somehow impacts whether or not I get to enter the country.

“Um, what? I’m sorry - um, what?” I stutter. I was totally thrown and thought surely I had misheard him. Isn’t there some rule about hitting on people in these scenarios?

He hurriedly stamps my passport and hands it over.

“Have a nice trip!”

The Famous Full Moon Party? Depressing

elcastleberry — Fri, 29 Jan 2016 13:09:00 GMT

The full moon party on the beaches of Haad Rin in Koh Phangan was a blatant, disturbing display of hedonism and blithe disregard for the planet. I’m sad to have been a part of it but feel it worth recounting, if for no other reason than to deter everyone I know from ever participating.

The island of Koh Phangan is a place that people largely forget outside of the monthly full moon. After reading that the island was quiet, sparsely populated, rugged, and prices plummet outside of the week of the full moon, I was excited to spend a quiet few days on a secluded beach, snorkeling and reading.

But we booked our flights without looking at the lunar calendar.

One of my most egregious errors as a traveler to date. The full moon party has always sounded sort of nightmarish to me: young people drinking too much, beating eachother up and vomiting, all to an obnoxiously loud soundtrack.

But, there we were, aboard a ferry with hoards of tanned, young bodies, tattoos peeking out from under barely-there bikinis and man tanks. It was a frat fest. We chalked our mistake up to an opportunity to people watch and booked a hotel in the jungle, far north of crowded Haad Rin.

Here’s what I knew about the full moon party before we attended (most of which I learned from this Nomadic Matt blog post):

It has an attendance of up to 30,000 people.
The signature drink is called a “bucket.” Buckets are a poisonous concoction of ice, soda, whiskey (or a liquor of your choice) and the Thai version of the Red Bull Energy Drink, which is chock-full of ephedrine.
One of the activities on offer is a massive, double-dutch jump rope that has been soaked in gasoline and lit on fire.

When we arrived at 10, several people had already passed out in the sand (or maybe they were just power-napping?). The surf was a wall of men’s backs as they peed in the water, dotted by the occasional girl squatting over the waves. There actually was a gasoline-soaked, fiery jump rope, and people actually were participating. As we walked towards the beach, we passed a kid in an ambulance. Chris said, eloquently, “This is simultaneously exceeding and not meeting my expectations.”

The trash cans set out on the beach every few yards are a joke. They were probably full by 3 in the afternoon. Mountains of debris had built up around the bins and the beach was a minefield - you couldn’t go more than a few feet without stepping on something. But the real kicker was the water. Glistening under the light of the celebrated full moon, the white-capped waves were filled with trash. It was like the Great Pacific garbage patch in miniature.

We tried to drink, listen to music and have a good time, but watching - and thereby participating in - the destruction of that landscape was ultimately too depressing.

We grabbed a couple of trash bags from one of the vendors in a futile attempt to assuage our guilt. It was a disheartening process: for every piece we picked up, someone dropped three more in front of us. We left the party frustrated and angry.

So here’s the thing: even if all 30,000 partiers filled and removed a bag of trash the following day (and a world where that happens doesn’t exist because HANGOVER), there is nothing to be done for the amount of trash that flows out into the ocean in just a single night during this party. Before the hangover has even set in, a landfill’s worth of plastic bottles, buckets, cups, flip flops, clothes, toxic neon paint and who knows what other non-biodegradable crap have floated out into the Thai Gulf to kill marine life and generally MESS UP the earth.

I’m no Earth angel. Hell, I’m a traveler - my carbon footprint from air transport alone is probably disgusting. But throwing plastic trash into the ocean just seems like dont-be-an-asshole 101. These parties have a truly destructive environmental impact and I think patronizing this event is morally questionable.

If ephedrine-rich booze buckets, glow paint and flaming jump ropes are your thing, find somewhere else to do it. Somewhere with more recycling bins and less ocean.

Night Market in Pai, Thailand

elcastleberry — Sun, 24 Jan 2016 13:07:00 GMT

Markets remain one of my favorite ways to experience a place. From the chaotic Jemaa el Fna in Marrakech, to the hip Saturday market in Portland, Oregon, to the genteel weekend markets of Europe, the community that gathers around local food is always real and always imbued with positive energy - everyone loves to eat. That rings true in Thailand.

I think my experience of markets and street food in Thailand has been sweetened by the fact that it was an unattainable pleasure in India. At every corner, doughy, garlicky naan sizzled on a grill, pockets of fried vegetables bubbled in a vat of oil, mounds of curry and dahl sat invitingly sprinkled in parsley, but we chose not to take part. While we probably could have without incident, it wasn’t a risk I was willing to take after suffering from water contamination for several days.

So, Thailand - and its more sophisticated hygiene - brought with it a wealth of eating opportunities, all of which we have embraced with relish.

In Pai, the market that popped up nightly without fail was mostly comprised of older women with a single grill and cart. It was an unpredictable but never disappointing array of shacks selling grilled meat kebabs, plastic bags of sticky rice, noodle bowls, sushi by the roll spread out on red plastic trays like so many little gems, dumplings and gyoza, buttered corn on the cob, chicken schwarma, tea wafting tendrils of steam from bamboo tubes, crepes, pancakes, doughnuts, brownies homemade by a plump Thai woman with glasses and a bottomless smile (she called herself, very originally, “Mrs Brownie”). The tiny river town truly came alive at night around these ramshackle food stalls - most of the retail stores didn’t even have daytime hours and only set out their pastel displays in the evening for grazers to browse. The street is lined with a colorful spread of hand-knit hats, screen-printed tees and patterned bags, the ever-present hippie collage of rustic tones and handmade jewelry displayed on tree branches melded with bright anime toys: stickers and pens, stuffed elephants and notebooks, all wildly neon or sweetly floral with random English phrases (“You are my best friend of broccoly I love you too”) and strange cartoons.

These street markets are an integral part of Thai daily life as well as tourism - locals can always be seen with carry-out bags on their way home from work and families are always a prevalent part of the festivities. I love the concept of people bringing their kitchens forth into a massive smorgasbord for a communal feeding. I started the new year as a vegetarian. I’m not anymore.

Bangalore: Vidyarthi Bhavan

elcastleberry — Tue, 12 Jan 2016 13:06:00 GMT

The clock struck 2:25 and the crowd swelled behind us, fifteen more people pouring into the waiting area from the sidewalk and joining our relaxed group of twenty. They brought an energy with them, an urgency, and many of the previously calm families stood up and began vying for a spot at the front. I felt a child pressed against my leg and an old woman’s wiry hair tickling my upper arm. The man directly behind me was so close he could have rested his chin on my shoulder. Looking through the metal grate of the door, I saw waiters buzzing around in the dim restaurant, filling metal pitchers with water and placing one at each booth. At 2:30, a hunched, white-haired, Indian man opened the grated door and shooed the front runners (myself included) away, creating a pocket of space for him to turn the “Closed” sign around to say “Open.” He then stood to the side and allowed the stream of people to push through the small opening into the tiny, low-lit space.

Within less than a minute, each table was filled, every seat utilized efficiently. For several minutes, a mass of people stood in the center of the restaurant, hoping to squeeze in somewhere, before retreating outside and putting their name on the wait list. We were sitting across from a local couple in a basic, plastic booth. Rickety ceiling fans spun slowly, barely moving the air. Sizzling and popping rang out from a dark kitchen in the corner. The menu was a board on the wall with a handful of options listed in English and Hindi. It was an irrelevant posting because people only came to Vidyarthi Bhavan for one thing, the same thing they'd been serving there since 1943: masala dosa.

The waiters, in blue colored shirts and white, skirt-like wraps, walked around barefoot at a leisurely pace, almost sauntering. They delivered the dishes with grim purpose, sometimes piling twenty or thirty plates on top of each other. The first round was a mash of rice and potatoes with vegetables and spices served with a creamy chutney, followed by a savory fried donut in a red broth and then, finally, the legendary dosa. It arrived looking deceivingly simple: a folded-over crepe, hiding its delicious insides of masala-yellowed potatoes and onions spotted with black mustard seed. The waiter dropped the plates in front of us and returned moments later with a pot of soupy coconut chutney, which he dumped haphazardly next to the dosa.

Dosa, a south Indian specialty, was the first thing we ate when we arrived in India. The first restaurant we stumbled upon in the northern city of Delhi just happened to be a south Indian chain called “Flavors of Chennai.” We ordered dosa blindly, with no idea what would arrive at the table. When it came, we inhaled the fluffy pancake filled with vegetables and became enamored - so much so that we revisited the same restaurant multiple times during our five-day stay in Delhi.

Therefore, there is poetry in this famous dosa joint being the site of one of our last meals in India. We enjoyed Vidyarthi Bhavan’s fried flapjack and its perfectly-seasoned insides just as ferociously as we enjoyed our first: with our hands, ripping off pieces of the dosa to use as a glove for scooping the vegetables and chutney into our mouths. While India may not be easy, it’s definitely worth it.

Varanasi

elcastleberry — Sat, 26 Dec 2015 13:04:00 GMT

Our boat was surrounded by others just like it: rickety, in a word, with peeling paint and shoddily assembled wooden planks. I could feel my whiteness in the empty space between us and our boatman, where the other boats were packed to the brim with chattering Indians. Crinkled old women, their hands kissed in prayer, young men snapping selfies with their phones, children wrapped in scarves, asleep in mother’s arms.
A boy and girl hop on nimble feet from boat edge to boat edge, selling floating candles nestled in beds of fresh, bright orange flowers. A man passes with a big silver teapot of milky chai, which we bought and sipped from tiny clay bowls, the handmade roughness warm beneath my fingers.

Cement stairs rose out of the river before us. Flood lights spilled over the water, offensively glaring and white. At the top of the stairs, five men sat on raised platforms covered in orange silk. Clad in long-sleeved, brown shirts, khaki-colored skirts and a matching scarf draped across their chests, the men stood slowly and gathered around a single microphone. Their chanting, loud and grainy, boomed out of lily-shaped metal amplifiers, the five voices uniting in the unrecognizable murmur of one of India’s hundreds of languages. When they returned to their individual platforms, the voices were replaced with the clanging of heavy bells - not melodic, but hypnotically monotonous. The clanging became a tangible part of the air as the ceremony progressed. The sound never left, never softened or crescendoed, but grew to live in your ears like a physical element of the night air.

Each man lit a bundle of incense and began an intricate dance, moving in a square, waving the smoke in delicate half circles with artistic flips of the wrist. They presented the smoke slowly, in all four cardinal directions, painstakingly choreographed. The bundle of incense was then replaced by a long-handled, golden bowl embellished with a flared cobra. The bowl’s billowing smoke, thicker and darker than the incense, shot small flames, creating the illusion that the cobra was breathing fire.

For the final four turns, the cobra was replaced by a seven story cone of candles, their pinpricks of light flickering in the dusty wind. Just as the men were making their final turn to face upriver, our boatman gracefully detached us from the group and began to row back down the river. The glare and noise of the ceremony was swallowed by the eerie, silent gloom of vacant river banks. We disembarked far south of the festivities and trundled through dark alleyways to our hotel, dodging piles of trash and manure and the shadowy masses of sleeping cows curled up with stray dogs. We’d wake up the next morning with sharp stomach cramps and spend most of the Christmas holiday doubled over in feverish sweats, nursing “Delhi Belly,” but we didn’t know that yet. The chaos, the dirt and grime and barren humanness in every recess of the city, still felt romantic, exciting. With the velvet chai still lingering on my tongue and my imagination alight with visions of flaming cobras, I felt inspired. But maybe it was just the bacteria growing in my gut, preparing its brutal punishment for the morning.

Delhi

elcastleberry — Mon, 21 Dec 2015 13:01:00 GMT

The chaos of the developing world, all of its stark contrast, reigns here. A child's grimy hand tugs my skirt. I hear the tap-tap-tap of a woman's fingernail on the taxi window, and turn to see her kissing gathered fingers to her mouth in a begging gesture, motioning to her infant. The street is an endless river of stares -some curious, some leering, some disgusted, some awe-struck - all from dark brown eyes under heavy, low brows. The air is a thicket of spicy incense and curry spotted with putrid wafts of urine and human waste in a cloud of exhaust fumes. A woman on a bridge kneads a pile of manure, patting the shit into circular paddies left to dry in the sun. Pockets of dough dance in a deep skillet of bubbling oil; the finished ones, crisp and golden, leave damp stains on a sheet of newspaper. It's a cacophony of hawking and spitting and snotting, a kaleidoscope of glittering bangles and gold nose rings and jangling earrings, the mish-mash of patterns worn by women: lemon yellow, lime green, burnt orange, metallic sequins and cartoon designs, each brilliant collage of clothing sitting atop little socked feet jammed into flip-flops. The dust - in the air, on the leaves, in my throat and nose, tossed up in clouds by straw brooms and truck tires, indecipherable from the smoke of burning tobacco and trash. And the horns! A chorus of horns - the piercing, long scream of souped-up motor bikes; the long, low growl of hand-painted oil trucks draped with sparkling tassels and tinsel and images of Hindu deities; the staccato chirp of green and yellow rickshaws darting and weaving through traffic.

All of this, and we still spent our first few days in Delhi asking what all the fuss was about. People warn you with a sort of ferocity about India - "oh man, that place will change you, it's so intense, prepare yourself." And prepare we had. We had steeled ourselves for the onslaught of eager touts upon our landing in the relatively modern and clean Delhi airport, and were surprised to find a perfectly civilized, prepaid taxi desk. The things that have astounded me in India have been the things people failed to mention when talking to me about the country: the relatively convenient, fast metro system that rivals some of its American counterparts; the absurd level of security in airports and train stations (metal detectors and full pat-downs for everyone who enters); the number of people who will ask to take a photo with you because you're white. After our first five days in Delhi, I thought for sure I had missed something. Where was all the legendary stuff of these warnings? The inevitable "Delhi belly" illness we were sure to suffer from? The dirt and sewage and chaos?

It was in Varanasi.

Luzern, Switzerland

elcastleberry — Tue, 24 Nov 2015 23:09:00 GMT

Well, the inevitable has happened. I've lost my passport.

I am one of those people who constantly loses things. Important things like keys, wallets, and IDs (just ask my brother and sister-in-law, whose house keys, car keys, and credit cards I lost 4+ times). But, across a lot of different countries and a long span of travel time, I've never lost my passport. An under-aged girl once stole it out of my jacket in Boulder, Colo., then tried to use it to get into a bar, but I've never lost it.

Until now. I tore apart my meager belongings and turned Sarina and Craig's house upside down on Friday afternoon, two hours before the departure of my flight to Nice, France, where I was scheduled to meet Chris and his family. Had this happened two weeks ago, I would have hopped on a train to Nice for the weekend and worried about the passport when I returned. But, alas, the borders of France are on lock-down with good reason and I certainly wasn't going to try my luck.

So, oh well, right? Just stay home. A nice, quiet weekend at the homestead, self-pitying and crying into a glass of wine.

Not so. The family I live with had flown out a Spanish girl for a working interview this weekend, anticipating my trip to Nice. So, "my home" (these terms take on a complicated meaning when you live where you work) offered no refuge.

Really, I was very ready to get out of Rolle for the weekend, even if I couldn't cross any borders. A quiet weekend at the homestead was exactly what I didn't want. The struggle is that the stereotype is accurate: Switzerland is incredibly, rudely, stupidly expensive.

But, at some point in all travel (that point being now in this particular trip) money takes on a very arbitrary feeling. The variable currencies, all colorful and decorated with portraits of unrecognizable old people, start to feel like play money. Not to mention the power of the credit card, where it seems like you just walked away with a train ticket, or hostel bed, or nice meal, for free.

Furthermore, money loses a lot of its value to me when equated with experiences, comfort and joy. I felt lonely, disappointed and dejected in the Geneva train station at 6pm. Money made me feel comfortable, safe and productive in a Luzern cafe by 10pm.

I chose Luzern not because of its proximity to Geneva but because of its distance. About halfway into the train journey, umlauts and eszetts appeared on the road signs and the conductor's announcements changed from melodic, casual French to harsh, bossy German. I noticed many people on the train were speaking English with heavy accents and realized it was perhaps their only shared language. We had crossed over into the German region of Switzerland.

Luzern is a graceful medley of old and new: church spires mark the skyline. Rustic, wooden bridges stripe the river.The buildings seem to rise straight up out of the water, their faces decorated with plaster designs, paintings and colored glass windows. To compound this charm, the Christmas spirit is already rearing its head in mid-November. The streets buzz with Saturday markets, little huts sell gingerbread and roasted chestnuts on every corner. Branches of freshly cut evergreen are bent into wreaths, filling the air with the spicy scent of pine. Department store window displays are a flurry of silver bells and glitter and ribbon and sparkling, fake snow, which was joined by real snow on Saturday afternoon - the first of the season.

I met some wonderful people at Backpackers Lucerne and spent most of the weekend reading, writing, talking and strolling the city. Highlights for me included the beautiful Crying Lion monument, commemorating Swiss soldiers who lost their lives defending the French royal family during the French Revolution, and the Blend Teehaus, a cozy spot with Moroccan pillows and lanterns, a Japanese tea selection and American folk music humming low on the speakers (though be warned, the prices are very... Swiss).

The Needle Dam

The Water Tower

Kappelbrücke: Chapel Bridge

The Lion Monument

Beyond the "Wild Beauty"

elcastleberry — Sun, 8 Nov 2015 23:08:00 GMT

It felt unbalanced to post about Montenegro's glorious natural spaces without mentioning my experience with the cuisine, people and history, as these factors shape a place as much as geography, if not more.

It's worth mentioning the powerful factor of off season - many restaurants and shops were shuttered for the winter and I recognize that Montenegro's tourism industry hinges on warm-weather beaches and summertime parties. But, for all its natural beauty, Montenegro's cities were generally dilapidated. This manifested itself in the country's physical structures - dark, dingy stores and restaurants, piles of rubble and dusty construction sites - as well as the food. In almost every grocery store we entered in the country, the dairy products were expired, the potatoes were soft and sprouting, the greens were limp. I was expecting a European country where it was easy to travel comfortably on a shoestring budget. In reality, it's possible, but you're going to eat some crappy food. The seafood, a major staple of Montenegrin cuisine, was extremely pricey (more than 30 euros for a piece of fish) even in a cheap restaurant, and I never felt confident about the freshness of the catch.

We had two encounters with traditional dishes. Our first was a secret garden-esque restaurant hidden away on a creek in Kotor Bay, Konoba Catovica Mlini. It came highly recommended and we had a delicate fish stew and gritty-but-tasty mussels in garlic and white wine. This was the fresh, light, coastal fare I had expected to find easily and affordably in Montenegro, but this was the only seafood we ate for our entire trip. The food was decent, but it was the beautiful grounds - with waterfalls, Japanese bridges and flocks of geese waddling around - that made the restaurant worth seeking out.

The other culinary tradition in Montenegro is that of the mountains: a more hefty, meat-focused menu. At Kole in Cetinje, we decided to commit to the experience and ordered razanj, a traditionally spit-roasted meat stuffed with ham and cheese, and fritters. We got exactly what we ordered, but its hard to imagine meat stuffed with meat and cheese and fried in bread and topped with more cheese until you're actually looking at it. While the flavors were savory and not unpleasant, the meal was exhausting.

The derelict infrastructure and lack of access to fresh food piqued my curiosity about the country's history and its role in the current state of affairs. It's a turbulent history shaped by recent war, civil unrest, isolation and resistance. Tourism in Montenegro came to a halt as a result of the Yugoslav wars in the 90s and it wasn't until after Montenegro gained independence from Serbia in 2006 that the tourism industry began to recover. While that was nearly a decade ago, these relatively recent upheavals must contribute to the country's hard-to-pin ambience. Montenegro lies somewhere between the developing world and the developed, where sprawling, five-star resorts neighbor ramshackle piles of stone.

Inserting oneself into this country's permeating cafe culture for a few hours, it becomes clear that Montenegrin people deeply value their appearance. Perhaps this stands out to me as an American, where most cities outside of New York and LA have very little in the way of style, but people took great care with every detail of how they looked. I particularly noticed the women: thin and tall, with manicured nails, perfectly coiffed hair, full make-up, and tight-fitting (but not revealing) clothes. The men clearly hadn't rolled out of bed, either, though I found the "gym rat" aesthetic of sweat suits, gelled hair and bulging muscles to be rather unappealing. More important than my personal taste, though, was what this reflected to me about these people: despite the ruin around them, they carry themselves with pride. (Or maybe I'm just being shallow and focusing too heavily on physical appearance because I've been socially groomed to do so.)

There is something fascinating about the dichotomy of beautiful people and geography with disappointing food and neglected infrastructure. Montenegro made me think, which is more than I can say about many places I've traveled. Personally, I'll gladly tolerate the minor let-downs in favor of experiencing the country's "wild beauty" free of the crowds that descend in peak season.

Montenegro's "Wild Beauty"

elcastleberry — Sat, 7 Nov 2015 23:07:00 GMT

The tourism organization in Montenegro uses the tag line "Wild Beauty." After living in Colorful Colorado and the Pacific Northwest, and traveling in New Zealand, I consider that a tough title for a speck of a country like Montenegro to live up to. But on our first day in the country, we winded through scrubby forest, up and over green mountains to a sunset view of the dynamic, rocky coastline, the red roofs of Budva tucked into valley, and I had a feeling these people might know what they were talking about.

Sunset over Budva

We moved on to the serpentine, pebbled beaches of Kotor Bay, then up another winding road to the forested Lovcen National Park at the peak of fall color and inland to the massive and marshy Lake Skadar dotted with forested islands. It wasn't all "wow" moments, but a subtle growth of affection and reverence for the rocky landscape of high cliffs and low beaches.

Each city in Montenegro has a Stari Grad, or old town, of which it is very proud. These tend to all look the same after a while - narrow, cobbled streets, an ancient church on every block, high walls encircling the crowded stone buildings. We stayed inside of these walls for three nights in the namesake town of Kotor Bay, a historically contested stretch of land and sea. Our apartment overlooked a plaza with a cafe - another common scene in Montenegro - and was situated next to a bell tower that sang the soundtrack of our vacation every half hour, with the occasional flurry of twangs for no apparent reason.

Perast, Kotor Bay

Sveti Dorde (St. George) and Gospa od Skrpjela (Our-Lady-of-the-Rocks) off the shore of Perast

Kotor Bay as seen from the Kotor-Lovcen Road

As we drove up and out of the bay - rapidly, on a very steep set of switchbacks - we left behind the sunny bustle of a port town for the cloudy stillness of Montenegro's second highest peak, Jezerski Vrh. It is here that one of the country's greatest heros is laid to rest. The Njegos Mausoleum enshrines the poet and leader Petar II Petrovic Njegos with a towering marble statue depicting Njegos embraced by an eagle underneath a vaulted ceiling of gold tile. Rolling hills, alight with the reds and browns of October, spread wide around us on a platform behind the tomb. I'll say this for the people of Montenegro: they do right by their heros.

Marching up to the Njegos Mausoleum, at the top of the park's second highest peak, Jezerski Vrh

Fall colors in Lovcen National Park

Viewing platform behind the Njegos Mausoleum (who dat little guy?)

Lovcen National Park

The fall color dissipated to make way for lush greenery in Lake Skadar National Park, home to the Montenegrin portion of the Balkan's largest lake (the head of dolphin-shaped Lake Skadar crosses the border into Albania). The ramshackle village of Virpazar, with its very own aggressive boat tour salesmen as a greeter, acts as the gateway to the park. After a precarious crossing of a creaky wooden bridge, we spent a few hours hugging the coast and taking in the expanse of the lake and its islands, many housing a monastery or church.

Lake Skadar National Park

We wrapped up our trip at a cliffside apartment in Ulcinj, an otherwise derelict city with a gorgeous stretch of Adriatic coastline: dramatic, steep rocks, a stretch of sandy beach and perfectly clear water.

Ulcinje

We munched on oranges fresh from the tree outside of our apartment every day

Apartments Eneida, Ulcinje

Cascades du Dard

elcastleberry — Tue, 20 Oct 2015 23:06:00 GMT

The trail turned sharply left, away from the highway. Within moments, the roar of passing trucks was muted, then swallowed by the heavy fog that engulfed the Chamonix Valley. The forest floor was a carpet of wet moss over boulders, an undulating sea of green. An unsettling silence on a delicate watercolor, swaths of orange and yellow peered through earthy tones. The trail steepened. I sipped my cold coffee, it's very human heat leeched out into the mystically chilled morning. My core warm and my legs burning with uphill effort, I climb out of the low hanging cloud to find early sunlight hitting the cluster of mountains to the north, the roof of the valley's fog looking firm enough to step on.

The Crown Jewel of Chamonix: The Aiguille du Midi

elcastleberry — Mon, 5 Oct 2015 23:04:00 GMT

In a shining moment of mature glory, I drank two cups of coffee on an empty stomach and raced up to freezing temperatures and thin air at an altitude of 3,842 meters, where I promptly started running up flights of stairs, fueled by excitement and adrenaline. I reached the top terrace of Chamonix's Aiguille du Midi to find a majestic panorama of the French Alps, their jagged peaks glaring with sunlit snow and striped with compacted layers of earth. I doubled over and nearly puked. Slowly, I found my way to the warm cafe and deliriously wrote post cards for half an hour while I tried to catch my breath.

While there were a number of physical factors at play, this experience was an emotional one for me. Proximity to such a harsh, unforgiving, expansive landscape is a dramatic reminder of your infinitesimal humanness. And then there is the other remarkable piece: that humans have harnessed the power to allow people to experience such a landscape regardless of physical ability. That said, there was an identifiable group of individuals with me on the cable car: sturdy, leathered folks weighed down with backpacks of gear. I watched them exit through an icy hole in the mountain and tramp down precarious, narrow trails of packed snow to go hand glide off cliffs or ice climb or snowboard down nearly vertical slopes, and I couldn't help but question their sanity. Where is the line between an adventurous spirit and tempting fate?

The Plan du Midi (halfway point between Chamonix and the Aiguille du Midi)

Féchy Fête

elcastleberry — Tue, 29 Sep 2015 23:03:00 GMT

When I think wine, I don't think Switzerland. I think Italy, France, and California. But, lo and behold, the vineyards of France are just an arbitrary political border away, and grapevines know no such bounds. The climate that produces globally lauded Bordeauxs and Burgundys can also be found right up the hill from my current home, in a town even smaller than Rolle: Féchy.

La Fête du Raisin was another wonderful display of small town pride and European cheer. Nestled in an expanse of striped vineyards, the village of Féchy doesn't have much more than a pretty steeple and their grape harvest, but they make the most of it. The town was swarmed by children jetting around on scooters, families clambering aboard the green train and British expatriates guffawing over glasses of pale Pinot Gris and plates of assorted cheeses. I won't pretend to know much about wine (I just ordered red whenever possible and got drunk with my boyfriend) but I do know the ingredients for a well-executed festival: booze, music and food, all of which were present in abundance.

Lyon, France

elcastleberry — Tue, 22 Sep 2015 23:02:00 GMT

Lyon was not a city on my (long) list of travel destinations. Were it not for the easy, cheap train from Rolle coupled with the easy, cheap flight from Madrid for Chris, I doubt I ever would have found myself here. In looking for a place to meet after nearly two months apart, we weren't very concerned with being in a cool city. I assumed much of our reunion would be spent within the walls of our accommodation, a fourth-flour apartment tucked away on a quiet street just south of La Place Bellecour. While I wasn't wrong, the little time we did spend wandering Lyon proved to be unexpectedly fruitful.

Situated at the confluence of the Rhône and Saône rivers, Lyon has a pretty collection of bridges and waterfront property. Being centrally located on the peninsula between the two rivers rather than on one side allowed us to explore the Berges du Rhône to the east and the Basilica Fourvière and Vieux Lyon to the west.

Except for a phenomenal Friday night meal at Le Comptoir d'Ainay off Place Bellecour (lamb and risotto, seared tuna and fresh green beans, Thai corn fritters...), we bought almost all of our food at a beautiful, expansive Saturday market on Quai Saint Antoine, a street lining the eastern edge of the Saône. There is something borderline gluttonous about the quantity, color and quality of food in French markets. We fried a single, fresh-from-the-ground girolle in butter and it rivaled the delight of Swiss chocolate.

A long, steep trek took us up winding alleys to the iconic Basilica Fourvière. More impressive than the gilded mosaic covering the inside of the church was the sprawling view of the city from the church's hill top perch. The city's eastward expansion, from the basilica down into old town, across the rivers and into the newer business district, was visible as the romantic, orange rooftops thinned out into a sea of steel and concrete in the distance.

Despite the rainy weather and nesting behavior that kept us indoors for most of the weekend, we managed a wander through the city's oldest neighborhood, Vieux Lyon. The area has an edge of European charm but, like many old corners, has been overrun by tourist traps and expensive shopping.

Frankly, Lyon is a city I could happily take or leave. The joy and beauty I now associate with it are another example of a recurring theme in my travels: the people make the place.

The Saône

Picnic at the Basilica Fourvière

Vieux Lyon - old town alleyways beneath the Basilica

Basilica Fourvière

Rolle: Inauguration de la Grand-rue

elcastleberry — Sun, 13 Sep 2015 23:00:00 GMT

There is a lot to be said for the size of a place. Rolle is small - not a city, but not a village, either. It is situated between the much larger, cosmopolitan cities of Lausanne and Geneva. With a population of 6,000, Rolle is best known for its placement (and production) in the La Côte wine region, not for its people or parties.

But its people just put on a party and it was hella fun.

The "main drag" (that this term can be used speaks volumes about Rolle's size) has been under construction for four years. This is not a major, six-lane highway. This is a mile-long stretch of pavement we're talking about.

Before I came to Switzerland, I did some reading and conversational research about the nature of Swiss people and culture. The general consensus was that the Swiss are a tad uptight and very concerned with order, structure and consistency. I have yet to see that reflected here. Rolle has been the picture of laid back, laissez-faire, French attitude. I suppose it should be no surprise, considering our proximity to France, but it was not what I expected.

Four years is quite a while to have the heart of your town clogged with one-lane traffic, loud construction and holes in the sidewalk. I understand several businesses didn't survive and have been replaced by hip, new boutiques and cafes, which contributed to a surprising amount of style and forwardness that was unexpected in a town so small. Naturally, the community was thrilled to have its little hub back and this Saturday was marked by a flurry of small-town pride and celebration.

The street was full at 9:30, just a half hour after the festivities began. Every, single business was open and participating by serving coffee, wine, or food. Balloon arches stretched proudly into the sky at either end of the street and even Coop, the local chain grocery, had been decorated. Children, faces painted like tigers and superheroes courtesy of the corner pharmacy, were scurrying around on foot and scooters and roller blades. A stretch of sidewalk in front of the pub was drenched in color and chunks of chalk, two different stores were out front spinning candy floss on sticks, even the UBS bankers were out in their suits serving wine and orchestrating some sort of magnet toss. Long, beer garden-esque tables with benches lined the center of the street. There was a bounce house, balloon animals and nineties techno bumping from speakers set up by the local florist.

Fueled by a pain au chocolat and espresso, I milled through the crowd, relishing the wellspring of energy and admiring the various things I love about Europeans:

Five o'clock is an irrelevant time. It's perfectly acceptable to have a glass of wine at 10am.
Weekends are sacred. This is a time for drink and merriment, exclusively.
There is basically nowhere your dogs and/or children are not welcome.

Elegant women sat smoking cigarettes and sipping rosé on cloth-covered bails of hay in front of a fashion boutique. A group of old men playing cards polished off their fifth bottle of wine, setting it into a group of empties and uncorking a new one. A massive vat of pumpkin soup bubbled beside a wagon display of fall-colored gourds and squash in front of the sweet organic grocery I've already come to adore. Employees of a jewelry store called Gipsie were out applying temporary flash tattoos to people's wrists and hands. Children lay in their parents' arms, collapsed in a candy-floss coma.

When a rainstorm rolled in with the evening and chased off the truly dedicated partyers, I was already home, napping off a one-glass-of-wine hangover.

Yvoire, France

elcastleberry — Sun, 6 Sep 2015 22:57:00 GMT

Last night, as I strolled through Lausanne with Sarina, Craig and Baby Malia, I felt the blissful, sudden on-set of euphoria that always appears shortly after I begin a new adventure. These moments are precious: the early stages of travel when bonds are being forged and your environment holds fresh newness.

This afternoon, as I strolled through the tiny, ancient village of Yvoire in France, it hit me again: euphoria. (Yes, I am seeing a connection between strolling and euphoria.) It's the same freedom that so frightened and confused me in France and Spain a few years ago. There is no one to answer to, nothing dictating my path. We are rarely faced with an opportunity to truly follow our instincts. Or perhaps it's that we're not as inspired to listen to those instincts when a place is no longer new. Which ivy-drenched, cobblestone alley way calls to me? Left, right, straight ahead? Stand still, stop and turn around? Wander into a store full of sparkly, crystal things I'd never buy. Stare at pink flower boxes brimming with poppies. Close my eyes, bathe in the noisy, unfamiliar melody of French and German. Walk slowly with the crowd or run down empty streets. Spend 20 minutes examining the map or don't ever pick one up. Take excessive photos from the same angle or don't ever get the camera out of the bag. Spend two hours finding the perfect seat in the perfect cafe on the perfect street with the perfect view or sit at the first one you see. (I did the former, quite out of character.)

This feeling of freedom is so unvisited. I think of it as a constantly-exercised right but then I never allow myself any of it. I create a demanding, routine reality I can't escape and when presented with freedom, I try to bury it in dates and appointments and tasks and responsibilities. I know I'm in good company - most everyone does this - but I'm grateful to have rediscovered my freedom just this afternoon, in a pedestrian village on the French shore of Lac Lemán.

Yvoire is a tourist town, a quality that is usually a major deterrent for me. I took the 45-minute ferry ride across Lake Geneva at Sarina's suggestion and I'm very glad I did. Thick vines and layers of ivy have overgrown the staggered stone buildings, entire walls are swallowed with gardens and flower boxes fill every wood-shuttered window. The burnt orange, shingled roofs are a collection of sharp triangles against the blue sky, the pale robin's-egg of summer with just a hint of autumn's depth. Stone stairs with iron railings lead up to heavy, wooden doors. This town is reiterated all over Europe - it's classic, quintessential, lovely.

Peace in the Chaos

elcastleberry — Fri, 22 May 2015 07:53:13 GMT

The night market in Marrakech’s town square is chaos: the air thick with steam and pungent spices, the metallic clang of pots and pans, meat simmering on hot griddles, bright lights reflecting off of silver cookware. Eager waiters beckon with their hands and broken English phrases, trying to corner tourists into a seat at their restaurant. Even for the most seasoned of travelers, it can be intimidating.
I’ve thoroughly sampled the market: tasting boiled sheep brain, munching on dried figs from a fruit stand, sipping cold, fresh-pressed orange juice, allowing myself to be corralled by the eager waiters and consuming countless tagines and couscous dishes. Chez Aicha is the only stall I ever revisited. As I slip onto the worn, vinyl bench for the third time this week, an old man in a floppy chef’s hat and a soup-spattered white coat flashes me a familiar grin, exposing dark gaps where there once were teeth, and slaps down a steaming bowl of Moroccan harina in front of me.
While much of the market is overrun with squealing tourists, Chez Aicha’s primary patrons are middle-aged Moroccan men in suits eating alone. They gulp down their soup quickly before shouting goodbye to the cooks and leaving a pile of silver coins next to the empty bowl. To my left, a father sings softly in Arabic as a giggling toddler crawls on his back. A woman across from me nurses her baby, a pink headscarf flowing over her shoulder and chest. Surrounded by strangers, I feel warm and safe. Foreign but welcomed.
Given the wild nature of the market, it is possible that Chez Aicha’s tent is no longer located at the northeast corner of the square as it was during my trip two years ago. Therein lies the beauty: each night is an adventure. There is no map or definitive guide to finding your pleasure. The joy is not in finding the “best” restaurant in Marrakech, but in trying as many of them as you can before submersing yourself in a setting that suits your tastes. The market is a culinary and cultural smorgasbord to be devoured slowly and carefully. With patience, it’s certain you will discover your own diamond in the rough, and the journey that gets you there will make the discovery that much sweeter.
My now-empty soup bowl disappears as quickly as it came. Moments later, my hands clutch a hot glass of tea. I inhale the sweet steam and watch the mint leaves wilt in the heat. While it steeps, I admire my surroundings, smiling at the irony: sometimes the center of chaos is where you find peace.

A Threat to the Wild

elcastleberry — Fri, 20 Mar 2015 06:53:00 GMT

The following is a letter regarding the management plan of the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area released in January 2015. I have submitted this letter to the Draft TWWHA Managment Plan Representation, the Director of National Parks and Wildlife in Tasmania, the Department of Primary Industries, Parks, Water and Environment in Tasmania, the Minister for the Environment Honorable Greg Hunt and the Premier of Tasmania Honorable Will Hodgman. I obtained most of my information for this letter from a submission guide provided by the Wilderness Society. The Management Plan is available here. Here are some other links for more information:

Australian Environment Minister Greg Hunt

Australian Government (World Heritage)

UNESCO's World Heritage List (Tasmanian Wilderness)

UNESCO's Criteria and Values

To whom it may concern (and it concerns everyone),

I spent 7 days as a visitor in your state for the sole purpose of bushwalking in the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area (hereafter referred to as the TWWHA), specifically the Overland Track from Cradle Mountain to Lake St Clair. It was not until I learned of the impending threat to this globally-significant wilderness, in the form of the new management plan proposal, that I truly understood how my time in the TWWHA had impacted me personally.

Picture this serenity: a quiet, still lake, it's flat surface betraying the wealth of life - fish, bugs, platypus - within it. This lake is surrounded by a tall-eucalypt forest - the tallest hardwood forest on earth - their grey arms stretching into a pale sky, their peeling bark revealing brightly-colored flesh. Animals roam freely, wallabies grazing and wombats rooting down into their burrows. Birds scatter across the sky sounding a cacophony of different calls. There is not a human soul for miles. This is the wild.

Now, take that image, and add some intrusive details. First, chop down some of those tall eucalypts and build up a massive tourism resort on the shores of the lake. Don't forget to add a road so that people can access the resort. Then, add the whip of a helicopter propeller thumping across the sky, drowning out the bird calls. Send a jet ski streaking across the pristine lake surface. Now, a float plane drops out of the sky and lands on the lake. Somewhere beyond the view of the tourists, logging and mining operations are destroying animal habitat and raping the land.

This is the before and after picture of the proposed management plan.

A proper management plan will do the following:

maintain and protect the Wilderness Zone instead of changing it to a "remote recreation" area,
explicitly prohibit all logging and mining operations and recognize the international value of the rare tall eucalypt forests in this area,
tighten restrictions on aircraft in the WHA and prohibit jet skis,
prohibit new commercial tourism structures and maintain restrictions on current commercial accommodation in the area.

Furthermore, a thorough management plan will

emphasize the value of this area by explicitly listing the characteristics of this area that relate to World Heritage criteria
giving decision-making power to experts in nature conservation and cultural heritage over those representing commercial interests and
providing a clear fire policy,

none of which the proposed management plan does.

Mine is a plea of emotional commitment to the value of this space. I am a stark disapprover of criticism without alternative solutions, so it pains me to say that I do not possess the expertise or education to offer improvements for the current management plan that you say is "outdated." While I do not possess the ability to specifically direct you further, I can confidently recommend consulting local park rangers, UNESCO, the Wilderness Society and any other group that values the TWWHA without respect to economic profit. The local and global community will suffer a great loss if the TWWHA becomes scarred by profit-driven projects like logging, mining and tourism.

The wild is a rapidly disappearing concept, one that is very close to my heart. Areas should be left to grow and exist without human witness or interference. This is important to all of us, but particularly to those of us who want to raise children in a world with protected, safe, preserved spaces, pristine and mysterious beyond their wildest dreams.

I have 3 nieces: Alice is 3, Margot is 1 and Coral is just months old. My plea to you is this: don't force the adults in their lives to tell them stories about wilderness the way we tell stories about dinosaurs. When I read to them about wild spaces, forests and lakes and animals and mountains untouched by humans, when I tell them about my amazing walk on the Overland Track and the rugged beauty that spreads as far as the eye can see, allow me to say that we value it enough to keep it safe for them.

Respectfully,

Emma Castleberry

Mount Solitary

elcastleberry — Wed, 18 Mar 2015 06:52:00 GMT

"Well, this is some nice, flat, forest walking," I muse.

"Yeah, it can't last forever," Dad responded quickly, like we'd been having the same thoughts.

We knew a mountain summit was in today's section of the 3-day, 30-kilometer hike we'd started, and the longer we cruised through shady, easy rainforest trail, the shorter - and steeper - the summit ahead of us was bound to be. Dread was encroaching.

Lizzy found a 2 night backpacking trip in the Blue Mountain Range outside of Sydney. Dad screened the trail description - an obnoxious, 3-page document with an identifying trail marker or lookout listed every few feet - and despite misgivings about the trail starting at a place called "Scenic World," we all agreed it was a good option for us.

Scenic World is just the kind of nightmare it sounds like it would be: a vain attempt at a mountain theme park. Throngs of tightly bunched tour groups mill around boardwalks between various lookouts, rail cars and cheesy animatronic mining exhibits. A group of in front of us as we desperately tried to escape the park included several women in flat, bejewelled sandals.

"When you told me we were coming to Scenic World, I don't know what I thought we'd be doing," I overheard her say to her boyfriend. "But I didn't think we'd be hiking."

After a myriad of misstarts and setbacks, we had finally weaved through the crowds and left Mountain Disney World several kilometers behind us. We had seen only a few day hikers and were eager to start the climb up Mount Solitary, as it seemed likely to live up to its name.

The trail started to gain gradually upward and a looming, rocky peak appeared in the distance. It looked rugged and really, really far away.

"Surely that's not it?" I asked, looking at Lizzy.

"Uh, I dunno..." she said, looking down at the trail description on her iPhone.

"That's the only peak near us within sight," Dad said.

"How are we going to get up those rocks?" I said, panic creeping into my voice.

"Oh, yeah," Lizzy said. "It did say something... about like, maybe a little bit of boulder scrambling?" She smiled sheepishly.

Three gruelling hours later, we arrived at the summit of Mount Solitary, drenched in sweat and groaning. We collapsed in a heap by our packs. "A little bit of boulder scrambling" meant scaling the side of a barren, vertical rock face with 40 pounds of weight on our backs.

But, sore and exhausted though we may be, we haven't seen a soul since 2 this afternoon. The sun is setting behind the dramatic bluff that surrounds this aptly named mountain range, coated in a foggy-blue sheen. As the shadows of the valleys depend and the thrum of my obnoxiously loud camp stove sings into the night, I am sure glad we did it.

Scenic World! Ride the rides! See the sights!

Pretty boy we saw at the beginning of the hike - look at that red belly!

The Three Sisters

Get vertical

Western Australia: The Hub Grill

elcastleberry — Tue, 17 Mar 2015 06:45:00 GMT

Tucked away in a residential neighborhood in far south Perth, The Hub Grill doesn't make a very good first impression. With only a handful of tables in the small space and a tiny kitchen behind the cash register, we were a little worried it wouldn't live up to its rave reviews on UrbanSpoon. Several families were laughing around large plates of of pasta and as we sat down and opened our wine, we warmed to the place.

"Here's to the two best guerrilla campers I've ever had the pleasure of camping with," Dad said, holding up his Emu Export bottle to our wine glasses. Emu Export is a local Western Australia brew and the cheapest available beer in the area, which makes Dad very proud.

"I can't believe we woke up in a cemetary this morning," I said.

"A hundred year old cemetary, no less. And that sunrise was gorgeous," Lizzy said.

An Asian man in a chef's hat came over to take our order and talked us into ordering some sort of appetizer, but we weren't sure exactly what it was. When a steaming bowl of muscles piled in bright red broth appeared on our table, we devoured it quickly and ordered some bread to dip in the rich, spicy sauce.

"I think the highlight for me was Lucky Bay," I said. "I never thought I'd get to pet a wild kangaroo, or see a joey nurse. And all the little bays in that park were so picturesque. It reminded me of the Abel Tasman."

"Yeah, but I'm glad we went up north and got to see something different," Lizzy said. "The solitude we got at Peak Charles was really special. There was nobody around for miles."

"Dude, those salt lakes are crazy," I said. "They seriously looked like water from the top of Peak Charles, and then we walked out on them and it was dry as a bone. All the shards of salt looked like broken glass."

"Mhm. I liked hanging out with those locals at the motel bar in Kondinnin," said Dad. "Cool that they don't get a lot of Americans up that way, too."

A waitress, the only other employee in the restaurant, arrived with our food. A generous portion of garlic grilled prawns and thick fettuccine in a creamy, mushroom-flecked sauce was set before me. As we realized the remarkable flavor and quality of the food we were eating, conversation came to a halt.

I spent a month in Italy in 2008 and I've eaten at Italian restaurants - both cheap and fancy - all over the world. I can safely say that the best Italian meal I've ever consumed was made by a Burmese man in a tiny restaurant in southern Perth.

We were all wowed by our meal, and when the chef owner Law came out to our table, we said as much. We were the last people in the restaurant and he chatted with us for a while. A sweet, good-humored little man, he teased Dad about his crappy beer taste and eventually gave us some complimentary tiramisu, which was also excellent. Even tiramisu-junkie Lizzy Lydon was impressed.

Our week in Western Australia was amazing. We saw beautiful sunsets, sunrises and starry nights. We swam in the ocean and climbed mountains, played with kangaroos and met interesting and friendly Aussies. But a week later, the one thing we're still talking about is our dinner at The Hub Grill.

Our faithful co-captain, The Untitled Weasel. Lizzy found her on the ground by our car on the first day of the road trip.

Lucky Bay

'Roo feet

The three 'roos that we saw most often around our site. One had a very small joey in her pouch that you could see wiggling around sometimes, but he never poked his head out.

Curious little friend

THATS MY HAND ON A KANGAROO

Lucky Bay

Roselyn, a lovely, inspiring woman I met at the Lucky Bay campsite. You can read about our encounter in another post titled with her name.

Dad being manly at Hellfire Bay, Cape Le Grand National Park

At the (almost) top of Peak Charles

Salt water lake systems in the background

Guerilla camping in a 100-year-old Pioneer Cemetary outside of Kondinnin

Sunrise in Kondinnin from our campsite at the cemetary

Dinner at the dinky little Hub Grill