Petra and the Last Crusade

Picture the scene – Indiana Jones has discovered the highly treasured Holy Grail, only to lose it again in a twist of fate. With the ancient temple collapsing around him, Jones can be seen escaping as a plume of smoke envelops the entrance. He then jumps astride his trusty horse, and rides off into the distance as the credits roll. Back in 1989 when this movie was released, the exotic location of this desert temple was unbeknownst to many, whereas now it is practically a household name. While Indiana Jones has undoubtedly brought considerable recognition to this foreign locale, Petra is now one of the world’s most famous and spectacular archaeological sites, even earning a place amongst the New Seven Wonders of the World. And it is into this movie scene that I was able to spend a couple days extensively wandering through on a trip to Jordan several years ago.

Donning my wide-brimmed Tilley hat that vaguely resembles a knock-off of Indiana Jones’ fedora, I lathered on my 100+ SPF sunscreen and stepped through the turnstile to enter the Petra Archaeological Park. One could be forgiven for thinking that the wonders of Petra would be just on the other side of the turnstile, but nothing could be further from the truth. Upon exiting the visitor center, there is a one kilometer stretch of unpaved road to traverse in the blazing sun, with precious little to see along this unshaded route. At the end of this tiring portion of the walk, the entrance to the siq looms mysteriously ahead. The siq is a narrow canyon with high walls created by a geological fault split apart by tectonic forces many eons ago. Entering this gaping crack in the wall, I am explicitly aware of the sensation of passing through a portal into a different dimension. The rough surfaces of the canyon have become smooth over the centuries from water erosion, as far-fetched as that sounds out here in the dry desert. Following the winding path for over another kilometer, I am shaded from the heat of intense sun and able to marvel at the beauty of nature’s creation. Every few minutes, the sound of hoofbeats can be heard echoing through the ravine, warning of an approaching horse-drawn buggy laden with weary passengers wishing to bypass the grueling walk.

Horse-drawn buggies passing through the narrow siq

After countless dizzying twists and bends through the dramatic canyon, there is a heightened sense of anticipation as the end approaches. There in the distance, just barely seen through a crack in the walls, the traces of a manmade structure begin to emerge. Gradually the faint mirage begins to take shape, as more of the edifice becomes visible through the lens of the canyon walls. At last the path through the siq abruptly ends and the walls fall away, opening up to a massive fantastical building looming overhead. Carved directly into the sandstone cliff walls is the columned façade of a Greco-Roman style building called Al-Khazneh (The Treasury), built by the Nabataeans over 2000 years ago. Unfazed by the gawping visitors, several camels are calmly resting on the sand in front of this building, completely oblivious to the carved wonder that they are sitting beside. Despite what the movies would have you believe, there is no vast temple complex within the structure; on the contrary, there is just a single empty room that is believed to have been the mausoleum of a Nabataean king. While there may not be a Holy Grail hidden within The Treasury, the real treasure to be found is this beautiful and vast archaeological complex that I have just set foot within.

The Treasury is becoming visible through the siq

Admiring The Treasury

Having finished marveling at the Treasury, I turned to the right and continued to follow the dusty path. The sandstone has a pinkish-orange hue, giving Petra the nickname The Rose City because of the countless structures carved into this colorful rockface. Gradually, more of the buildings become visible, indicating that this used to be a significant trading city many centuries ago. Most of the structures are a simple rectangular shape with few identifying features aside from a strip of geometrical designs across the top of each building. Venturing into several of these, I notice that they are virtually all just a single room with an occasional niche or two carved into the walls. While there are few identifiable features of individual past lives, I try to envision life back in the day, living amidst this bustling metropolis of a major trading city along the Silk Road.

Numerous rock hewn buildings within Petra

Continuing further along the road gives me a better understanding of the daily lives the ancient Nabataeans led. The main thoroughfare within this ancient city is an additional two kilometers, along which many fascinating ruins can be found. There is a Roman amphitheater where large crowds gathered for entertainment, and a long stretch of colonnaded road that still remains from when the Romans expanded their empire and engulfed what is modern day Jordan. A Byzantine Church houses an impressively preserved collection of decorative tile mosaics along the excavated floors, indicating the role that religious worship played in the lives of these inhabitants. And the remains of the largest structure in Petra – the Great Temple – is a multi-level complex that covers a vast swathe of land where the administrative officials likely gathered to rule this city. But the true highlight of Petra’s wonders lies even beyond all of these structures and requires considerable determination to reach.

A local Bedouin surveying the vast expanse of Petra (and the mountain in the distance upon which The Monastery is located)

Some more of the rock dwellings within Petra

The remains of a Roman colonnade

Upon reaching the end of the desert trail, I began the final segment of my journey. Standing between me and victory lay a steep and windy uphill climb consisting of over 800 rugged steps to scale. There were two options available to proceed -- an arduous climb up the side of the mountain by foot, or seated astride a cantankerous donkey for the cost of a few paltry dinars. So of course, I chose the donkey, knowing that I could ascend this insurmountable obstacle and reach my destination in style, just like Indiana Jones did! This poor beast of burden had the unenviable task of carrying me up the mountain like a hefty sack of potatoes. No sooner had I mounted my noble steed, when he lurched forward and began to lumber away from the group, eager to proceed. Upon being rounded back up, my steed rejoined the small caravan of donkeys which trudged forward, beginning the ascent up the steps. What the guide failed to mention at the outset of the journey was that I would be trusting my life to the unsure footing of this ornery beast while he stumbled up the treacherous steps. Every time we overtook a pedestrian on the path, the donkey edged around the hiker, getting dangerously close to the precipitous cliff edge. One misstep and I would go from merely dangling over the edge to tumbling down to my certain death. I suddenly became a backseat driver, critiquing each step that the donkey took and judging each unbalanced stumble while looking for better footing. But of course, he couldn’t understand my pleas as he plodded forward, unconcerned for my wellbeing.

Beginning the ascent up the mountainside via donkey

After many near death experiences where I saw my all-too-short life flash before my eyes, my donkey finally rounded the last bend in the path and clambered up the last stretch of the trail with a little extra pep in his step, knowing that he would soon get to relax and receive a special treat to munch on. And just like in the movies, the dramatic finale music crescendoed to a heart-pounding climax as the prized object came into view at long last. Rising from the desert sands was the monumental Ad Deir (The Monastery) building, one of the finest examples of rock-carved temples within the entire archaeological site. For here was the true holy grail within Petra – a beautiful temple that was built in the first century AD for religious ceremonies, and remains in remarkable condition even today. Scarcely anyone had traversed the arduous path and made it to the summit upon which I stood, allowing me to feel like I was a lone wanderer who conquered the desert’s dangers and succeeded against all odds at discovering a lost treasure forgotten by history. I proudly stood in front of the Monastery and admired the massive structure and the amount of skill that it must have taken an ancient civilization to build, fully understanding the indisputable ranking that Petra holds as one of the New Seven Wonders of the World. Upon awakening from my reverie, I slowly came to my senses and realized that as exhausted as I was, I was only halfway through my journey – for I now had to retrace every step through the miles of barren desert on my path to exit the site. And away I plodded into the distance, acutely aware of my aching feet and tired muscles, but not wanting to trade this experience for anything.

End scene and cue the credits.

The Monastery

Spectacular view of The Monastery

The lone explorer in front of The Monastery

The Murderous Garmina

Traveling through continental Europe by rental car is surprisingly easy and convenient. Effortless access to rental cars at the airports and an efficient highway system on which to drive them throughout the various countries make this a seamless process. Despite some websites claiming that you will need to obtain an International Driver’s Permit (IDP) from a local AAA office prior to your trip, I have never found this added expense to be necessary – a basic US driver’s license has been sufficient every single time I have rented a car in Europe. You may remember my struggles with driving on the left side of the road in Ireland, but that particular difficulty is isolated to the British Isles; just like the majority of the world, mainland Europe drives on the right side of the road which makes for easy acclimatization for road-tripping Americans. The final vital component for a successful highway adventure is an updated GPS navigation system with European maps pre-loaded (or a phone with an excellent international plan as an alternative). Enter Garmina, our steadfast guide and occasional archnemesis who frequently seemed to be plotting our untimely demise.

While driving through the Loire Valley in northern France on one trip, we visited several magnificent chateaux each day, traversing along the scenic backroads without any incidents. However, one day we planned to see the off-the-beaten-path troglodyte Château de Brézé, which has a vast subterranean portion of the castle built deep into the soft limestone tufa. I’m unsure what incited Garmina to morph from a disinterested navigator into a vindictive murderer, but it was on our journey to this chateau that her true form appeared. While driving through the rural roads of the French countryside, there was an empty portion of the map that we were being led toward. Without warning, the road abruptly ended at the edge of a meadow where we clearly were not intended to drive our car. With much conviction, Garmina insisted that we continue to drive straight ahead along her imaginary road, despite the obvious lack of asphalt. And that’s when we noticed the large bilingual road sign that was conspicuously placed to be unmissable while also blocking any path forward. It was not your standard “No Trespassing” sign, by any means. Instead, the sign boldly stated in red and black letters:

“DANGER – MILITARY LAND – UNEXPLOSED PROJECTILES ON THE RANGES – DO NOT LEAVE THE ROAD”

Despite its lack of being an actual word, the definition of “unexplosed” came through loud and clear. I wasn’t about to confront fate over a misspelling and fall victim to the evil machinations of my GPS device. Instead, we backtracked and took several narrow offshooting farm lanes in an effort to bypass the minefield. But every time that Garmina decided to reroute our path, she perpetually led us back to yet another entrance to the death trap. Perhaps she was experiencing some perverse form of sadistic excitement by leading us once more unto the breach of a former battleground to bravely join the fray, but I preferred the monotony of staying alive. In a self-preserving manner, we had to mute the homicidal maniac and follow our own detour around the military zone, eventually escaping certain death and coming out victorious by discovering our destination. I had previously been grateful to have an authoritative voice guiding me throughout this foreign land, but now I realized that the seductive Garmina was not to be trusted and had become a loathed rival after the shock of our nasty breakup finally came to realization. And yet, as much as we despised each other, we also needed each other to accomplish our individual purposes…

After surviving Garmina’s failed attempt to blow our car to smithereens, we cautiously made it through the rest of the vacation without any further incidents. Having reconciled our differences at the completion of the vacation, we decided to let Garmina redeem herself during a future road trip through Italy. Similarly to the previous trip, Garmina started out wonderfully helpful, using her sultry voice to direct us from town to town until we ultimately arrived in the city of Naples. While we were driving along the main thoroughfare of the city on a pleasant weekend afternoon, Garmina abruptly interrupted our conversation and began redirecting us along an alternate route for no obvious reason. Fearing an unseen accident or road closure ahead, we faithfully changed course and let our path be dictated by the omniscient guide. At the next intersection we approached a one-way street, onto which Garmina commandingly told us to turn, and so without hesitation we turned the corner and came face to face with an unexpected sight.

As far as the eye could see down the long stretch of road was an outdoor market lined with stalls and hundreds of locals out shopping. The side street was narrow and left virtually no room to proceed amongst the shoppers. Furthermore, since this was a one-way street, there was absolutely no hope of turning around and escaping from whence we came, especially after another small vehicle blindly followed us around the corner, thereby robbing us of our last ditch opportunity to reverse and make a hasty getaway. Faced with no alternatives, we bravely forged a path into the bustling market. The pedestrians had to press up against the sides of the stalls as we inched forward, and occasionally the shopkeepers even had to move their wares to prevent them from being knocked over. We received numerous death stares from vendors and shoppers as we passed, and I sunk down into my passenger seat to avoid seeing the wrath of the outside world. Had the stalls been filled with items other than fresh fish and local produce, I might have rolled down my window, browsed the contents from my car seat, and haggled for a fair price while doing a slow drive-by. But as it was, I was filled with such embarrassment that I couldn’t even make eye contact with the vendors as I hid in my seat.

After what seemed like the longest stretch of road we’d ever driven, during which we narrowly avoided taking out several hobbling grandmothers in the process, the outdoor market finally dissipated and then came to an end. At last, freedom was within sight! We finally emerged from the market after a white-knuckled drive through the gauntlet, and somehow survived to tell our tale without any casualties. Breathing a deep sigh of relief at withstanding the humiliating ordeal, we continued down the path until Garmina decided to break the silence and resume speaking. She unapologetically demanded that we turn at the next intersection and rejoin our initial path from which we had been diverted by our evil mistress. Once we got back on the main road through town, we could clearly see that there had been no accident or slowdown of any kind – the sparse traffic was moving along at a steady pace without obstruction. Apparently our 20 minute detour through a crowded street market had been part of Garmina’s diabolical plan all along to make us suffer and remind us who was truly in charge of our trip. Even though we pulled through unscathed, Garmina had won her small victory yet again.

Gluttons for punishment, we continue to bring Garmina with us on future vacations, where she repeatedly rebels from her designated “third wheel” status in this relationship and tries to sabotage our road trips across Europe. In Germany, she blatantly disregarded the posted road signs and told us to continue onto a highway that had been partially closed for construction work. Had we been able to understand the German language signs, we may have been able to prevent this disaster, but she knew that we could not read German and were therefore unable to prevent the impending trap. As a result of surviving another of Garmina’s schemes, the German word for detour (umleitung) has been deeply burned into my memory, surprisingly coming in handy on numerous occasions during the rest of the trip and allowing us to circumvent any further shenanigans by Garmina. Or that one time in Spain where Garmina knowingly guided our car down an unmarked pedestrian alley through the mazelike center of town which gradually became so narrow that even with our side view mirrors folded inward, there was no physical way of advancing. We were forced to reverse around multiple tight corners for several blocks until we were back on a true road again, which was a harrowing experience.

Despite these distressing driving mishaps that seem to happen with regularity on our European road trips, I would never give up the opportunity to forge our own path through a foreign land. Driving gives you a freedom you can’t get with public transportation or tour groups, and allows you to spontaneously make detours and stop at any roadside attraction or oddity that you stumble across while driving to your next destination. And even if you happen to get into a bit of a bind while traveling, this only serves to give you an unforgettable story to regale others with in the future! And this all serves to show that you really need to pick your travel companions with care – especially when it comes to navigation systems like our dear Garmina!

The Duende of Flamenco

The Andalusian region in southern Spain is one of my favorite regions in all of Europe for multiple reasons. Moorish-style buildings dominate the architectural landscape with their intricately carved designs of geometric shapes and calligraphy, interspersed with beautiful arches that evoke awe in the observer. Gastronomic appetites are satiated with dishes of jamón ibérico (cured Iberian ham), croquetas, tortilla de patatas (potato quiche), and churros con chocolat for dessert. And who could forget marzipan, the sweet nectar of the gods handmade by local nuns and sold from behind stone convent walls via a rotating turntable contraption to maintain their cloistered sabbatical from outside interaction. But the true heart and soul of Andalusia is expressed through the artistry of the flamenco dance, which can be experienced at tablao venues throughout the region.

No visit to Andalusia is complete without attending at least one flamenco show, and Seville has the best offerings around. From flashy productions that attract large numbers of tourists each night, to intimate stages where the audience is practically within arm’s reach of the performers, there is a wide array of options to experience a flamenco show. Since I was spending several nights in the city of Seville, I opted to attend two vastly different flamenco shows to get a better perspective of the offerings.

For my first venture into the world of flamenco, I decided to go with the touristy “dinner and a show” flamenco experience at El Palacio Andaluz. This is the most heavily advertised show in the city, drawing in the largest number of spectators that want an easily accessible taste of culture. The venue was located in a large ballroom packed with dinner tables for all of the tourists who are looking for a nicely packaged experience handed to them on a platter. Upon being escorted to my assigned table, I was handed an English menu and I made my meal selection. Next up in the rotation of employees was a photographer entreating me to smile and pose for the camera, shortly followed by a sales pitch about the different options for purchasing my souvenir photograph. Next came the waiters bringing the standard dinner fare as the show was about the begin.

The lights dimmed and the performers made their grand entrance onto the stage with much gusto and flair. The standard flamenco show includes several guitarists sitting in the background, so as not to detract attention from the female performers. The guitarists blend mournful vocals and well-timed handclaps and foot stomps to add intensity to the music. While typically relegated to be background, they perform an integral role in creating the soulful music that draws at your heartstrings and pulls your emotions along a rollercoaster ride throughout the different performances. Despite the indispensable element these musicians bring to the performance, it is the brightly adorned flamenco dancers with their ruffled dresses that mesmerizingly swirl and twist around their bodies which capture the audience’s full attention. The dancers were highly skilled and filled the large room with their exuberant movements across the stage, interspersed with moments of emotional tension to draw in the undivided attention of the crowd. The show was a thrilling display of dance and music, and was very entertaining to behold! However, it felt like a rigidly staged production with an overriding element of superficiality enveloping the entire performance. It was a great show for the mass numbers of tourists that flock to shows each night, and it certainly piqued my interest in flamenco dancing, but I left the show craving to discover a more authentic version elsewhere in the city.

Having visited this touristy exhibition of flamenco, my new goal was to locate an authentic tablao frequented by locals to experience the genuine expression of their culture. I asked various Sevillanos for their recommendations, and the overwhelming response was to visit Los Gallos for an unrivalled performance. This small, nondescript venue was hidden off of a quiet tree-lined plaza and was easy to overlook. As the hour of the show neared, the front doors opened, admitting the small gathering that was congregating in the courtyard. Within the doors was an extremely intimate setting where the audience sat on cozy, cushioned seats that were mere steps from the stage. Making my way to the second row, I found the perfect spot for the upcoming performance. Soon the musicians made their way to the stage, and I sat with bated breath waiting for the performance to begin as I recalled the show I had witnessed the previous evening. The men began their cadence of claps and stomps which heightened when the strummed guitars began to emit their mournful cries. As the music crescendoed around the audience and perceptibly began to tug on our heartstrings, the atmosphere on the stage was palpable. Amidst this scene, the first flamenco dancer gracefully emerged and allowed the music to suffuse into her very existence and influence her skillful movements as she began to dance.

The flamenco dancer is a strong-willed woman who stands dignifiedly on the stage; her body becomes the vessel through which generations of heartache are expressed in a physically interpretive dance. Her arms become an extension of her pain and sorrow as she rhythmically twists and claps while stomping across the stage. Her face is hardened in a proud yet stoic expression as the musicians belt out a lyrical verse describing overwhelming sorrows of the past and the strength of continued perseverance. The entire audience is enraptured by the majestic display on stage as the dancer gracefully lifts up the bottom of her long, flowing dress and breaks into a lightning speed crescendo of foot tapping and stomping, leaving everyone utterly breathless. I was so close to the stage that I could feel the rush of wind with each quick swirl of her billowing dress, further drawing me into the dramatic display unfolding before me. This magical juxtaposition of melancholic music and energetic dance evokes the sadness of a downtrodden existence mixed with the determination to overcome any obstacle. For it is within this very scene that I finally experience the Spanish definition of duende, an expression of passion and inspiration produced by the emotive artistry of authentic flamenco.

As the show continued and other flamenco dancers took their turns on the stage to regale the audience with their own renditions of inspiring dance, I sat entranced the entire time. The enigmatic dancers were weaving their spell as they each told their portion of the collective history of prior generations through their expressive art. Once the show came to a conclusion, the audience sat in awed silence for a few moments before the spell was finally broken, and then everyone jumped to their feet in a burst of joyous applause. I will always remember both nights of flamenco shows that I attended while in Seville, but let me implore you to venture off the well-trodden tourist path and explore the hidden alleyways, for it is there that the true heart and culture of a city can be found!

Performers at El Palacio Andaluz

El Palacio Andaluz venue

Performers at Los Gallos

Los Gallos venue

Boating Amongst the Dragons

Halong Bay was recently voted as one of the New Seven Natural Wonders of the world in addition to already being designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site. This internationally acclaimed locale lies off the coast of Vietnam and forms the spectacular backdrop for my next adventure. Having spent several days immersing myself in the fast-paced culture of the bustling metropolis of Hanoi, all while dodging hundreds of careening motorbikes every time I tried to cross a street like a real-life game of Frogger, this excursion to the peaceful coastal region was a welcome reprieve. Upon arriving at the edge of the bay, we boarded our overnight boat and settled into our cabins, excited for the next leg of the trip.

Soon afterwards we set sail, and headed out to venture deeper into the bay. “Halong” literally translates to “descending dragon” which derives from all of the rock formations jutting out of the water. The natural karst landscape purportedly resembles green dragon scales protruding from the water, and ties in with the mythological story of a mother dragon and her children that saved Vietnam from invaders by dropping jewels of jade from their mouths which formed the numerous rocky islands and subsequently caused the armada to shipwreck. Few places can live up to the hype of such a fantastical story, but once we started sailing deep into the expansive bay, we began to see the fabled formations slowly approaching. The further we headed into the bay, the more impressive the scenery became. The sea was simply littered with these green, rocky formations that stretched to the horizon in all directions, and the view was stunning. I found myself mesmerized by the landscape and kept taking photographs of the ever-changing panorama, but could never do it justice through the camera lens.

After a couple hours of navigating through the endless maze of craggy islands, it was time to experience the bay on a more personal level. We stepped off the boat and into kayaks, allowing us to experience the bay from water level. This new perspective removed the safety of the large vessel and caused us to feel infinitesimal as we rowed among the rock giants. The water was surprisingly calm as we glided along the surface, allowing us to concentrate on examining the limestone islands up close without fear of capsizing. The islands were blanketed in shrubs and other greenery which were teeming with wildlife – birds were flittering about the trees while a cacophony of insects was buzzing in the background. Floating along the water was a serene experience, and I was grateful for this up-close view that most day-trippers to the bay never get to experience.

After the evening’s excursion on the kayaks, my arms were sore from the exertion of rowing, and I was appreciative when I was finally able to sink into bed and be lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking of the boat. While the day had been unforgettable, there was fortunately another day on the water to look forward to in the morning.

The next morning, I awoke feeling refreshed and ready to explore more of the island landscape dotting the bay. Our first stop was Sung Sot (Surprise) Cave which was located in a massive karst island that created its own small harbor within the bay. A long winding path wound along the exterior of the cliffs, leading toward a large opening in the limestone rock face. Upon entering the mouth of the cave, I followed the tunnel until I emerged into one of the largest underground caverns that I had ever seen. The vast room exceeded 10,000 square meters in size and felt like I had wandered into a colossal cathedral as my footsteps echoed throughout the cave. Colorful lights illuminated the numerous stalagmites and stalactites, resembling daylight filtered through stained glass windows, further adding to the allusion of stepping within a majestic cathedral. I gradually ambled through the entirety of the massive cavern, peering down long-forgotten tunnels and admiring the captivating natural structures that formed over several millennia.

Upon exiting the cave, we got back onto our boat and sailed to Ti Top island for the preeminent view within all of Halong Bay. This view can only be experienced by first climbing over 400 uneven steps to the top of the island, ensuring that only the most determined will be rewarded the spectacular view. Upon reaching the lookout point, I was thrust into a 360-degree panorama of the bay, haphazardly strewn with jade islands as far as the eye could see. The islands starkly contrasted against the intense blue shades of the sky and water, creating a picturesque landscape straight from Vietnamese mythology. I stood completely absorbed by this view, not wanting to avert my eyes from this otherworldly topography lest I fail to commit it to memory. Eventually it was time to depart, so I begrudgingly descended from the clifftop and headed back to the boat.

During these past couple days, I had floated amongst the dragons of the sea, climbed atop their precariously high scales, and explored the dark realms of their underworld. Living amidst this wonder of nature was an awe-inspiring and unforgettable experience that I will forever treasure. While Vietnam was filled with many wonderful moments, Halong Bay stands out as my favorite experience during my entire visit.

The beautiful islands of Halong Bay

Sailing among the karst landscape

Taking a break from kayaking to explore an island

View from atop Ti Top island

Relaxing on the beach at Ti Top island

The multicolored illumination of Sung Sot Cave

Fine Dining Debacle

The mere mention of France conjures up vivid images in people’s minds: the lofty spire of the Eiffel Tower sparkling at night, the palatial Louvre museum housing some of the world’s most famous artwork, and the magnificent chateaux of the Loire region showcasing the wealth and power of their original owners. But one particular image is so synonymous with France that it isn’t confined to a single location and is ubiquitously found in every corner of the country – the fine dining of French cuisine. French haute-cuisine is world-renowned as high-quality gourmet dishes created by master chefs, and evokes an air of arrogance served by haughty waiters. But underneath this pompous façade lies a plethora of amazingly delicious food that is an essential indulgence when visiting the country.

It is into this culinary world that I enter one evening, stepping into a fancy restaurant to experience a traditional multi-course dinner and being immediately greeted by waitstaff wearing specially tailored suits. I feel conspicuously under-dressed in my wrinkled khakis and polo shirt, but am politely ushered to an empty table and handed a menu written entirely in French. Fortunately, I took several years of French language classes in high school and college, so I have a rudimentary understanding of basic phrases that allows me to stumble through ordering dinner. After browsing through the menu and hearing his recommendations, I place my order with the waiter in broken French, and he leaves to inform the kitchen.

A basket of freshly baked bread rolls is swiftly placed on the table, which is a welcome sight to my grumbling stomach. I immediately swoop in and place a roll on my plate, eagerly anticipating the taste of fresh bread smothered in melting butter to whet my appetite. Rather than tear the bread apart with my fingers like an American barbarian, I assume an air of elegance in this fancy restaurant and pick up my knife to slice the roll in half. Without explanation, my hand slips and the bread roll flies off my plate and lives up to its name by continuing to roll halfway across the restaurant, nearly tripping a passing waiter. To add injury to insult, I notice that my hand is the same color as the red flush of utter embarrassment washing across my face. Despite using a dull butter knife to cut the bread, I had somehow managed to slice open my finger with the blunt blade, and a stream of blood was draining from my flesh. Grabbing the closest object I could find to stanch the bleeding, I wrapped my finger with the elegant white cloth napkin from my lap, forever staining the napkin with my ineptitude. Despite wanting to run out of the restaurant in humiliation, I kept my composure and anxiously waited for the appetizer to arrive to distract my nerves.

My first dish finally arrived, and I could smell the comingling scents of butter and garlic emanating from my escargot platter. Keen to redeem my prior blunder, I carefully reached for my fork and cautiously ate each delicious morsel of escargot one methodical bite at a time. Despite the unappealing impression that eating snails can evoke in people, I truly found them to be delicious, and I savored each one with delight. Having eaten the final escargot without any further mishaps, I was regaining my confidence and ready to take on the next course of the meal.

The meal fortunately progressed without any more troubles, and I devoured the remaining dishes of the dinner which included some braised chicken in wine sauce (coq au vin) and a little bit of duck liver (foie gras) as a side. After the main courses were completed, I opted for the cheese tray to accompany dessert. The French truly prize their diverse cheeses, and I wanted to partake in this experience. Not realizing that a cheese course was such a production, I was startled when the waiter rolled over a large cart filled with twenty types of cheeses underneath a plastic lid. My mouth began to salivate at the thought of tasting new flavors of cheese that I’d never heard of before.

With a quick motion of his arm, the waiter lifted the lid off the tray, exposing the prized contents… and that’s when it happened. The olfactory overload of the combination of intense cheese odors hit my nose with a fierce uppercut, causing me to reflexively cringe in repulsion before I could regain my composure. Smirking in victory at having conquered yet another boorish American, the waiter proceeded to describe each particular cheese in lengthy detail, starting with the hard cheeses and gradually concluding with the soft and moldy goat cheeses that literally melted on the plate from decay. Throughout the entire demonstration, the scents of atrociously smelly cheeses enveloped the entire table, settling like a cloud upon my being and soaking into my clothes. Holding my breath and starting to go faint at this point, I quickly pointed at a couple of the less repellant cheeses and made my selection in the hopes that the lid of death would soon be lowered back onto the tray. After a dramatic display of slicing the cheeses and delicately placing them onto my plate, the waiter obliged my silent pleas and finally sealed up the rancid dairy display and rolled it onward to the next unwitting victim.

Recovering from the attack on my senses as the air slowly cleared, I began to taste my cheese selections with trepidation, and they were surprisingly delicious! Turns out you can’t necessarily judge a cheese by its pungency, because I savored each bite with honest delight and cleaned the entire plate. At the end of a nearly three hour dinner, my stomach was stuffed and my eyelids were starting to droop from exhaustion. Emptying out the rest of my bank account, I paid the waiter and thanked him for a wonderful dinner despite appearances to the contrary, and I began the short walk back to the hotel. For many reasons, this would be a traditional French meal I would never forget, as it had pushed all of my senses to the limit. And in the process, I apparently found the trick to clearing out a wide path on a busy sidewalk as well, as all the pedestrians avoided the cloud of cheese funk that wafted around me the entire solitary stroll home.

The infamous cheese tray on full display

Some foie gras delicately prepared

Thyroid Cancer

This post will be a significant divergence from my typical anecdotes about my travel experiences, but I felt like it was time to open up and tell the story of my diagnosis of thyroid cancer and the journey to recovery. But before I begin, I just want to give a spoiler and say that I’m healthy and doing well, so there is no cause for concern!

The saga begins in 2017 when I had decided that it was time to finally start adulting and find a primary care physician to inevitably tell me that I was healthy and invincible. During my physical I was poked and prodded and had my personal space violated, and everything initially seemed normal. But when the physician was palpating my neck and throat, her expression slightly changed and I could sense that something was abnormal. She discussed that she felt a lump on my thyroid and recommended that I get a routine ultrasound prior to my next visit. I wasn’t overly concerned, but obliged her wishes and scheduled my ultrasound for a few weeks later.

Drawing of the location and appearance of the thyroid gland

I’d not been on the receiving end of medical care much during my life, so I was actually interested in undergoing the ultrasound procedure to experience it firsthand and understand what patients endure. The process was entirely painless as I laid on the table while a gelled-up wand was pressed into my neck and throat from every angle in order to visualize the thyroid gland and any possible lymph nodes in the area. After the procedure, I went back to work for the remainder of the day and waited for my results to be analyzed and posted on the patient portal within the next couple days.

The official ultrasound results were disconcerting because they distinctly recommended a biopsy and further nuclear imaging to be performed, shattering my illusion of invincibility. My next step was to personally review the American Thyroid Association (ATA) guidelines to decipher the ultrasound results, and every descriptive detail of my thyroid nodule checked the box for “cancer”: hypoechoic, internal vascularity, microcalcifications, and larger than 4 centimeters in size, with a borderline prominent left lymph node. With the more research I did, the more I realized that I was facing a threatening situation to my health, so I promptly scheduled a follow-up with my physician to determine the next step.

Within several days, I was laying back on an examination table and preparing for my thyroid nodule to get biopsied. I was initially injected with several stinging shots of lidocaine to numb the area, and then the interventional radiologist performed two fine needle aspirations to obtain different core samples of the nodule. After the procedure, a Band-aid was placed on the injection site, and I returned to finish up the rest of my shift. Despite having multiple needles inserted into my thyroid, I only experienced a very mild, dull pain at the site, which was a pleasant surprise. The samples were sent to pathology to be analyzed, and the final results came back as a “benign follicular nodule” indicating the absence of cancer. To say I was relieved was an understatement, but I still had this nagging feeling that the histological results weren’t entirely accurate because of the damning description of the ultrasound findings in conjunction with the ATA guidelines.

Several days later I was scheduled for my nuclear medicine thyroid imaging scan, in which I swallowed some radioactive Iodine-123 capsules in the morning and returned in the afternoon for images to be done. The thyroid takes up any circulating iodine in your body, and the capsule’s iodine was radiolabeled allowing the scanner to detect how much iodine was being taken up by the thyroid. The following day I returned yet again for additional scans to compare with the first set. Both scans showed normal uptake of my thyroid, with a corresponding lack of uptake within the nodule, which is typical.

Representation of part of the thyroid uptake scan

Throughout this process I had selected an endocrinologist and set myself up as a new patient. With all of this welcome news, we made the joint decision to do a follow-up ultrasound in 6 months and then reevaluate the situation at that time. The second thyroid ultrasound showed no change in the size of the nodule, but there was increased vascularity compared to the previous study. While this was a negligible change, the nagging feeling about my biopsy results led me to request that my endocrinologist refer me to an oncology surgeon for a more professional evaluation.

After meeting with the surgeon, he strongly felt that the left half of my thyroid should be surgically excised, leaving me with half of a thyroid that should still produce an adequate amount of hormone. While I preferred to remove the whole thyroid based upon the ultrasound results, I accepted his decision because the biopsy had been negative, and it would be better to conserve a partial thyroid and maintain normal functioning if possible. The elective surgery was scheduled, and I apprehensively waited for the date to eventually arrive.

In April 2018, I arrived at the surgical center feeling nervous, but ready to proceed. After being disinfected and pre-medicated, I was wheeled into the operating room and drifted off to a drug-induced sleep. What seemed like seconds later, I was groggily waking up in the post-operative area as the anesthesia wore off before being transferred to a hospital room for an uneventful overnight stay. Because there are four small parathyroid glands embedded directly behind the thyroid gland, they can sometimes get damaged during the surgery, so I was admitted in order to keep a close eye on my calcium levels which would indicate parathyroid damage, of which there was fortunately none. A couple days after discharge, the surgeon personally called me to let me know that the pathology results of the nodule were back. Despite the prior negative biopsy, he discussed that the pathology clearly showed papillary thyroid cancer, and I needed to urgently go back for a second surgery. And that’s when my world came crashing down as the big C-word finally materialized into a reality for me. Cancer… yes, it was the "best" kind of thyroid cancer to get if you had to choose because it has the best outcomes, but it was still cancer nonetheless.

All prepped up for my first hemithyroidectomy surgery

Recovering after the left lobe of my thyroid was removed

Being discharged from the surgical oncology unit

Exactly a week after my initial surgery, I was back at the surgical center having the remainder of my thyroid completely removed, followed by another overnight hospital stay for observation. It was a complete sense of déjà vu as I was taken care of by the same nursing staff on the same floor while recovering from the same surgery, just as my initial incision had begun to heal. With my throat sealed up with glue for a second time, I was discharged and allowed to recuperate at home for a week. I began experiencing an inordinate amount of swelling at the surgical site, and was told to immediately make a follow-up appointment to evaluate the wound. They determined that I was developing a post-operative seroma, which was aspirated and drained, and temporarily helped alleviate the swelling. As the days passed, the bruising and swelling continued to dissipate, and eventually even the surgical glue came off, which allowed me to look somewhat normal again.

Recuperating at home with my caring nurse

Here we go again -- surgery #2

The bruising and developing seroma post-operatively

Having the seroma drained under ultrasound-guided aspiration

With my thyroid completely removed, I now had no ability to create thyroid hormone, which is in charge of the body’s metabolism. This causes you to feel sluggish and gain weight among other symptoms, so the body requires a daily replenishment of synthesized thyroid hormone as a replacement. However, before you begin a thyroid hormone replacement regimen after surgery, it is necessary to force your body into a hypothyroid state, causing you to exhibit these symptoms and experience incessant tiredness that cannot be cured by sleep. Once the thyroid hormone is sufficiently suppressed, the next step is to visit a radiation oncologist for further radiologic testing, to make sure that all of the thyroid has been removed. And this is where it begins to get interesting.

In the radiation oncologist’s office, the physician retrieves a highly secured radiation-filled capsule enclosed in a portable Fort Knox contraption to prevent accidental exposure. I swallow the capsule of radioactive Iodine-131 with the purpose of destroying any residual thyroid tissue that remained post-operatively. This time around, the radioactivity of the iodine is significant enough to pose a danger to others in my vicinity. A Geiger counter is waved over me to ensure that there is indeed an adequate amount of radioactivity emanating from my body, and then I am promptly ushered out the back door and told to self-quarantine for 3-4 full days. This involves being isolated in a guest bedroom in the house, completely avoiding all contact with humans or animals, and refraining from getting within 6 feet of any living thing, even if separated by a wall since the radiation will easily pass through. All of my bodily fluids were considered to be contaminated, so I had to use disposable dishes/plasticware to eat, wash all of my clothes separately, and ensure that no one came into contact with my bedsheets or towels. I felt like an ostracized leper who was shunned from society, but I at least had the company of my books and music to occupy my time. All in all, I actually enjoyed my relaxing isolation time, and it allowed me to mentally process my circumstances and begin to feel at peace with everything that was occurring. Once my quarantine was completed, I was free to join society again, disappointed that I hadn't gained any special superpowers from my radiation exposure. I was even given a document stating that I’d received radiation for oncologic purposes, should I set off any radiation detectors at the airport, in an effort to prove that I wasn’t a dangerous terrorist.

The Geiger counter which confirmed that I truly was radioactive

The next step in my recovery process was the whole body scan, where I was placed inside a gamma scan device similar to a CT machine, and my entire body was slowly scanned to detect where I was emitting radiation. This can detect for residual thyroid tissue, as well as the metastatic spread of any cancerous thyroid tissue throughout the body. My results showed uptake in the thyroid bed indicating remnant thyroid tissue, but absolutely no evidence of any lymph node involvement or metastatic disease. Some residual thyroid tissue is expected post-operatively, and is nothing to be concerned about. This was the best news for which I could have hoped!

Undergoing the whole body gamma scan

The final step in this process was the initiation of thyroid replacement hormone, which merely involves taking a single levothyroxine (Synthroid) pill once daily in the morning as soon as I wake up. I have my thyroid labs checked on a semi-regular basis, and have been regulated back to a normal level with no ill side effects. I have essentially been completely cured of my thyroid cancer, and despite having an unsightly scar on the front of my throat for everyone to see, I live my life as if nothing happened, which is the best result that one could imagine. I am truly blessed to have a good core group of friends, and excellent physicians to have gotten me through this ordeal, and I look forward to continuing to live the rest of my life cancer-free!

Raise awareness and get your neck checked!

My First Military Tattoo

Eight full months before I was scheduled to depart for my vacation, I set my alarm clock for a very important date with destiny. Hours before daylight even had a notion of appearing on the eastern edge of the United States, tickets for the Royal Edinburgh Military Tattoo were going on sale to the general public in the United Kingdom, and it was my intention to snag the best seat that I could. I was only going to be in Edinburgh for a single night as a stopover between the Orkney and Ireland legs of my trip, so this was my one opportunity to score a highly coveted ticket. With the feverishness of a Hamilton fanatic on opening day, I knew I was not going to throw away my shot to see this show, so I promptly entered the online waiting room as soon as the ticketing queue opened, and I nervously awaited my turn. Time slowly dragged by until at last I was selected to proceed and book my ticket. I hastily ordered my premier seat, and felt a huge sigh of relief when the website’s processing symbol finally stopped spinning and my order confirmation appeared on the screen. My spot was secure, and I could finally rise up and seize the day…. by going promptly back to bed!

Fast forward eight months, and my airplane touched down on the Edinburgh tarmac with several hours to spare until my show was scheduled to begin. I flagged down a taxi, checked into my hotel room, and ambled down to The Royal Mile to explore the historic district. Scotland’s capital city has always been one of my favorite cities to wander around with its mix of medieval-style and Georgian architecture, culminating with the colorful buildings along the curved Victoria Street which is undeniably the most photogenic block of the whole city. Once the time approached to enter the castle esplanade, I shuffled my way through the bustling crowds and joined the throngs of excited attendees.

I passed through a series of security checkpoints and eagerly entered into the grandstands, finally setting eyes upon the dominating exterior of the impregnable castle’s stone walls. While being ushered to my seat, I pleasantly discovered that I was merely two rows beneath the top military brass with a view to die for. Turns out that my decision to buy my premier ticket the exact moment it went on sale was a worthwhile endeavor! The crowds quickly filled the temporary stadium seating, built to hold around 9000 spectators and hundreds of performers. Suddenly the overhead speakers came on, and the announcer officially opened the evening’s festivities in honor of Her Majesty The Queen’s 90^th year. The royal show had begun!

What followed next was a dazzling production of military pageantry accompanied by music and dancing. Regiments of kilted soldiers marched in formation and played a rousing melody on the bagpipes to get the audience amped up. Various regiments from distant countries all around the world took their turns on the performance grounds and demonstrated displays of military prowess and precision. From weapons inspections to gun tossing to horsemanship to falconry, each routine was more fantastic than the previous. In a break from the military flourishes, there was a lively interval of highland dancing, as women exhibited their highland fling jumps while men leaped in synchrony over their swords, all to the backdrop of flames shooting up from the ground. Upon the imposing castle fortifications were projections of the waving Union Jack flag and other stirring video montages to inspire pride and patriotism.

As a grand finale, members from each country’s performing regiments combined into a singular marching force and filled the entire stadium floor for a monumental end to the evening. In perfect collaboration, the bagpipes, woodwinds, brass, and percussion sections joined in a beautiful rendition of The National Anthem and Scotland the Brave, stirring tears from the audience and a vigorous round of applause. To top off this unforgettable evening, a spectacular pyrotechnic display of fireworks was unleashed overhead in a dazzling array of colors and patterns, drawing everyone’s enraptured gaze skywards. Once the finale had concluded and the thunderous booms had subsided, I stood to my feet and slowly filed out of the stands with my heart thumping in jubilation and my arms covered in goosebumps from the emotive showing of the 67^th Royal Edinburgh Military Tattoo. Despite spending just one night in Edinburgh, I felt the weight of many centuries worth of the nation’s pride and heritage filling my entire being that evening, and I will always reflect back upon that memory with admiration.

The castle dominates the military tattoo

More military pageantry on display

Highland fling dancing

The Union Jack projected onto the castle ramparts

Victoria Street

Edinburgh Castle as seen from atop the Scott Monument

Into the Heart of Darkness

This is the story of my journey into the heart of darkness, boating along the Chagres River deep into the wild jungles of Panama. From encountering local natives, observing tribal customs, trekking across waterfalls, and feasting on freshly caught fish, this was an out of the ordinary adventure not to be forgotten. Upon leaving the bustling metropolis of Panama City, we drove for several hours into the rural outskirts of the city. Life along the perimeter of civilization was extremely rustic, dotted with unfinished cement block houses amid yards littered with trash piles and scrawny chickens pecking at the detritus. The further we drove into the countryside, the more haphazard the dwellings became, ranging from shanties made from corrugated steel to huts built with wood from the surrounding forests. Despite being typical for most communities in Central and South America, the abject poverty seen in these small outlying communities is eminently heart-wrenching.

After being jostled to death for several hours by the bumpy rut-filled roads, we reached the river where we awaited our next form of transportation. Our wooden boat soon arrived, piloted by a man clad in nothing but a beaded loincloth. He was from one of the local native Embera tribes, and was ready to guide us up the river to his small village. We clambered into the canoe and drifted away from the shore, embarking on our river portion of the journey. Fortunately, some modern technology had spread to this region, and our boat was equipped with an outboard motor, sparing us from having to endlessly row upstream all day and expend our muscles in the process. Along the muddy river we passed by small groupings of wooden huts, each belonging to another village of native Embera tribespeople. Occasionally, children would run to the riverside and furiously wave to the strange passersby, excited for the brief interruption of their daily lives by these curious visitors. Cruising along the calm river was a welcome respite from the earlier bumpy car ride, and I enjoyed admiring the jungled scenery around every riverbend and watching the colorful birds flying overhead.

Several miles into the expedition, we landed at our destination, astride a swath of muddy beach. We followed our guide headlong into the jungle path, ducking past overgrown trees and climbing over vines and brambles. There was a break in the path as it led to a smaller river, which we carefully crossed by gingerly tip-toeing over wooden planks laid across the span, each board sagging into the river with every footstep. Upon successful crossing of the river without any casualties, we progressed along the path until we reached a spectacular waterfall hidden amidst the jungle brush. This was such a serene spot that we all stopped and stared, entranced by the view. After ample time, the guide notified us that we must continue onward, and abruptly broken from our spells we trudged forward through the underbrush.

A short while later we approached a clearing in the woods and were soon greeted by smiling tribespeople who welcomed us to their humble village. They ushered us past sturdily-built wooden buildings on stilts, built to protect the inhabitants from flooding and from unwelcome wildlife. There were many houses scattered about, and within the center of the village was a school and an adjacent large building for community gatherings. We climbed up into this broad central room and sat down to a table laid with plates signaling the advent of our lunch. The scents of freshly fried fish and plantains wafted through the air, and set my mouth watering. The meal was quickly devoured, not out of respect to the hosts, but as a true testament to the deliciousness of the proffered food that was freshly and locally sourced. The plentiful food was the perfect antidote to a growling stomach that was ravenous from a long and draining trek through the jungle. Contentedly sitting back with a full belly, I listened as the tribe leaders explained the story of the indigenous Embera people and how they continued to eke out an existence in the tropical regions of Panama. They explained their customs and daily routines, and then called out for the rest of the tribe members to display their native music and dancing while dressed in their colorful and traditionally handmade clothing. They sang and exuberantly danced in a circle, expressing the joy that can only be found from living contentedly despite their meager means.

After this immersion into the Embera lifestyle, we were invited to follow the tribe’s medicine man into his jungle domain and look at the different plants that are used to heal various ailments. Through an interpreter, he described each of the native plants within his garden, and how specific parts of each plant can be either curative or deadly, demonstrating the skill needed to differentiate each plant. Stomach pains, headaches, infections, diarrhea, and impotence were all some of the minor conditions which were touted to be cured by any number of these native plants, and this information was fascinating for the pharmacist-centered curiosity which always dwells within my core. While I don’t intend to add these latest treatments to my armament of medications, there is extensive science behind the curative properties of certain plants, leading to the creation of drugs used today – aspirin, belladonna, opioids, cannabis, etc.

Armed with this new knowledge and rejuvenated from an afternoon spent with the local tribespeople, I said my reluctant farewells as our time together came to a close. I had learned some valuable lessons from these pleasant people, proving that you don’t need material wealth to be content. Always wear a smile and treat everyone you meet like a welcome guest, and your outlook on the world can remarkably shift. This is a much-needed mantra in today’s divisive environment, and exemplifies that only through kindness and unity can we hope to achieve a better society for all. If only we could all strive to be more accommodating like the Embera tribespeople, we could leave the world a better place for those who follow in our footsteps.

Typical dugout canoes used by the Embera people today

Passing by another Embera village along the route

Traditional wooden houses on stilts

Exhibiting their native music and dancing

The village chief is playing the flute

Following the medicine man into the woods

The medicine man is explaining the curative properties of his plants