michaelberry-blog

[michaelberry-blog]

Iceland day 6 - blue lagoon and last day blues

The previous night, the two girls from the whale restaurant had offered to give me a lift to the Blue Lagoon. At the time, I wasn’t sure if there was a one-way shuttle to take me the rest of the way to the airport, but after I found one I tried a Hail Mary and punched “Francesca” into the Facebook search. The algorithm worked its magic and churned out a profile result that not only was from SF and shared a mutual friend, but also had a check-in at the Reykjavík Harpa. I reached out to see if I could still snag a lift but never heard back.

Without a better option, I booked a shuttle and waited by the window to catch it when it arrived. I learned the hard way that the drivers are ruthless and won’t even stop unless they see someone physically standing at the curb. Luckily the hostel staff was able to get me on a second pickup an hour later, but I was kicking myself for not just taking taking the carpool option when I had the chance. That was the difference I felt between this trip and others: I was more reserved than normal, instead of letting myself get swept away in the beautiful chaos of impulse.

Regardless, I made it to the lagoon and was not disappointed. Before even reaching the main pools, milky rivers could be seen burbling through the moss-covered volcanic rubble. I had assumed the photos I had seen were dosed heavily with photoshop, but the waters were truly a hue more soft and baby blue than anything I had seen in nature. The ambiance was briefly interrupted by a massive commercial welcome center where they lectured us on the basics of the lagoon, which happen to also be the basics of civilized life: clean yourself, don’t break shit, don’t hurt yourself, and make sure you exit through the gift shop and spend spend spend! After the formalities, we hit the showers. I couldn’t help laugh: if anyone can remember the shock of their first time in a community center’s men’s locker room, with dudes of all shapes and ages and colors and varying degrees of nakedness, all talking and bickering and laughing, well this was like that turned up to 11. Dripping, bare to the elements, I shivered as I walked down the planks and finally dipped into the turquoise pool.

Like a modern day Bethesda, the lagoon’s high mineral and silica content is said to have healing powers. It’s fed by runoff from a nearby geothermal powerplant, and when a man claimed that a dip had cured his psoriasis, well, there was no turning back. Now there’s a face mask station, a swim-up bar, and a world class spa. I can’t speak authoritatively on the rejuvenation aspect, but it was definitely soothing to soak in the water, rub my hands through the thick clay, and catch glimpses of the expanse of lunar landscape through the ephemeral cloud of steam.

Even more miraculous, I ran into Francesca and Allie among the hundreds of bathing beauties! I later realized that the girl I had messaged... well, her Reykjavik activity on Facebook was from 2 years ago. Not sure why that was the latest activity on her page, but definitely the wrong person nonetheless. Lucky for me, they were some of those brave souls that carried their phone into the lagoon and were forced to hold it above the definitely-not-rejuvenating-for-electronics waters to get that famed photo opp. After disrupting some neighbors’ zen with our photo shoot, they had to get back on the road. But there’s only so much fun one can have floating around solo and obliging couples’ requests for a picture, so I was ready to hop out when my bus arrived.

Back once again at Keflavík airport, I had a few hours to kill before my flight. I bought a Snorrí spiced Icelandic ale (my new unexpected favorite) and recapped my trip, integrating the whole experience. Well, at least until I realized the bar offered the infamous “Brennivín and shark” combo. Something like the (disgusting) Icelandic version of tequila and lime, it involves eating a cube of fermented shark meat and washing it down with a shot of herbal schnapps. So I was kind of drunk as I got on the plane. As we chased the setting sun, I felt ready to move on... but not ready to go home.

[michaelberry-blog]

Iceland Day 5 - hot tubs, nostalgia, and whale steak

Being the only one in the room, I got my first truly good night’s sleep of the trip - and then some. When I woke up and took a look at the clock it was already 11:30! The shades were wide open, but morning light was only starting to filter through. I stared out into the drizzle and debated what to do with a rainy day in Reykjavik. After wiping the sleep from my eyes, I set off for Sundhöllin, one of the city’s oldest public thermal pools.

Heated pool complexes are like Iceland’s bar scene. People of all walks of life congregate there to relax after a long day, chatting it up with their neighbors and friends. I had asked someone earlier if “polar plunges” were popular in the country, and they responded, “Why would people do that when there is so much nice warm water around?” I navigated the maze-like locker room, somewhat bewildered, and followed the strict rules: leave boots outside, scan your receipt for entry, get naked and shower off, extra scrubbing focus on the head, armpits and groin. Since the pools are minimally chlorinated, it’s important that patrons are as clean as possible before entering.

For some reason, I had been in my own head a lot more than normal on this trip, second guessing every decision and just feeling a little… spineless? So I sat in the heavy cloud of the sauna, breathing in the thick steam and breathing out all of my worries. Feeling a little lighter, I jumped straight to the cold plunge. I grit my teeth in the frigid water until my whole body hurt and I felt a tentacle of numbness crawl up one side of my neck, then relished the heavenly relaxation of the hot tub as the rain sprinkled on my head. I repeated the cycle a few times, and eventually headed back to the locker room to dry myself off with a hair dryer since I had missed the critical “pick up a towel at the front desk” step.

Bundled up once again, I retraced my steps back through the city, looking for gems I might have missed on the first day. I also didn’t have a whole lot else to do. I was surprised how it reminded me of my trip to Germany, and the magnitude of the nostalgia it provoked. That was 10 years ago, but I’ve come to realize it must have left quite a mark. The chilly air, European atmosphere, holiday cheer, turbulent blend of excitement and loneliness… even the smell of the cigarettes! It all teleported me back to Bavaria, where a young man was on his first truly solo adventure: unprepared for the cold, a little lovesick, but still wide-eyed and world-bound.

For dinner I absolutely had to stop in at Þrír Frakkar and taste something pretty unique (and ethically questionable). Surprisingly, the whale steak tasted like… steak! Not even a tuna steak, but a big beefy beefsteak, which was also weird since I hadn’t eaten red meat for probably 5 years. Puffin breast and horse meat were also on the menu, and I would have sampled them all if a tasting platter was available. As I prepared to eat, I could feel the inquisitive stares of the two girls at the table next to me. When I looked over, they confessed their curiosity without hesitation. Turns out they were from San Francisco too, and we chatted the rest of the evening and made tentative plans to meet up at the Blue Lagoon the following day. I cut them a slice of whale and passed it across the table.

[michaelberry-blog]

Iceland Day 4 - Gumbi and the golden circle

Of all the solo traveling I’ve done, Iceland has proved the most difficult to meet people. It’s probably a combination of it being off season, few people in the hostel, and the fact that the weather turns the cold blooded lizard part of me into an introvert. The fact that all my tour groups had been super small didn’t help either, so for my final expedition I booked the most popular company to the most popular destination: the Gray Line tour of the Golden Circle.

I definitely wound up with a larger group, but it ended up being the epitome of everything I dislike about mass tourism: giant bus, crowded sights, and a clientele of newly-weds and nearly-deads. The weather was also simply not cooperating, with drizzling rainfall and immense fog hiding the majestic landscape we were supposed to be taking in on our way to Þingvellir national park. This was the location where the original Viking settlers held Alþingi, or the “meeting of all people.” Starting in 930AD (!) clan leaders would convene in the very valley where we now stood, in one of the earliest forms of democratic governance in history. The landscape was impressive, with massive jagged canyons that were likely cleaved in a single earthquake, and the immense mid Atlantic rift stretching before us.

We crossed this chasm between continents and continued on to the famous Gullfoss. I had seen a few waterfalls over the past few days, but there’s a reason this is one of the most visited sites in Iceland. Thundering glacier runoff cascaded down multiple levels, finally tumbling into the canyon below. The spray mingled with the falling rain, drenching those poor souls who decided it was wise to wear jeans.

Final stop was Geysir: the OG and namesake of our English word “geyser.” One of the few Icelandic words that had been adopted by English, along with “saga” and possibly a few others. The Icelandic language feels no need to borrow from us either, and they actually have very few loan words (computer = tölvu, which means “numbers prophet” or something). On that note, a few days beforehand someone had taught me the longest Icelandic word they knew: “Vaðlaheiðarvegavinnuverkfærageymsluskúrslyklakippuhringurinn” which is a key ring to a work shed. After a few days in Iceland, my search history read like a blacked out Saturday night: Vesturbæjarlaug, Hallgrímskirkja, Hafnarfjörður, Reykjavíkurhöfn, Solheimajokull...

Anyway, the geyser was pretty cool, but honestly the best part was watching tourists slip and fall down the icy walkway. If you’ve ever been to Yellowstone, you’ve seen cooler mud pots and geysers. That got me thinking, and to be honest I’ve seen (climbed!) cooler glaciers in Bolivia, traversed more otherworldly landscapes in Chile, bathed in more breathtaking waterfalls in Costa Rica... the list goes on. At first I was a little disappointed at this realization, but then I decided frame it in a different light. How lucky I am to have seen so many truly phenomenal places! In this Instagram-saturated zeitgeist of the modern day, its easy to forget that the ability to travel is a privilege, and I’ve been more fortunate than most.

Back in Reykjavík, the best part of the entire trip commenced when my old friend Guðmundur (aka Gumbi) walked into Kex. I met Gumbi in La Paz probably 2 years ago, and we had a great time guzzling the world’s worst light beer, eating cheap avocado sandwiches, and both battling our way to the top of the 20k foot summit of Huayna Potosí. The change in weather meant it was now dreary, but so much warmer than the days prior; I only had to don 3 layers instead of 5 in order to brave the evening air. We started at a improv comedy show at Miami bar. The former was pretty terrible, and the latter was a kitschy take on a European perception of the neon 80s in America. Regardless, we had a colossal time. We talked, laughed, drank, and I was reminded of my favorite part of travel. It’s not the landscapes, not the photos, not the passport stamps, not the souvenirs. It’s the friends you make, spread across the globe in the most miraculous diaspora. It’s when you haven’t talked to someone in years, and then parachute into their city, text them on a whim, and they proceed to drop everything and show you a good time.

We proceeded to Lebowski Bar, which felt like something that would have been more at home in Cabo, but it’s where Gumbi wanted to go so we go. Brennevín is to Iceland what fernet is to San Francisco, so we took a shot and then took a seat. After I used the restroom he mentioned that the fake waterfall was not in fact a urinal (something he had previously learned the hard way) so we skedaddled before anyone called the marker on his head. We ambled down the single main street and came face to face with the illuminated monstrosity of... the Christmas cat! According to Icelandic lore, if a child misbehaves, they will not receive a new article of clothing for Christmas. And any child lacking said garb will be rapidly devoured by said cat. Tells you a little bit about the importance of clothes in this place. Also, instead of one Santa, they have 13 “Yule Lads” who descend from the highlands to give daily gifts to children that continue to behave throughout the Christmas season. Pretty smart if you ask me.

At our final stop, the Drunken Rabbit, Gumbi pointed out a guy who was in fact a local news anchor. And he wanted people to know it. When he was through talking to the local cuties, he approached me and the topic inevitably came up. But when the conversation drifted to secret videotapes of Trump peeing, we decided it was time to go. Gumbi and I parted ways, and he told me to come back next summer for his annual DIY camping music festival. I returned to the hostel to discover (gasp!) I was the only one in the room that night! A true luxury in the hostel world.

[michaelberry-blog]

Iceland Day 3 - Reykjanes peninsula: fire, ice, and everything nice

Other people had told me the northern lights outings returned around 1, so I had booked yet another tour for today. But my previous night ended at 2:30am, so waking up was a bit more difficult than yesterday. Gummi picked me up in the Gateway to Iceland minibus, even though I had booked through Extreme Iceland. Gummi was anything but extreme, and I’m pretty sure nobody else could hear him except me, and that’s because I sat right behind him and chatted his ear off for the next 8 hrs. There were only 2 other passengers though, so it ended up basically being a private tour.

The first stop was a large but unassuming house at the end of a peninsula, where the president lives. Yep, you can drive right up to the president’s house and might even see him returning from a jog if you time it right. Apparently, the Vice President of the U.S. once visited, and when rooftop snipers were requested the Icelanders thought it was a joke. There was a single police car parked adjacent, and I realized that was the first one I had seen all trip.

On our way out to the Reykjanes peninsula, we cruised through one of Reykjavik’s sleepy suburbs known for its superstitions. Sidewalks and roads jog around elf mounds and rock formations that were created when sunlight turned trolls into stone, and the legends of the hidden people are alive and well. The terrain grew more and more rugged, and eventually we were making our way across a desolate lava field of craggy obsidian topped with snow. Like much of Iceland, this was actually fertile farmland until the 11th century, when a series of eruptions and a mini ice age buried it beneath ash and ice. The original settlers, who had crossed the Atlantic for a lush promised land, must have been pretty pissed when their luck changed.

We reached a frigid pond, its cookies-and-cream shores evoking the feeling of an alpine lake, except we at sea level. The fog hung heavy like a specter, and I realized how fortunate the weather had been over the past few days. Not far away, a cave that looked like it could be Gollum’s home invited us to explore. We donned headlamps and crawled in, almost soiling our long underwear when we saw a body inside. Upon closer inspection though, we realized it was just a paper mache mannequin. Nice one Gummi. Apparently though, outlaws lived in caves like these if they were cast out of society. The Vikings are remembered for being especially vicious, but they actually developed what is claimed as the world’s oldest parliamentary government in the 10th century, called Alþingi. But law-abiding doesn’t necessarily preclude violence, especially when the laws say murder is punishable by... a fine. Unless you disposed of the body. Then you had to live in a cave.

The smell of sulfur permeated the chilly air as we neared the Seltún mud pots. Fumes and steam gurgled out of the putrid waters, and a sign warned of eminent death for those who strayed from the path... which was a walkway slick with ice and lacking railings. This miasma used to be a geothermal power plant until one day the pressure built up enough to cause an explosion. So they capped the vent with concrete until... the pressure built up enough to cause an explosion. I’m sensing a common theme here. Later we would see the Gunnuhver mud pot, which ups the ante even further by being haunted.

Out on the coastline, the environment was equally harsh but in a different way. The powerful waves thundered against the sea wall, and we explored the ruins of dug-in homes used by ancient fishermen and farmers. We even spotted the rusting carcass of a modern boat that had been tossed an unbelievable distance inland. NASA actually trained astronauts for the lunar missions out here, which should give you some idea of the landscape. Adding to the scene were the smelting factories, dotting the Martian landscape like alien moon bases. The abundance of cheap energy (Iceland produces 6x the electricity per capita than other developed nations) makes this a perfect place for energy-intensive industries like aluminum production and server farms.

The final stop, and most interesting to me, was the continental divide and mid Atlantic ridge. It’s here that the Eurasian and North American tectonic plates are slowly tearing apart, releasing the fury deep within the earth’s core. The ensuing massive volcanic activity is the reason for Iceland’s existence, and also its near demise throughout history. We went to the “bridge between two continents,” which is a nice idea and showcases an immense fissure, but is about 8 km too short. However, you actually can see the transition between continents as you gaze across the plain, which is something incredible.

After dropping the other tourgoers at the airport, it was just Gummi and me cruising back to Reykjavík. We chatted a lot about the tourism boom, global warming, and the government: 3 things I’ve noticed Icelanders have strong options about. At a stoplight in front of the hostel, I was rummaging through my bag when the whole van lurched violently. Gummi had bumped into the car ahead on the final 0.1% of an otherwise flawless tour. Luckily the damage was minimal, but I could tell he was a bit embarrassed. As he swapped insurance numbers with the other driver (a cute local lady), I told him to write my number down on the paper and thanks for the intro. The mood lightened, he laughed and we parted ways.

[michaelberry-blog]

Iceland day 2 - the longest tour

When you combine jet lag, snoring bunk mates, and joints sore from the cold, you find yourself awake at 1am counting Icelandic sheep. Luckily I managed not to go fully insane by the time breakfast finally rolled around and chowed down on fresh baked bread and thick biscuits dipped in coffee.

I met Siggi from Iceland Everywhere and set off towards the south coast with our small tour group. It was pitch black as we traveled though the frozen wastes until the sun finally rose: a blood red sky with silhouettes of steam, billowing and effervescent. I caught my first glimpse of the famous Icelandic horse and was amazed that something so dainty and cute could survive in these conditions. Siggi told us a bit more about the wildlife. Industrial farming is prohibited, and the sheep actually roam free in the highlands, until they are rounded up for slaughter in a massive communal effort once a year. We passed a fully self-sustaining farm, using geothermal energy to create everything needed, including biodiesel. Having just read “An Omnivore’s Dilemma,” this was all very intriguing.

The infamous Mt Hekla loomed in the distance, it’s historic eruptions responsible for much of the landscape, as well as multiple near-extinctions of the Icelandic people. And it was overdue to erupt again at any moment. Off the coast we could see the Vestmannaeyjabaer volcanic islands that suddenly liquified their streets one night in 1973, sending residents running from the lava in their pajamas. Hard pass. And then of course we saw Eyjafjallajökull, made famous in 2010 when it blew its top. The event halted all air travel to Europe for about a week and taught the world how difficult it is to pronounce Icelandic words.

We made pit stops at the Seljalandsfoss and Skogafoss waterfalls, the latter having the distinction of being a Game of Thrones filming location. I had forgotten my belt, and waddled around holding up my snow pants with one hand. Down one of the paths, I came face to face with an old acquaintance: Monica Harnoto! We both stopped dead in our tracks and did a double-take, not fully believing it. We chatted a bit about our trips and just how wild it was to run into each other way out here, on an infant island in the middle of the North Atlantic.

Next stop was the Reynisfjara beach, now usually called “black beach” since that is a tad easier to say. The road took us past the site of an old DC-3 wreck, largely unknown until Justin Bieber skateboarded on it in a music video. Now there’s a parking lot. At the beach, I scooped up some black sand as a souvenir. You’re not supposed to do that, but I figured it couldn’t be more detrimental than the people climbing all over the basalt trap rock formations. There was a fee to use the restroom, and even a credit card scanner! So I just used nature’s bathroom instead. Then I bought something called “good marriage cake,” made from oatmeal and rhubarb. They say that if your wife can make a tasty desert out of the only two things that can really grow on the island, you’re going to have a good marriage.

Final stop was the Solheimajokull glacier, which was the highlight of the day. We walked up the canyon it had carved out until we reached the monolithic wall of ice, which glowed baby blue in the waning sunlight. I took in the sublime scene until I noticed a takeout box perched on an ice ledge, the perfect juxtaposition of the power of nature meeting the power of man. But all things considered, Iceland seemed to be doing a better job than others preserving its wonders despite the tourist boom.

The ride back to Reykjavík took us past turf houses, built with the raw materials the original settlers had at their disposal: mud and grass. They didn’t even have trees! The only wood came from shipwrecks and driftwood, and was a prized commodity. I dozed off to sleep and woke up in traffic... Black Friday traffic. “Thank you America!” Siggi laughed and winked at me. “That’s why I’m here instead!” I countered with a laugh.

I washed up and wandered around town looking for a place to eat, taking in the light snowfall and holiday bustle of the narrow streets while Christmas jingles danced through the air. Any town that embraces Christmas is ok in my book. Oddly enough, the drinks in Iceland didn’t seem that much more expensive than I was used to, but the food prices were astronomical. We’re talking $12 for a subway sandwich. Eventually I found a spot on the cheap and caffeinated up for yet another tour.

Once again, I hopped into Siggi’s bus, this time for northern lights hunting. I say hunting, since they were far from guaranteed. As we barreled our back East away from the clouds and city lights, Siggi would randomly careen off the road when he saw a flash through the clouds. We would tumble out of the bus, set up the tripod, and behold the Auroras Borealis dance above us until it was swallowed up once again. I learned that seeing the brilliant colors with the naked eye is actually pretty rare, and was surprised none of the 5,000 tour reviews I researched mentioned that. Without the help of a long exposure camera, they look a lot like clouds in the night sky. But unlike clouds, they slowly waft one way, pause, dart back in the opposite direction, and then disappear.

We finally found a solid place and camped out until the early hours, sipping not chocolate. Some horses even walked up to a nearby fence wondering what all the fuss was about. Eventually, the cold overpowered the splendor, and one by one people climbed back into the bus. But without the engine running (any lights would ruin the show) it was just as cold inside, and by the time 1am rolled around we were all ready to go home. As we neared the city once again, I caught a glimpse of what I thought was a brilliant Aurora, but it was actually the “Imagine Peace” memorial, its 75 kW beam of electricity furiously splitting the sky. Once again, nature and man going toe to toe.

[michaelberry-blog]

Iceland day 1 - the name makes sense

Out of the inky blackness, 30,000 feet above the arctic circle, a faint flicker of lights began to emerge. A few short minutes later we were disembarking, straight onto the snowy runway of the land of fire and ice. It was 6:40am, and the temperature could only be described as “f#@$ it’s cold!” I stopped at the ATM and proceeded to accidentally withdraw $400 instead of $40... good thing Iceland is ranked one of the most expensive countries to visit.

The bus dropped me at Kex hostel in Reykjavík where I stowed my bags and set off to explore. The staff recommended I start at Reykjavík Roasters, where a coffee and chocolate croissant set me back about $10. A little steep, but actually not too different than San Francisco. I guess reverse sticker shock is one of the perks of living in an expensive city. And you can’t put a price on sipping espresso watching the sun rise (at 10:30am) over the worlds most northern capital city and reveling in your “30 by 30” accomplishment.

I wandered through the streets, somehow cozy feeling despite the temperature, with the holiday spirit already in full swing. The oldest homes were colorful corrugated steel, fitting with the historic Icelandic tradition of building out of whatever gets the job done. At the top of the hill stood the cathedral of Hallgrímskirkja, its traprock-inspired tower standing watch over the old village. As I attempted to take a photo, I quickly realized that my new hilariously large phone - case + gloves combo was going to require some careful handling if I wanted to avoid dropping my most important possession in the snow.

I made my way down to Tjörnin, where Chinese tourists were slipping about taking photos on the (only half frozen) pond. I chucked a rock and watched the cracks propagate, and decided I’d stay on shore. In true “first hours in a country” mode I was snapping photos nonstop, and suddenly my phone shut down, and I remembered lithium ion batteries don’t do well in extreme temperatures. Neither do my hands, so I ducked into the National Museum of Iceland to nerd out and get some feeling back into my fingertips.

I pored over the exhibits and learned that Iceland was really not a fun place in the Middle Ages. A list of ways you could die include: starvation (periodic massive livestock famines) asphyxiation, buried alive in mudslides, burning to death (volcanic eruptions) murder (warring Viking clans) plague (Black Death) hypothermia (duh. But seriously, not even drowning, simply falling out of your fishing boat was enough)

Next I walked towards Grandi, the fish packing docks-turned-trendy shops and cafes. On the way, I spotted “The American Bar” next to “The English Pub” next to “Paris Cafe.” All on one street. Looking for something just a tad more authentic, I ducked into a small spot called the CooCoo’s Nest and got the turkey cranberry sandwich soup special, it being thanksgiving and all. I struck up a conversation with a girl named Leila and made possibly the most serendipitous connection in my life: not only was she also from SF, and also on my arriving flight, but she also used to work with my manager Phil!

The maritime museum was a bit of a letdown: a bit heavy on the “tell me about fish” and light on “tell me about boats” but I did learn about the Cod War. Not a typo: they actually fought over fishing grounds and rammed English boats. Other notable harbor sights included throngs of drunk Icelanders in onesies (someone please tell me why) and the striking Harpa opera house in all its illuminated glass glory.

Having already seen most of the city village, I headed back to Kex to check in and shower up. Definitely the first hostel I’ve been to where you’re encouraged to drink the tap water. Apparently, the water is so clean in Iceland that bottled water is a straight up scam. I stayed up as long as possible to stave off jet lag but by 7:30 my eyelids were anchors and I turned in for the night.

[michaelberry-blog]

Cabarete day 3 - the long ride back home

I’ve had weird dreams every night of this trip, and woke up feeling a bit unnerved. The despondency of vacation’s end didn’t help either, so I shook off the mood and walked out of the little neighborhood of ProCab one last time in search of a place where I could blow the rest of my pesos on breakfast. I munched on some pancakes filled with every variety of tropical fruit imaginable, and reminisced while starting out at the beach. Previous trips have left me with indescribable feelings when they’ve come to a close, where a piece (even a small piece) of me has definitely changed. From the truly life-changing metamorphosis of Spain, to the willing-to-kiss-American-soil of Cuba, to the nomadic catharsis that propelled me through South America. Maybe I’ve just seen so many cool places, but I just felt… a bit sad and empty.

I packed my things and checked out, only to realize that although an Uber price was listed on the app, no cars were ever really available in Cabarete. So I set off one more last walk down the street. The taxi man wouldn’t budge on his $35 price to the airport, so I crammed into the local guagua (the public minibus) which covered the same route for one tenth of the price. But for that steep discount I learned you must sacrifice your space and your sanity. We pulled to the side of the road for any pedestrian that appeared to be even remotely interested, and the conductor, hanging out the door, would shove them into a nonexistent space and then pound on the roof to signal the all-clear. At one point I counted 19 people in a van roughly the size of a VW Vanagon. They dumped me at the entrance, and I can now check off “walked from the highway into an international airport” off my list.

I spent the last of my pesos (aka free money) and blasted off for Miami.

[michaelberry-blog]

Cabarete day 2 - ocean adventures above and below

I did some last minute scuba refreshing while I waited for Aqua Adventures to pick me up. Pablo was a bundle of energy and an endless talker, so I didn’t believe him for a second when he said he wanted to move to the countryside to get away from all the people. Once we arrived at the shop in Sosúa, my new dive buddy Don and I suited up and hopped in the beached dinghy, then pushed out to sea for our first dive site at “airport wall.” As always, it took a few minutes to get used to the whole “being buried 80 feet underwater” thing. But eventually things fell into place, and I ended up consuming less oxygen than our dive guide and clocking almost an hour of bottom time. I guess I’ve been spoiled diving in Hawaii and Thailand though, so I was a bit unimpressed with the wildlife. But we did spot the largest puffer I’ve ever seen, and diving is always a surreal experience.

But near the end, I began to feel a bit nauseated andt fingers were turning purple despite the tropical water. After ascending, I was a bit dizzy and just not feeling great, and realized I had foolishly forgotten to eat breakfast in the rush of the morning. The guys at the shop were super nice and bought me a toastie and some juice from what they called a “sour orange,” and refused when I offered to pay. Still, I felt like I was forcing myself to get back in the water in order to get my money’s worth, and realized it was a better idea to just sit out the second tank. Regulators are designed so you can throw up in them, but I would rather not test that feature. I walked around Sosúa a bit, definitely saw some of the, ahem, ladies for which the town is well-known, and then had Pablo drop me off at kite beach back near Cabarete.

The air was filled with kites, swooping and dipping like a flock of drunken birds. Some of the humans tethered to the other end were in the initial stages of their lessons and weren’t yet allowed in the water. I laughed as they were dragged up and down the beach at the mercy of the passing gusts, and had to dodge a few renegade kites myself. But others effortlessly commanded their gear like it was an extension of their body. They flipped and charged and played in the waves, leaping out of their boards and landing in the sand like Olympic gymnasts with the perfect dismount. I walked all the way back to town along the sand, pausing every once in a while to watch them dual with the kite surfers and foil boards.

I eventually posted up in a chair, and chatted with a Wisconsin family who were opening a bungalow resort nearby. “Holy cow you look younger than 29!” the father noted. I guess that new tan and vacation vibe are suiting me well’ Perhaps inspired by his comment, I spent 10 minutes trying to catch the crabs that scurried among the rocks, and returned to the hostel exhausted from the enriched air and beating sun.

A cold shower woke me right up, as did some fresh coconut water. We hacked at the husks with a machete and ate chunks of the white meat as the sun set on my last evening in Cabarete. The hostel’s previous life as a restaurant has left behind some cozy nooks, and we sat in the dark heat of the evening drinking cold beer and swapping travel stories. I asked about a Colombian kite instructor’s tattoo, and was floored to learn it was done at the same shop that did my calf in Medellín! A bit later, hungry and curious about the nightlife, I strolled into town. What I found was a döner kebab and lots of beachfront restaurants that had transformed into thumping expat nightclubs. I did some people watching as I ate, then held on for dear life as the motoconcho whisked me back to my room.

[michaelberry-blog]

Cabarete day 1 - s’mojitos

There are few times in my life when I’m the first one awake, but hostels are one of them. I hung out by the pool until the world came to life, and then walked down to the beach with Katie and Gary. We swam in the surf and fought off beach vendors selling cornrows, and watched the kiteboarders multiply as the winds picked up. 2pm signaled the start of happy hour, and we strolled up the beach to snag some 2-for-1 mojitos and Santo Libres.

Katie left for a bus, but Gary and I hung out all afternoon, did some back alley souvenir shopping, and got some authentic... ok, got some Chinese food for dinner. We played a game of doubles pool as one of the long term residents explained just how much water damage last week’s storm likely incurred. Apparently the whole room I was in flooded, someone’s passport was ruined, and water leaked down through the ceiling onto the pool table below. I looked up at the time bomb of a ceiling above me, half expecting it to cave in, but luckily El Castillo soldiered on.

[michaelberry-blog]

[michaelberry-blog]

Santo Domingo - Cabarete

I woke up feeling surprisingly fresh after last night’s Presidente marathon. I checked out and said goodbye to Schumacher and Hamilton (the F1 hostel dogs). Before hitching an Uber to the Caribe Tours bus station, I stopped in at a cool bicycle rental / cafe. I wasn’t the only fan, as a group of people fresh off the cruise ship ducked in and shouted “muy bien!” - which is complimentary but not really correct.

Between the Spanish and the thick glass, I couldn’t make out a word the ticket agent was saying at the station, but I somehow managed to secure a spot on the noon bus to Sosúa. The A/C was on full blast and I couldn’t believe I was wearing a sweatshirt but watching palm trees and dense jungle out the window. After about 5 hours we arrived at the station and I hailed a taxi to take me the remainder of the way to Cabarete. Of all the sketch taxis in my life, this was the most “I really needed a change of underwear.” You know it’s bad when the locals are honking and making fake guns with their fingers. Plus, it took him forever to find Laguna Park hostel, even after looking at my map and asking the local motorcycle taxis.

When we finally arrived, I stepped out to find a castle-inspired semi mansion oddity at the end of a street half deserted and half filled with expat homes. It had a haunted yet charming vibe that I still can’t quite figure out . Apparently the place was originally designed as a hotel/restaurant, but the owner made some, ahem, enemies and ended up getting killed. So I’m probably not far off with the haunted thing.

I walked down the street into town, past the also famous Ali’s Surf Hotel, and stopped in at Janet’s: the best-named supermarket in the world. To combat my bug bites, I came close to buying some off-brand Raid before I realized my mistake and swapped for some human-safe bug spray. I ate a very salty but moderately priced dinner of octopus and shellfish at Mojito, and was surprised the hostel staff hadn’t recommended somewhere more authentic. I haggled down a motoconcho, hopped on the back of the bike, and returned to the hostel where I met a handful of interesting characters. A Kenyan on gap year, a Maine sailor in town to learn how to kite board, a Frenchman surf bum, a local Dominican who spoke 5 languages... you never know who you’ll run into on the road. We chilled for a bit, swapping stories and splitting coconuts, and then the power went out. So we all moved to the backyard and stared at the sky, all of us noticing the brilliance of the Dominican cosmos for the first time.

[michaelberry-blog]

[michaelberry-blog]

Santo Domingo day 1 - old buildings / new friends

Finally feeling well rested, I set off to explore the oldest city in the Americas. Santo Domingo was founded by Columbus’ brother in...wait for it... FOURTEEN NINETY SIX! If that doesn’t make your head explode, the city is home to every first [fill in the blank] imaginable: cathedral, university, street, mansion, fort... all dating back to the 16th century. If you look closely, you can see bits of coral and sea stones embedded in the walls, as the founders were forced to get creative with the building materials. The colonists were unbelievably brutal and racist by today’s standards, but they did build an impressive city. It was the pride of Europe for centuries, and most of it is remarkably well preserved for something that recently celebrated its 500th birthday.

I walked down to the malecón, which overall was underwhelming compared to Havana’s or even the waterfront of San Francisco. Still, it’s wild to see the berths harboring massive container ships and realize that these very same docks once launched expeditions that later conquered the rest of South America. I wandered around the colonial zone with no real itinerary, stopping at every historical site and poring over the details. History nerd Mike was turned up to 11.

One of the most impressive buildings was the cathedral of Santa María, finished in 1540 and final resting place of Columbus’ descendants. It was also the temporary resting place of Sir Francis Drake, serving as his headquarters when he captured (and destroyed 1/3 of) the city. As I (slowly) read through the Spanish information plaque, a fine dusting of coral limestone powder suddenly obscured the words. I looked up at the ceiling, and an employee hurried over to wipe the display clean.

I escaped the throngs of Segway tourists and overpriced restaurants, instead opting for a lunch of tostones de camarón: fried plantains shaped into bowls and filled with shrimp. Then I stopped in at the “museo memorial de la resistencia” to avoid the heat of the day. The museum catalogues the bloody and oppressive Trujillo dictatorship that lasted from the 1930s to the 60s. This dude was as megalomaniacal as they come: he renamed the city after himself, erected statues everywhere, and had churches display the slogan “The Lord in Heaven, Trujillo on Earth.” He also brutally and obviously murdered all dissidents, including 3 high profile sisters who were shoved in a car and driven off a cliff. And also this little thing called the Parsley Massacre where he slaughtered somewhere between 10k to 30k Haitians. Needless to say, he became such an embarrassment to the United States, who technically backed the regime, that they helped organize his assassination.

Next stop was the Fortaleza Ozama, which was surprisingly never sacked due to its defenses. Heated cannonballs designed to explode invading ships powder magazines, shrapnel projectiles for splitting masts, tapered firing arcades specifically to house crossbows... these guys were not messing around. But apparently Diego Columbus found it accommodating enough that he moved in while the warden was away, and had to be straight up evicted by the King of Spain. But Señor Diego eventually moved into the Alcázar de Colón, so it worked out ok for him in the end. I also toured this palatial fortress, filled with obscenely old artifacts, and was struck by how the most luxurious accommodations that money could buy in the 16th century were nothing short of abysmal by today’s standards.

I returned back to the hostel in the late afternoon and hopped in a game of dominos with the other backpackers. The place was a perfect size and had a great vibe, and all of us quickly became friends. We hung out all afternoon and evening, playing pool and card games (many involving drinking) and swapping life stories. After enough Presidentes, we hit the town, hostel dogs in tow. After trying our luck at some club, which was very lame, we all crammed onto the hostel couch and capped the night off watching The Dictator.

[michaelberry-blog]

San Jose - Santo Domingo

In all my hostel stays I have never heard such a cacophony of snoring. There were light wheezy snores, deep hippopotamus snores, snores that sounded like gargling Listerine, and snores that just sounded like breathing heavily into a microphone. The equally amazing part was the room only contained 5 others beside me. The silver lining: waking up was easy. I made a Nutella and toast sandwich and called an Uber (!) to take me and some random guy named Carl to the airport.

Starbucks, Cinnabon, Quiznos, white people... SJO could easily be mistaken for SJC. In fact, a few days prior, a Delta concierge employee told me they had helped a man who accidentally booked a flight to San Jose, CA instead of its Costa Rican sister city. The gate agent asked me about 7 times if I had been to South America in the past 10 days, and then flipped through my passport, carefully examining each South American stamp with incredulity.

After a few hours of blue nothingness, the island suddenly emerged from the expanse. And I could not believe how many baseball stadiums there were! Amazingly, I wound up in the exact same seat next to the same lady on both the San Jose - Panama City and Panama - Santo Domingo flights. Then we had to abort our landing into SD at the very last second due to high winds, so it was a weird day for air travel. But we throttled up, climbed out, and circled back to touch down safely (albeit shakily) the second time around. Did I mention how many baseball stadiums there were!

Customs was infuriatingly slow, especially since I managed to pass the simple test in about 30 seconds once I got to the window. I snaged a taxi for a bit under market price at 1000 pesos, and he hurtled into town at 90 miles per hour, straddling lanes and avoiding motorbikes who were practicing the dual skill of steering and eating. My first impression of the Zona Colonial was a mix between Cartagena and Havana and I immediately loved it. Ancient fortresses built to protect the Spanish crown from piracy flanked the exterior of the colonial zone, but behind the 16th century walls the buildings themselves reminded me of of the dismal beauty of Cuba’s capital. The homes themselves were all vibrant yet ramshackle, proud yet crumbling - a perfect embodiment of Santo Domingo’s 500 year arc. Even Island Life hostel was housed in a remodeled colonial palace older than most buildings in America. The mahogany, originally used in the roof, was beautiful and beautifully imperfect, undulating across the bartop and shelving yet creating a cohesive whole.

Thankfully, a sea breeze whipped its way through the narrow alleys, making my brief evening exploration much more enjoyable than I would have experienced in the aforementioned cities. I grabbed a few empanadas and sat on the concrete steps watching the locals play a game of pickup basketball against the backdrop of - oh, just the first monestary in the America’s, built in the early 16th century. Back at the hostel, they treated the new kids to a welcome shot of “Mama Juana,” which is basically a bark-infused rum/wine drink that is reported to also be an aphrodisiac. I hung out talking about the typical backpacker topics and then, only after convincing everyone that not all Americans are fat idiots, hit the hay.

[michaelberry-blog]

[michaelberry-blog]

Tamarindo day 2 - ¡La Boda!

In the sunlight of the next morning I finally had a chance to take in the villa we’d be calling home for the next few days. Rainfall showers, carved wood furniture, balcony overlooking the ocean, infinity pool, and... no poopy paper basket! One of the few places in Central America I’ve visited that allows you to flush toilet paper. Pura vida indeed.

I walked downstairs just in time to meet Kyle and Chris as they headed into town, and tagged along to Green Papaya for some amazing tacos and ceviche. Oh and don’t forget the hot sauce! I had never spent an appreciable amount of time with these two dudes, but ended up having a great time on our wild goose chase of errands thet sent us home with a watermelon, some sharpies, and a golf cart. The final hours before the wedding were spent at the pool, drinking Imperial and talking about how terrible Costa Rica was.

At 4pm the shuttle picked us up and took us to Pangas resort, which we learned was literally at the bottom of the villa’s long driveway. The “brief and enjoyable” theme continued to the ceremony itself, with Jeff presiding as the officiant. After a few formalities and inside jokes, he pronounced them Mr and Mrs Alpizar, aka the parents of the world’s future most beautiful children. We mingled and watched the sun set on the beachfront venue during cocktail hour before being treated to some fresh af fish tacos. Notable conversations included whether zigzag running was more effective when getting shot at or when being chased by a crocodile, the pros and cons of butt tattoos, and which Brand New song reigns supreme. For the record, the answers are “when being fired upon,” “pain vs. glory,” and “You Won’t Know”

The toastmasters gave some impressive speeches, and you know it wouldn’t be an Anderson party without a whole lot of dancing. Sweating profusely, button-ups slowly got less buttoned, and eventually Jeff ripped my undershirt completely open, as is tradition. Now there is a video of me on the internet, bare chested, beer in hand, playing air guitar. So there’s that...

All of John’s Jersey friends invited us back to their compound, er - AirBnB, and people started stripping down to their skivvies and jumping in the pool. Since my outfit had devolved significantly enough, it didn’t take much to convince me to join. So there’s probably also a video of me on the internet running around in my underwear too, I presume. Eventually Jared and I caught a cab back home in our soggy boxers and agreed that weddings were a lot of fun.

[michaelberry-blog]

Tamarindo day 1

With hope renewed and coffee coursing through my veins, I blew out the double doors and caught the local bus toward Tamarindo to the tune of $2.50. The scenery was far different than the jungles and mountains I had seen in La Fortuna and Manuel Antonio. The air was tinged with the scent of burning brush - that familiar olfactory cue that immediately took my mind back to Cambodian wastelands, Bolivian roadside markets, Moroccan border crossings...

After about 2 hours the scrubland gave way to the Pacific Ocean and i spotted Las Mareas. I pulled the cord, not expecting much to happen, but the bus came to a screeching halt and I tumbled out into the dusty gringo-fied streets of Tamarindo. Sweaty and exhausted, I walked up to the villas just in time to catch everyone on their way to dinner. It turns out that showing up a day late builds a lot of excitement, even if the tardy guest is, well, me. It also builds a lot of rumors it seems. The whole night I fielded questions like “I heard you were stuck in Panama City! I heard you were just in San Salvador! I heard you got delayed in the Dominican!”

I showered off and caught a ride to the beach where the welcome dinner was in full swing. Moments later I was barefoot in the sand, watching the sunset with a drink in hand surrounded by some of my best friends, and the whole endeavor became worth it. If I’m being honest, I don’t get to see these people as much as I used to, so the fact that I was asked to be a part of this special day meant a whole lot. The whole stay in Tamarindo was filled with moments like these, catching up with old friends and making new ones.

After the bar ran out of margaritas and fried plantains, we rounded up the troops and went to El Mercadito for some real grub. The outdoor space was bustling, mostly with white expats, but also the occasional baby skunk. By this point we were all exhausted, but Jeff managed to wrangle all of the men into an impromptu pseudo bachelor party and the crew left to terrorize a few bars. John gave a rousing 8 word speech and we all raised a toast to Mr. and Mrs. Alpizar