The Road Trip Chronicles, Part 1

Captain's Log: 26th of December, 2017:

Miles: 468
State Count: 2
Giant Cross Sightings: 7

Sleep fled my body as a strange light source slowly crept into the room. I found myself sprawled diagonally across a bed that was not my own, and wondered briefly how I could own my own king sized bed before the events of prior days hit me: NO. Just no. I will not own more furniture. Or things.*

Rewind.

Over two months ago, my rent-a-parents in Virginia, Len and Liz, suggested that instead of shipping their second car back to California, they'd hire someone to drive it back with them. It definitely took a second and a direct "We want you to come with us" before it hit me: ROAD TRIP!

A lifelong trip dream of mine has always been to do a cross country road trip across, well, any country. To do it in a fine example of German engineering, and go with people who are well versed in journey, and to not worry about what couch I'll be crashing on at night? Even better. In exchange for my driving skills (go ahead, insert Asian female driving joke here, I'm not laughing because I'll be too busy having adventures) I'll get three squares and a bed. Oh, and I'll get to see this freakin' country!!

I will be traveling with two other humans and their leader, a nine-year-old Sheltie, caravaning with a truck with an attached trailer, no set schedule, prebooked rooms or activities. It will be an extreme exercise in letting go of control and expectations. Which if you know me, it's not easy.

My mantra: Early is on time, on time is late.

Well, let me just say if I was planning this trip, I'd have pulled all my hair out by now. Our proposed leave date was Friday December 22nd, before noon. Our actual leave date, Monday, December 25th, 5 pm, shortly after sunset.

Days of never ending packing made me wish Santa brought me abs and a solid core for Christmas, but alas my companions are Jewish and I don't celebrate. So we had Chinese food instead. No movie.

The packing days, and then all the extra packing days, did give me a few great insights:
- Thank goodness my parents don't have any antiques for us to inherit.
- I will be selling all my furniture (save books and chocolate molds) before I move out of DC whenever that may be.
- Reputable professional movers and packers earn every cent, and if I ever have enough stuff and money to move me, damnit, I'm paying for it.
- Twine can give you splinters.
- Advil is my friend, but I already knew that one.

So, we left Great Falls in a rush. To put it bluntly, we rushed off the corner house on Jackson Lane four days after our proposed leave date, chasing the last pinks of sunshine so fast that normal triple check procedures may have been overlooked.

Five minutes into the drive, three intersections away from what used to be called home, on a two lane, winding, tree covered, McMansion-lined lane with no streetlights, the entire back door of the trailer dropped down, and rolls of paper towels and blue tarp flew out past my windshield.

Paralyzed with disbelief, my dad's warning of "don't drive alone on this trip" rang prophetically true.

I pulled into the next McMansion driveway as Len stumbled out of the car, phone to ear, calling Liz to tell her to stop. I hopped out and ran back down the road, picking up a rubber bucket filled with paper towels, extra furniture pads, and a few tarps; items that didn't have a boxed home because after a month of packing, we just wanted to get the f**k out of there.

I shoved them in the backseat, best as I could, between the spaces of the two antique, handmade chairs, praying there wasn't much more to grab along the dark road. I got back in the car, flashers still on, and crept slowly up the road to a bewildered Len, his arms full of random things that included hastily wrapped light bulbs, he got in and we continued to Liz who we found stopped in the road.

Overall, we only stopped traffic for less than 10 minutes. The line of headlights flash festively for more than a quarter mile behind me, with the less than pleased drivers making up a Christmas carol with their horns. Well, merry fucking Christmas to you too; I'm packing here!!!

Liz and Len calmly got the door secured lifted up off the ground where it had dragged behind the truck for over almost a mile. Securely locked, and all of us loaded back in our vehicles, we had a quiet (if slightly shell shocked) ride down the eponymous road trip highway Route 66 until cutting down south to I-81. A few Bluetooth phone conferences confirmed a desire to push for Asheville that evening, setting our arrival for 1 am ish.

Up until an hour into the trip, we hadn't even considered staying overnight in North Carolina! Seriously, the spontaneity! But it was easy for me to compartmentalize and focus on driving a very expensive car that wasn't mine.

Weary souls crashed soundly to sleep not too long after checking to the Country Inn and Suites around 2 am.

A morning of chocolate, beer, and barbecue awaited us, but as I started the post, while munching on unlimited paper-thin, complimentary hotel bacon, I was just happy we were finally on the road.

My ride. Not too shabby. Heated seats, baby.

*Well, chocolate molds, yes, but no more things.

DMV Day Trips: Blue Ridge Parkway

A gentle voice jolted me from my not sleep. Liz stood over me, telling me it was just after five, and that we should hit the road in 20 minutes to catch our sunrise. I stood up slowly from the lumpy couch, but my body had other ideas as I swayed to both sides. My immediate regret was for how much we drank last night, before reality returned and I did some mental math* that started and ended with "dummy, you drove here" (you all know I don't do so good with numbers).

Bleary-eyed, because I couldn't immediately find my glasses, I started to pack up my bedding, half-entertaining the idea I tell Liz to go on without me, that I'd lock the door when I left. My fat pants laid mockingly over my bag, and I resolved to solider on.

Mason jar full of tea in hand, the warm pre-dawn air hit me, enveloped me, and again, I longed for a vertical surface and a cuddle pillow. Or cuddle-man. Either would work. But breezing down a dark and empty I-64 with the cold mountain air streaming in and Stateless crooning prophetically that I "still had miles to go before I sleep/still listening to the chainless wind sing" was not the worst way to wake up.

We pulled into the first overlook just off exit 99, right after the sign welcoming cars onto the Blue Ridge Parkway, we were greeted with streaks of pink sky.

Silently, we shared the tea and some banana bread, and waited for the sun to peer around the corner of the eastern hills.

And as quick as the bread was gone, we hopped back into our cars, and raced up to the parking lot for Humpback Rocks.

"It's less than a mile," she said.

"You can do it," she said.

"We're almost there," she said.

Friend or not, I cursed her young, fit, bubbly spirit as she bounced up the mountain, while I wheezed for dear life, telling myself there's no shame in quitting...

A complete uphill battle, a summit elevation of 3,080 feet over 0.8 miles, with the upper part almost being a rock scramble. Conveniently located across from the visitors' center, we were the only ones on the trail, which was good and bad: no witnesses to my slow death, but no one to help Liz bring my body down.

Humpback Rock

Liz on top of the world

What can I say, I'm a sucker for vistas and breath-taking moments. Worth waking up for. Now, to get back down in one piece....

*1 10 oz pour of Three Notch'd Pale Ale
*1/2 bottle of Jefferson Vineyards Chardonnay '16
*1 mint/gin cocktail at dinner
*1/2 glass of Silk and Spice red blend
(All over the course of 7 hours, FYI, and I was completely sober before driving after the cocktail, and had the sip of wine once my bed was made)

Yucatán Adventure: Akumal

I just finished reading the Lost World of Quintana Roo by explorer Michel Peissel. He wrote about walking for 40 days from Akumal to Belize. I remember nearly dying embarking on a 30 minute walk from Akumal to Yal-ku! Oh, but to see what he saw the way it was back then, completely wild... If you have ever been, or plan on going to Cancún, and have the slightest interest in history and travel books, this is a must read.

Kelsey and I made it to Akumal with no issues that morning. She had a very easygoing personality, and didn't mind that I took charge, due to my superior Spanish skills and my overall domineering attitude. To be fair, I do come with a warning label! It's a default setting now, for me to explain my morning bitch face (again, so sorry, Kara; I never knew that my face was like that in the morning). Then I mention the resting bitch face which is what my face is on the rest of the day, and my walking speed. And I'm pretty clear that if you can't keep up, I won't hesitate to leave you on the side of the road, stranger I just met!

One thing I dislike about heavily trafficked area is the people who are waiting to interact with us. Everyone just wants something from you: the time, your time, your money, your soul. The first person we met, who waited for us at the colectivo stop was an older white lady, dressed in a long sleeve shirt and skirt. As we walked by her she calls out to us, and I answer, thinking she's lost and just looking for her resort.

Nope. The only person who is lost is apparently me, but Jesus Christ can find me, if I would just let him in.

The second, third, fourth, and every other man we encountered in the short 5 minute walk into the bay entrance was trying to sell us a tour, rent us life jackets and snorkel gear. I thought I was adequately versed in sorting the scams and the bald faced lies, but it was easier to just give in versus argue. Plus, I didn't want to be dragged out of the water by one of the military guys with the big guns.

I rented the damn life jacket, we stored our items, and ran out into the bay. We made it there by 10 am, which was still later than I wanted, but there weren't too many large groups at that time, and the color of the sky didn't concern me; we were already going to be wet.

Ak in Mayan means turtle. They come to this beach to lay their eggs, though I'm not sure anymore; too many people sitting on that beach. The last thing I would what to do is leave my progeny on a beach with all those tourists.

So, yeah, I saw a few turtles.

There's no touching allowed. I assume the life jacket "law" was put in place because too many people who couldn't swim kept drowning, or people kept wanting to get close to them. The big one up top I didn't even use zoom on, because (I couldn't figure out how to do it underwater) they are that big!!

It was my first time snorkeling. The act itself, not that amazing. I do think water visibility had something to do with it. As much as I fancy myself to be a potential photographer (despite the lack of fancy camera or any education), I started leaving a lot of the photography to my travel companions, and just asked that they send it to me. I just wanted to focus on swimming with the turtles.

Turtle, turtle!

By the time we surfaced for a much needed fresh water rinse for our mouths, the beach crowd had doubled; a tour of 15 walked passed us every 30 seconds. I can't imagine there are that many turtles in the bay.

An energizing meal of shrimp tacos kicked off the second half of our day: Yal-Ku Lagoon. A mere 1.5 miles north of Akumal seems like a daunting length in the heat. Despite the rain storms that littered the morning, and a bit while we snorkeled, the humidity hung around us like a creepy dude at the bar: unwanted, made our skin crawl, and wouldn't go away despite the dirty glares and covering up our ta-tas...

Luckily for me, my accidental hitchhiking that morning left me feeling kinda ballsy. Not 5 minutes into our walk, I heard American English. It's so distinctively... loud. A man  in a golf cart pulled out of the driveway behind us, and as he passes us by, it just slips out: "Hey, can you give us a ride?"

With no hesitation, the man stopped, and we hopped on! Can't remember his name, but did connect with him over the fact that he's from Springfield, Virginia, and I know where that is! Oh, geography.

The amiable Virginian man was more than happy to drive us all the way to Yal-ku, a once hidden snorkeling spot filled with tropical fish, and was connected to a cenote. Sadly, since the rise of tourism, mainly Americans, caused a fence and a ticket booth to be built in front of it. I know it's the Americans, because everything was listed in USD. I guess they assume the travelers there are too lazy to bother with pesos?

The water was an interesting temperature where the fresh water mixed with the salty ocean. It also caused visibility issues as well. By then, my $11.99 universal underwater camera pouch was bugging me, and bugging out.

Our hunger had been sated, our skin was getting pruney, and both our batteries were dead. We decided on a slow swim back to the dock, when we were mesmerized by shiny things. Later, we would learn that these majestic creatures were rainbow parrotfish. We starred in wonder for what felt like hours, with the sunlight bouncing off their blue and green dental scales. They positively glowed when they tried to hide in the deep crevasses of the rocks.

I know, pictures or it didn't happen. But I'm almost glad I get to keep this memory to myself.

We slept on the beach for the rest of sunlight before heading back to Tulum to gear up for the evening. Despite our sheer exhaustion, it was still New Year's Eve. And, someone was turning 30 at midnight...

Yucatan Adventure: Getting in Cars with Strangers

I didn't sleep much my first night in Tulum. Some people, like my sister, love that oppressive heat layering on top of you like a hot summer night. Too bad the humidity feels more like a wet armpit hug, which happens to me far too often, being only 5'2". I tossed and turned and woke to the relentless tropical storm which had followed me. It's the curse of my birthday; no matter where I am, it will always rain on my birthday. I drifted in and and out, praying for a small reprieve in the morning, so that I could swim with turtles in Akumal Bay.

I thought a loud storm klaxonned me awake, but it was really just my señora making a smoothie. At 6:30 in the morning. But okay. I dressed for the beach, slung my snorkel gear over my head, and readied myself for morning politesse, only to be greeted by the small Mayan woman who has breakfast waiting for me at the table, and was in the process of squeezing fresh grapefruit juice for me.

Maria, my AirBnb hostess, was a short Mayan woman of indeterminable older age. She had a grown son who looked to be in his 40's, due to perhaps extreme sun and drugs, but also had a daughter who looked to be 13 (I find out later that she was 19).Her naturally tanned skin contrasted with her spotless all white outfits, which while reminiscent of the traditional huipiles of Mayan women, had more of the hippy beach vibe instead. Her startling bright white hair hung in a single plait down her back as she moved silently throughout the kitchen, bringing me two more beverages.

The blender had been going on for me. She roasts her own cacao, and makes a breakfast shake of cacao, oats, and almonds, sweetened with a piloncillo simple syrup she made, and has ready in a jar in the fridge. A bowl of cut guava and bananas, along with a stack of toasted homemade whole wheat bread, I received a cup of tea, the breakfast shake, and the aforementioned grapefruit juice.

As excited as I was to see this spread, my plans for breakfast tacos were dashed. It's okay, I wasn't too bummed, if you couldn't tell. I will say this, American grapefruits suck. We clearly have not been importing the right ones. This juice tasted like it smells, which is what always threw me off about grapefruits; intoxicating smell, disgusting bitter taste.

So if you've been to Tulum, and stayed in Tulum Pueblo, which is the village, and not the beach, you will know there's not much there. Where I chose to stay, well, let's just say it's still got a few more years before this part becomes a real part of town. Regardless, when I booked it, I thought, well, a 30 minute walk, isn't that bad. I forgot to add the 90 degree heat, the thunderstorms, the dark, and lack of street lights.

So in the Yucatán, there are collective mini-vans that go from A to B with certain stops. They either complement, or replace the local bus system. I understood the basics, that so long as I stood on the side of the road, any driver in a white van with room would slow down for and stop for you. You told the driver your destination, took your seat, and prayed that he would remember you and stop. At the stop, you pay the amount he said, and off you went.*

I can never get my lefts and rights down in any language, and despite having GPS on my phone, I couldn't make it the 200 feet to my colectivo stop that my señora told me was just outside her house at the roundabout. Soaked through after walking not 3 minutes out of the gates, I saw a white van round the corner from where I was coming from. Stupid me, thought I had already made the right and the left I needed to, and assumed this was the colectivo van. I steeled my nerves, and flagged the van down.

Let's just say this was not a colectivo van. This was just a white van. Who pulled over for me. And beckoned me to get in.

That's right, a man in a white van pulled up besides me and I got in.

I think I was too full from breakfast to ask him if he had any candy for me.

Juan was not a colectivo driver. I realized this when he turned left instead of right. I mean, after I replayed our conversation, and he waved me off when I asked how much was the fare into town was. And after he said he needed pick up his "friend" first.

Briefly, I heard my mother yelling in my head. "This is exactly what I thought would happen to you! I knew this was how you would get killed!!!"

But my spidey sense did not tingle. The rain had stopped, and he was driving slow enough that I was confident I could jump out of the moving van if I needed to. So, I just decided to go along for the ride.

We picked up the friend, who wasn't as taken aback that a random chinita was siting in the back as I still was that I'm in a random van with now two strange men. We finally made that right, into the direction that Google told me was the main road (oh thank goodness for Google and GPS), when Juan had to make a U-turn. Another slight heart palpitation occurred as he got out of the van, and opened my door to reach for me....

Well, reach for the bag of clothes on for floor by my feet, because we were at his laundry guy's place, and he wanted to drop off his clothes.

By this time, I know where we are, and I know he's heading in the direction I need to him to, and he just smiled so sweetly and apologetically about the minor pit stop to drop off his laundry, all fears had left me and I started to enjoy my first time accidentally hitchhiking.

I got out earlier than I intended, after seeing my bank on the main road. I thanked the kind man who picked me up on the side of the road with no questions, and wished him a happy new year.

The sun came out and I didn't get murdered after accidentally hitchhiking. But let's not tell my mom about the hitchhiking, okay?

I was early for my 9 AM meeting with another stranger, Kelsey. Kelsey the Canadian Couch Surfer, who also posted she was going to be Tulum on New Years' Eve, and was traveling by herself. Kelsey, who actually got stranded at Dulles, and was 20 minutes from my location in Virginia the day before, so it was almost like our paths were meant to cross. Kelsey, the girl I suspected was going to be late, who ended up being late, and whose lateness nearly gave me a heart attack 2 weeks later in Mérida. Yes, now you know Kelsey as well as I do.

There's not much more to our initial meeting other than the fact that yes, she was late, but my willingness to wait 15 minutes for me, and her ability to be ready in 15 minutes changed the course of my trip.

Boarding the actual colectivo was nowhere near as exciting the hour that lead up to it. I followed the advice on the road. I looked for a white van, which wouldn't you know, says "Colectivo" on it, waved my hand, and it magically stopped for us. And off we went to Akumal.

Here's a preview of one of my new friends. No, this isn't Kelsey.

Just keep swimming!

*Advice about fares, bargaining, and the whole system are abundant on the internet, and I'll blog a how-to once I commit the memories down. If you are curious though, from Tulum to Akumal was 35 pesos, which is about a 25 minute ride, and came out to $1.50 USD.

Memories of Mexico: Tulum Part 1

I left for Mexico a month ago but it already feels like a lifetime ago, especially since the country is falling apart. So, until I can go back, I'm going to hold onto these memories like a lifeline. 

*Cue heavenly bells*

We landed in Cancún early, which is only a blessing if a gate is ready for you. It's hard to sit still in anticipation of the paradise that awaits mere feet outside of the tin can that I flew in. As I write this, I'm recalling Michel Peissel's Lost World of Quintana Roo, and I wonder how he would have felt about this once lawless land overrun with tourists who got there in a mere three and a half hours. 

I don't know about you, but I'm always nervous going through customs, even when I know I've done nothing wrong and have no contraband in me. My palms start to sweat a little, and I try to smile, but those muscles are weak from disuse, and I come off fairly suspicious instead. 

I flew through two custom points, but the biggest challenge was up head: pushy taxi drivers. 

Shouts of "Ay china!" and other attempts to stop me prove unfruitful for them, unnerving for me. Talk about personal space and breath mints man! My research told me that I had to catch the next bus into town, or else I'd miss my bus to Tulum. All the guides tell you to catch the ADO bus, but they neglect to tell you where! Pro tip: all the gates that say "Do Not Enter" outside of the terminal actually are in the way of the direction you are going, so you should go through them; no one is going to stop me. 

It was like I hadn't gotten my land feet back yet, or worse, left my balls in my other bag. Where was fearless Vacation Kathy?

Pro Tip: as soon as you leave customs, in the room with all the rental and tour companies, there will be ADO bus kiosk directly in front of you. Don't be like me and breeze pass it, looking for a bathroom and then forget, and spend another 10 minutes feeling lost and looking like a total traveling noob. 

I finally figured that I was at one end of the airport, and started walking towards the other side. My powers of speech and Spanish eventually came back and I dared asked one of the men with the rifles where I might find the bus. It was a bit anti-climatic when it rained on me after I got my ticket to town, but it was fine. 25 minute ride down, 2.5 hours left to go. 

The Tulum ADO bus station at 4 PM, the day before New Year's Eve, is a total zoo. Again, my powers of deduction failed me as I got in the first line I saw. Luckily, my powers of observation slowly came back, and the first thing I noticed in my line was the distinct lack of backpacks. 

I wear my pack with pride. For my two week trip, I packed all my clothes in a 40 L pack, with most of the space going to my snorkeling gear. I had 4, maybe 5 outfits, and looking back, I think I overpacked still. So when I see the line I should have been in, filled with people and their checked baggage only, I can't even begin to think what they have in there. 

I realize now that a lot of my trip was spent at various ADO stations, trying to get a ticket, then waiting for the bus that might be early and leave without me. In this case, I had an hour to kill, and a stomach to fill. Sadly, Vacation Kathy still hadn't really shown up yet. I didn't venture more than a block, where I stupidly chose a quesadilla spot, and ended up ordering a quesadilla with no cheese, due to my pills being in the bottom of my big bag. WITH NO CHEESE!

The melodic yet fast paced cadence of the Spanish announcer who rattled off Mayan villages like they were for sale startled me with each dinging of the bell, until I just stood at the conductor's side, with my ticket angled towards him, so he could see "Tulum," and motion to me that yes, this was my bus. 

My seat was partially taken over by a rotund beach ball of an abuela, who I had my first Yucatán history lesson from. My Spanish tongue floundered with disuse, but Abuela took me under her wing, and told me all about the lack of trains in the area, things to eat in Playa, and where I had to visit in Tulum. She made sure I had a place to stay for the night, and that I knew what direction I was going before she allowed us to part ways, with a hug and a kiss. 

The bus had ended up being over an hour late. I had lied to Abuela in that I didn't know where I was going. I had a rough direction to what appeared to be the edge of town, and a barely working phone to contact my AirBnB host with. I figured I'd follow my stomach, get some dinner, and then maybe figure out a cab.

Serendipitously, my host was mere blocks from me. I didn't know what I was expecting, but a white haired Mayan woman in a baby blue VW bug from the 60's pulling up was not my expectation. I learned later that I wasn't either; I had texted her in Spanish that "Soy la chinita con dos mochilas." Apparently my nickname of "little Chinese girl" does not apply in Mexico, where "chinita" means curly haired one....

At the last row of houses in the last street of the last gated community at the very edge of Tulum was my AirBnb. That was going to be interesting. Warmed by a bowl of tortilla soup with fresh avocado, then chilled by the cold shower, I tucked myself under the sheet, before promptly throwing it off me in the sweltering heat. I fell into a vague sleep, my last thought of the snowfall that had just hit the Washington DC area that afternoon... 

The Yucatan

Twelve years ago, 5 days after we graduated from high school, I forced my best friend onto a packed flight to London. Not that she didn't want to go on that trip, but more like was an overbooked flight and they offered a free roundtrip ticket in addition to getting rebooked for the next day.

I had just gotten into a stupid fight with my mom that morning as she dropped me off and I was just absolutely convinced that if I didn't get on that plane, I would never be able to.

So for 10 hours I sat with my spine pivoting at a 45 degree angle, arms so far in front of myself that my elbows touched, all so I could avoid touch the hairy, bare arms of the overweight men I was sandwiched between, instead of sitting with my friend. 

I cringe a little, thinking of it, but I don't regret it.

30 is quite literally around the corner. I'm not freaking out (too badly), because I'm almost a person that I kinda like. But I do wish I could relive my 20's, knowing what I know now. I'd still make a bunch of mistakes, but first, I'd slap my younger self, for not taking the free INTERNATIONAL flight. 

Seriously kids can be so dumb.

I reminisced with my best friend over that trip as I packed for this one. She almost forgives me for being such a green and dry wet blanket. Silly me only drank beer when it was cut with lemonade, and only wanted to go see old things inside even older buildings. At least the beer thing changed!!!

Traveling itself has changed majorly too. I'm blogging miles above the Gulf of Mexico, on a phone, that has color, and more importantly, WiFi. Gone are the days when I had to research SIM cards in addition to addresses of internet cafes; I got off the phone with Sprint an hour before I boarded, to be told not only was I set up for unlimited free calls and text, a special promotion was going on so that I could have free unlimited data!!!

The last time I was abroad, smart phones were just starting to be a thing, and my flip phone still didn't have a camera, and I definitely still used internet cafes.

The world is more connected than ever, which is wonderful and horrible all at the same time. I can assuage all fears my family has, because I'm a phone call away, and probably trackable via GPS. But... 

It's okay. I tell myself that I've watched enough spy movies and shows that the day I really want to get off the grid, I will know how.

That being said, the Yucatan isn't really off the grid anymore. A coworker lent me a copy of The Lost World of Quintana Roo to read before the trip. I didn't have time to start it, but also I thought I'd be sad that his world wouldn't be there anymore.

When I told a friend I was going to hike to temples in the jungle, she compared me to Indiana Jones. 

No.

Indy is Indy, who I didn't have any exposure to until college. No, I wanted to be Tia Carrere from Relic Hunter.

Take a second and remember the awesomeness of that show. (While you are at it, think about the selection of programming on UPN...) An ass kicking woman of Asian descent, who was also a brilliant professor? How much this affected my decision to double major in anthropology, I don't know. 

Anyways, I'm going to try to get another G and T to help with filling out custom forms.

More stories to come!

Denver: (Intentional) Layover Edition

Last summer, I was stranded in the round bubble of Terminal A at Reagan International, watching hail the size of golf balls fall from the sky as it lit up from the lively game of tag that thunder and lightening were having with each other. Our flight ended up leaving 5 hours late, ensuring that I'd miss my connection, and end up stranded in Denver, with a whole 24 hours between my new connection leg. Thankfully, Facebook saved the day, and an old college classmate was more than willing to take me in, and thus introduced me to an unexpected day in the Mile High city.

Fast forward a year and change later, I was given the option of a faster flight, or, a 6 hour layover in Denver for cheaper. The Anthony Bourdain in me chose the layover option, which I'm still debating if it affected everything that happened later in the story.

Denver International Airport sits around 30 minutes away from Union Station and Coors Field. Last time when I was stranded at midnight, there was no public transportation at all, let alone anything during the day. In April of 2016, the commuter train was completed, and for a mere $9 and 37 minutes, the A line takes you from the airport straight to Union Station.

Tickets can be bought at the kiosks in front of the train, $9 is an unlimited ride ticket valid for the whole day or until 02:30 am, which I am guessing is the last train anywhere? Conductors walk up and down the train asking to see the ticket, but never actually scan it on the train, so I was able to pay it forward when I returned to the airport, and passed it off to someone else.

I flew Frontier, which I was hesitant to do, because of the whole stranded fiasco from last time, but I thought, what could go wrong this time? (Story coming at the end). We got there early, and the captain quipped, " Well folks, we got in 30-40 minutes earlier than anticipated, so please remember that the next time we are 30-40 minutes late..."

I hightailed to the train (just follow the signs once you make it to baggage claim), which was straightforward and clean, and disembarked at Union Station, sweating in my DC winter coat. A perfectly brisk fall morning, quickly warmed up to 65 degrees as I walked a mile north of Union Station, to RiNo.

River North Art District was the perfect place for me to stretch my legs, stuff my face, and feast my eyes.

Those Rocky Mountains man...

I had singled out Osaka Ramen after finding them on a cheap eats list, touting their karaage, Japanese Fried Chicken. No pictures because I inhaled it all too quickly. Great complete meal at $7, just a plate of chicken and some spicy mayo. Wouldn't got back just for it, but if I was in the area, I'd check it out again.

Chatty Vacation Kathy came out to play, and after questioning the bartender for recommendations, I couldn't not follow them. A mere block away was the Denver Central Market, and something called a "meat cone..."

The colors and murals assaulted me before I could make it into the market. I'm a sucker for street art, and art in general.

The colors. The feels. Loved it. Not a creepy alley to walk behind at all.

The Denver Central Market was just around the corner. It was hard to tear myself away from the colors and the warm sun to go inside, but I did. I'll be an honest food snob here; it takes a lot to wow me nowadays, because the local, craft, hipster foodie movement is everywhere. So did this place wow me? No, it did not. It would not be my choice to fight for parking on a Sunday, but on a Monday when I've got a few hours to kill, yes, it was as nice as any. Especially because it had something called a "meat cone."

Culture Meat and Cheese, one of the stalls, had meat and cheese boards. My recent lactose intolerance made me cry a little on the inside, but I brightened up once I saw those magic words. For $6, a paper snow cone up was stuffed full of two types of salami and a piece of mortadella. The only thing that could have made it better is if the cone was meat, or edible. I'm thinking Parmesan tuile?

I picked up a Ham Hocker sandwich as well, wonderfully salty, cut with some pickled mustard seeds and a thyme/garlic butter, the perfect plane snack.

Sandwich and meat cone in hand, I went searching for a libation, and ended up at Curio, the only bar in the market. The recommendation was a Great Divide Rice Ale, a perfectly crisp beer for me, so that I wasn't bloated between flights. 

I spent much more on food that I needed to, but given the amount of money saved from choosing this flight over the other, totally evened out, and makes me want to come back to Denver.

The cherry on the top was the hour plus of baby cuddling I got to do. I think that's my biggest thing I'm missing in DC, no babies to cuddle. 

So, a wonderfully relaxing start to my vacation was abruptly halted at the baggage carousel at SFO, when I got my bag, and immediately noticed it to be soaking wet. My worst fears were realized as I immediately opened it, and found that pesky TSA notice, saying that my bag had been inspected. 

The incompetent agents had opened up my sealed bottle of rice wine, and did not put the stopped on properly, causing all the liquid to spill over my clothes, my hand made chocolates, and... my laptop.

Any more talk of this incident will only inflame me once more, and mar the otherwise pleasant memories of Denver. Plus, this will allow you to realize that my "adventures" are never smooth sailing. The universe doesn't like to make anything easy for me, but I'm not going to let that stop me from traveling.