The Hangover

Well, it's all over. I highly doubt many of you are paying much attention to this blog now seeing as it has been quite some time since my last post. Sorry that it just kind of fizzled out there at the end, but I haven't been able to bring myself to write a conclusion. Until now.

So, with Colombia sadly distant in my rearview mirror, it has been nearly two months since I left. That means I have had roughly that amount of time back home to reflect. This go around it was much more difficult to leave South America, because I have no idea when I will be back. The past year has been the most wildly entertaining and phenomenal year of my existence. And now all I have left are the memories. And a few bracelets that still dangle from my wrist.

I have realized that I now mark the passage of time by thinking back to what I was doing exactly one year ago in South America to the day. And I do this with each of my days. It is interesting how the entire experience now seems like the most vivid dream I've ever had. But then I think about why that is, and I know it is because I was living The Dream.

As much as I now long to establish a community and finally stop saying goodbye to friends and people that I quickly grew to care about, I also find myself tangling with a conflicting feeling. I want more. I tried to tell myself that I didn't have a strong desire to strap a bag on my back and take off for another year so soon. Obviously I would enjoy it, but I figured I would have a bit more time before the urge to do it all again came back at full force. I was wrong.

I would pack up and leave tomorrow if I had the chance. But maybe that is just the hangover talking. And no, not the kind of hangover that goes away after a few hours of discomfort. I'm talking about a travel hangover. This thing lingers like no other. It's like coming down from the best high of your life, but you can't just wait it out. It won't be gone tomorrow, or the next day, and I can't get all fancy about it and just hook myself up to an IV to make it go away. It tears at you, leaving you with an empty feeling, a void you know can only be filled through stimulation and exposure to new people, places, cultures, languages, food, and experiences. No, there is only one way to cure this beast. The habit must be fed.

Unfortunately that will not be for a good while. The time has come for me to settle down somewhere, make some money, and plot the next great adventure. For now, working towards a goal of traveling again will be enough to make the pain bearable. In fact, I know that wherever I choose to set up camp for a bit is going to make me happy, because I can be happy anywhere as long as I surround myself with good people. I'm excited to get all the things that I have missed out on over the past year that come with staying in one place. But I will be keeping my eyes fixed on the prize.

That's right world, I'm not done yet. And yes, I'm coming for you. Rest up while you can, because once I pick up my anchor, it's going to be a storm of epic proportions.

Thanks to everyone for reading. I truly look forward to the day when I can begin another travel blog and share with you again.

Always and forever, lovsies!

Carnaval: Debauchery At Its Finest

Upon originally planning this trip to Colombia, it never crossed my mind that I would be here during Carnaval. But when I found out that the hometown of Shakira, puts on the second biggest celebration each year, just behind Rio in Brazil, I set my sights on Barranquilla for an undoubtedly good time.

Each stop up until the big show usually contained a similar conversation with some locals. They look at you like you are freshly ripened fruit freshly plucked from the loony tree, tell you its going to be out of control and dangerous, and wish you the best of luck. After multiple warnings from Colombians, I began to question how gnarly this festival was really going to be if even local people were wary of it. Was it really a good idea to go? I decided that, like with all travel, as long as I stayed smart, sensible, and grew a mustache, things would be golden.

People from all over the country, converged on Barranquilla for the four day shenaniganfest and few were disappointed. The entire city is decked out in festive bright colors and decorations. Businesses close their doors, hotels jack up their prices, and everyone packs the street for a continuous party that doesn't know how to quit.

Around mid day, each day, a 5 hour parade marches down one of the main streets, making it the epicenter of the party. Thousands gather to watch the elegant floats, crazy dresses, beautiful women, and overall awesomeness that ensues. Seriously, these parades are the wildest thing you've ever seen. So many elaborate costumes and floats that probably take all year to design and create. Tons of fantastic music just had the masses dancing in the streets like there was no tomorrow. And there wasn't. The days blend together as sleep takes a back seat to the nonstop party.

Things get messy too. People are constantly spraying foam and throwing flour in your face. Add all the drinks that get spilled all over, and you are one powdery, sticky mess before the sun even goes down. Can't do much but embrace the disaster that your clothes evolve into and go on loving every bit of the crowded madness.

So you watch these parades, you dance constantly, you get bombarded by nonlethal substances, and you it't kind of the best thing ever. Except for all the pickpocketers. I didn't get anything stolen, but you are constantly batting people's hands away from your pockets. I'm not sure why I even bothered. I was smart enough to not even have anything in my pockets. I suppose it was just because I wasn't fond of uninvited people being in my pants.

One of the last days of Carnaval, we positioned ourselves at the very end of the parade route. And I mean the very end. We were actually hanging out in an area where the parade was officially over and it was just all the people that were in it milling about, looking like they had just danced for 5 hours in high heels. But that was because many of them had. It was interesting to see this side of things and get a better understanding of the toll those parades take on the participants. Plus a few secrets were unveiled in the process.

So, all those crazy fine ladies on display during the parade that everyone is checking out are not actually what they seem. The depressing truth was that most either had too many years, too few years, or too much penis. Seriously, it was unsettling how many were revealed to be really old, way too young, or a man once the performance was over. They had so many of us fooled.

Overall, Carnaval was one crazy event infused with music, dancing, and a livelihood that only Colombia could conjure. I've never been a part of, or seen, anything else like it. The energy created by all those people in the streets, doing nothing but loving and embracing life was very symbolic of Colombians in general. Their zest and passion for living is contagious and I love them for it.

Thanks for the good times, Barranquilla!

Next up, a story about a cave. And bats. And spiders. And water. And Awesome.

Lovsies!

Mud Volcano

Volcan de Totumo

Legend has it that a mythical beast lies in wait just outside of Cartagena, Colombia. This creature lures unsuspecting victims into its grasp with promises of smooth, healthy skin. But once you get to Volcan de Totumo, its too late to save yourself. Sure, your epidermis may get a rejuvenating boost, but you are also doomed to endure one of the most awkward experiences of your life. And I loved every second.

Volcan de Totumo is an actual volcano, but just mini sized, and instead of spewing hot ash or lava, it oozes a grayish warm mud that supposedly has healing properties. So, I have the opportunity to cover myself head to toe in a mud hot tub and call it beneficial for my health? You can keep your perks, because I'm doing it either way.

So, you arrive at the little village encrusted at the base of Volcan de Totumo and ascend the stairs up the 40 foot high mound of dried mud with nothing more than a bathing suit or pair of underpants you can stand to get a bit muddy. There are already a handful of people submerged to their necks in the goop, but you slide on in to get a piece of the action yourself.

Upon entry, you are instantly overpowered by a wild new sensation. Your feet can't touch the bottom, (not that you can really keep them under you thanks to an instant lack of body control), due to the combination of the mud being quite deep and very dense so there is this whole buoyancy thing going on. You can try as hard as you want to submerge past your head, but the mud just keeps popping you back up.

About 0.72 seconds after getting in, a local grabs you, makes you lie on your back, and begins to massage you. First, I am fairly certain these dudes have never attended massage therapy school. Second, while this is an "optional" extra and they will obviously ask you for money later, you have no choice in the matter because that massage is happening whether you want it or not. Third, it actually feels pretty good.

So, they cover you, rub you down, then give you a good shove and you zoom over to the other side of the volcano like a muddy torpedo. You watch as more and more people pile into the ooze pit that is roughly the diameter of the 3 foot deep swimming pool your friend had whose house you would spend every day at over the summer in middle school. This is the time to watch other people's inevitably hilarious reactions to the mud and to also try and get your own body situated. The latter just isn't going to happen.

For some reason, you just can't control your body as you try to keep your feet under you and keep everything in an upright position. Volcan de Totumo won't allow for any sort of order as it prefers a humorous chaos. With more and more bodies packing the volcano to capacity and a dwindling amount of hope for control, it was best to just let go and give in to the squishy orgy. Arms floated into danger zones, legs surfaced in no-no land, and the occasional hand “accidentally” grazed random tenderness. It could have been rather sexy if half the people in there didn’t have more wrinkles than a bucket of raisins.

Eventually you get your fill of the goopy grope session and pull yourself from the muck. Careful not to slip and slide your way down the rickety stairs, you make your way down to the river to wash off. Once there, you are bombarded by ladies who want to take off your clothes and give you the best scrubbing you’ve ever had.

Unfortunately these are not young desirable women with soft angelic hands looking to do you any favors other than to get the mud out of crevices you didn’t even know you had. The wrinklefest continues as these old ladies tug at any shred of clothing you may still have on in their efforts to get you cleaner than you ever thought you could be after soaking in a mud volcano. Of course, they want to be paid too.

After all is done and said,(and the equivalent of 4 dollars has been shelled out for the extras), you have been put through an absolute sensory overload of new experiences. Sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and feelings you could never imagine combine to leave you a bit stunned. Attempting to process all that happens over the course of one wild hour is rather difficult. You are far better off just accepting it all as one ridiculously unique experience that you are highly unlikely to ever encounter again. Oh Volcan de Totumo, as awkward as you may be, it’s tough not to love every squishy bit of you.

Well, I’m off to Parque Tayrona to replace the mud in my crack with a little sand. Lovsies!

Medellin

Medellin: World's Most Dangerous City. If you had read those words 20 years ago, they were certainly true. But no longer. Ever since the fall of Pablo Escobar in 1993, the city has been working hard to scrub away the blemishes that the drug cartel left here at the height of the cocaine trade. I came to Medellin to get a feel for a city with such a horrendous past that, even today, people from the States still frown from the bad taste in their mouths at the mere mention of Colombia. Here it is 2012 and, have no doubt, the city of Medellin has been reborn.


The people of Colombia's second largest city have been working feverishly to transform not just their image, but the fundamental roots of what makes Medellin a name you should know. Set in the mountains, a beautiful city rises out of an even more phenomenal landscape and the vibe here is no longer dominated by fear and terror, but by a proud hope that is nothing but deserved after what the people here have done to achieve their success.

You spend any amount of time in Medellin and you will quickly understand that it is a city quite unlike any other you’ve ever been in. You see a good amount of new, nice cars, which is of course common in many big cities. The women are very conscious of their bodies, and a large percentage are scientifically enhanced just as in places like Hollywood and South Beach. The difference is where all this money that is going to high rise apartments, fancy cars, and butt implants is actually coming from. Even though the power of the cartels has been greatly diminished over the last couple decades, there is still a huge amount of drug money that is fueling the lifestyles of these people.

It would be wrong of me to try and take anything away from the country’s leading textile operations that are found in Medellin, or from all the hard work the citizens of the city are doing to rebuild their reputation, because both are great things that are having a very positive impact on a once feared place. But, it would also be unrealistic and ignorant to say that the uncommonly good lives that many of the people in Medellin live is not due to money earned from the drug trade. Of course there is still a huge amount of poverty and the lower class struggles like much of the rest of South America, but you just don’t see the middle and upper classes living the way they do anywhere else down here.

While it was fascinating to observe, it was a blast to experience as well. While in Medellin, I got the opportunity to meet some pretty amazing people and rub a shoulder or two with the wild, extravagant people that live there. A couple of them in particular are a little difficult not to geek out over. So we end up meeting these guys who won at the Sundance Film Festival a couple years ago and they have done all these other amazing video projects as well. The best part is, they are super awesome guys and a ton of fun to hang out with.

On Saturday night, they tell us about this fancy sounding hotel rooftop party that they are planning on attending and ask if we want to go. Um, yes please! So I bust out my only pair of jeans that doesn’t have a hole, and dig out the lone button up shirt I brought along, and dang was I looking good. With a bold, yet classy amount of chest hair on display, we head out.

Strolling in like we own the place, the elevator shoots us up top where the doors open up to reveal a scene I thought only existed in movies. First of all, this place is straight up fancy. Lavish décor and tasteful lighting set the mood instantly. A swimming pool with glass sides begged to put on a show if the night got wild. The staff were impossible to miss as they were dressed the part in white tuxedoes. The view of the city was absolutely stunning as I gazed out upon the night from the highest vantage point around. But it was the clientele that blew me away the most.

While the dudes all looked like identical copies of each other with their very formal attire and slicked back hair, it was the ladies that cracked me up even more. I am willing to bet my favorite pair of underwear that there was not a 100% real woman there. Each female in attendance had gone under the knife at least once. There were fake racks galore and a good many of these ladies had also opted for the famous Colombian butt implant as well. No, not butt lift, butt implant. Yup, fake butts were on the loose everywhere your head turned. These women would have been quite attractive if they had just left themselves alone. But alas, some combination of social pressure, skewed views of beauty, and access to money led each and every one of them to alter their bodies in ways that are just unnatural. It might have been a little sad if all the Colombian Barbies strutting around didn’t strike me as hilarious first.

At one point it began to rain a bit. Can’t have all those fake boobs getting wet now can we? So the hotel just flipped a switch and this massive roof began rolling out over the top of the party. Five minutes later, the rain stopped and they got to show off their expensive toy again by retracting the roof and once again revealing the dark sky.

Pretty extravagant stuff, and while that’s not the world I want to live in, it was fun to at least get to take a little peak. While I leaned up against a wall, overlooking the city and enjoying my overpriced cucumber adorned beverage, it was just interesting to think about why the people of this city acted in a certain way and how much of it actually has to do with their past. While they have done well to shed their terrible image from years past, and bury it deep down, there are always pieces of history that never cease to shape people, communities, and entire countries.

I wish the people of Medellin only the best of luck as they continue their pursuit to reinvent themselves.

And now it's time to go to the beach. Lovsies!

Valle De Cocora

Chasing after the FARC, I left Bogota and ventured into the mountains. Ok, perhaps the rebel militant group was not exactly what I sought. I’d actually prefer to avoid them altogether. Instead, I was in search of the Valley of Cocora. Rumored to be home to some of the most beautiful scenery that Colombia has to offer, how could I say no?

Nestled into the hills is the tiny town of Salento which would by my jumping off point for exploring the valley. Equipped with a pair of rubber boots to combat the muddy conditions of the trail, I set out early in order to try and beat the rain that begins at 3:00 PM every day like clockwork. In order to reach the valley, one must catch a ride from one of the Jeeps that departs from Salento’s main square periodically. I had never fathomed that this could be half the fun.

The drivers of the Jeeps refuse to leave until they have packed more people than imaginable into one of these vehicles. I saw one about to leave, but stalled because it looked like there was absolutely nowhere left to sit. And indeed there wasn’t. Then I saw a guy climb up on the back, so I joined suite and off we went. With my rubber boots clinging to a narrow running board and my white knuckles clenching a piece of the Jeep’s frame, I hung on for all I was worth as we tore through the hills.

Upon arrival, the bug count in my teeth was at 18. That mild hygiene issue could have been easily avoided had I been able to contain my joy and just quit smiling. Alas, the wind in my face and the epic scenery on the way to the valley teamed up to sharpie a bug catching smile on my face that could not be erased.

While I did my best to remove the bugs, the smile stayed put as I set out on the trail into the valley. Cocora is home to Colombia’s national tree, the Wax Palm, which grows to over 250 feet in height. Hike far enough into the valley and you also find yourself deep within the mystical Cloud Forest. Closely following a river, I wound my way through the valley admiring my surroundings that put the scenery in Jurassic Park to shame. The insane amount of lush greenery, broken up intermediately by boldly colored flowers and trees led me to realize the Valley of Cocora is a special place. The term “breath-taking” has been used up, worn out, and holds no definitive power to describe this place. Instead, the astonishing views come at you from all sides, beat you over the head, and rob you of your breath in what can only be described as a breath-mugging.

Seriously. Amazing. So, I made my way through the valley and began my ascent into the Cloud Forest. To continue trekking, one must cross the river various times by means of hanging bridges that make even the one at the end of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom look safe. Indeed, it was all part of the experience that was difficult not to love.

Making sure my calves stay in pristine, chiseled condition, I chose the route that led me up one of the mountains to a lookout point. They call it the Cloud Forest for a pretty obvious reason as you actually ascend into the clouds on your way up. I made it to the summit and guess what I saw…..cloud. Not quite the encore type view I’d had in mind. Not one to settle, I became determined to locate a satisfying viewpoint.

Back down the trail I scrambled until I figured I was at the right elevation. Then, unsure of what may lie in wait to greet me off the path, I went trudging off into the forest, leaving the trail behind. A short while later, I emerge at a break in the trees and the valley was laid out before me with the clouds hanging just overhead. This was the money shot.

With the valley expanding before me in all its glory, the wax palms and brightly colored various decorations dotted the sides of the hills and slowly faded into the cloud above us. In no way was the cloud inhibiting any of the view as it actually acted as a lid that was somehow containing all the beauty beneath.

After only a slight bit of wandering, I found my way to the trail and made my way back down through the canyon, splashing mud everywhere as I went. After a few more hours of mudtastic hiking, I was back at the trail head and ready to get back to Salento for a nap. Only a severely packed Jeep ride stood between me and that snooze.
With room for realistically 7 people in this Jeep, we were able to squeeze a full 10, with me happily hanging off the back again. As the drive back developed, we paused every so often to pick up new passengers. By the time we hit town, that little Jeep was transporting 17 people! I may have been dangling by a boot and an arm like a few of the others, but none of us could stop giggling our faces off at the absurd amount of people using that vehicle.

Everything about Salento and the Valle de Cocora is inspiring and revitalizing. So glad I popped in for a peak. Next up, the former home of Pablo Escobar and the most powerful drug cartel the world has known. Medellin, come to papa!

A Tale Of Trouble

My first week in Colombia has been heavy on the research. My investigation of the country, the conditions, and the attitudes/feelings of the Colombians concerning violence and the drug trade is plowing ahead full steam. More on all of that action in future posts. For now, a tale of trouble...

After my eye opening visit to the National Police Museum in Bogota, I was feeling like a bit of exploring needed to happen. Off I went, deeper into the city, taking a turn here, and a turn there on a whim, basically just heading towards whatever looked interesting. I should have learned by now that a strategy like that can get me into bad situations. And it did.

Me and my affinity for wandering into parts of a city that can only be referred to as "Rapeville", is a skill that I rather I never developed. But I did. And its a thing I do. Usually not on purpose. Like this day.

Finding myself waist deep in a gringoless part of town that I clearly had no business being in, I kept my head up, moved with a purpose, and acted like I new where I was going and what I was doing. That is pretty much my standard mode of operation when finding myself in these situations and I've never had a negative experience to report. Until now.

I walked by a particularly sketchy looking side street that emitted enhanced levels of rapeyness and immediately decided that would be a poor route choice. About 3 steps later, I discovered the problem with walking with your head up - this prohibits you from seeing that ill-placed chunk of pavement sticking up in an effort to trip you. And let me tell you, it was a good trip. Like the kind that really sends you flying forward, complete with arms flailing in some poorly executed attempt to keep you from falling. Lucky for me, an unsuspecting gentlemen's back interrupted my less than graceful sprawl. Then I became unlucky. Quite quickly. Like, immediately when the gentleman turned around.

Im still not sure if this was the same dude I saw chasing another guy down the street my first night here with those insane, sharpish, metal nunchucks, or if carrying a weapon like that is just commonplace here. I'm thinking it was just the same lunatic. Either way, even after some back pedaling and my best Spanish apology, he rushed at me, weapon whirling.

Even though I've never fully seen those metal nunchuck things in action, I wasn't about to stick around to see how they worked. My flight instinct instantly kicked in and I booked it down the closest side street in an attempt to get away from the psycho. Unfortunately, that side street also happened to be named something that is roughly translated to Super Rape Avenue, the same street I had just decided NOT to go down.

Somehow, this tight, crowded street was darker than any of the others despite it being near noon. I'm not sure if it was the tarps hanging over each of the booths or if the ominous atmosphere literally blotted out the sun, but it definitely made dodging pedestrians, vendors, and random fruit stands all the more difficult. While no one made an effort to get out of my way, they had no problem clearing out for the nunchuck wielding crazy person behind me. So, while he was gifted with a clear path, I had to unleash a variety of athletic maneuvers that ranged from sleek ballerina spins to avoid women, children, and donkeys, to showing off my linebacker skills by straight up bowling over the dude carry lots of bread.

After a couple blocks of these stereotypical chase scene shenanigans, I had put at least a more comfortable distance between me and my pursuer. Time to ditch the fool. As soon as I hit the next block, I hung a quick right disappeared beneath one of the first stands I encountered. Peering from behind a pile of rip off Nikes, I was able to watch as the guy ran by, glimmering nunchucks swinging away. I was actually glad he had been twirling those stupid things the whole time as it wasn't very conducive to a proper running form.

I looked up from my hiding place and the lady tending the stand just sort of game me an understanding look that invited me to stay as long as I liked. I accepted her hospitality for another couple moments to make sure the guy was gone, and then I booked it out of there to double back the way I came. I'm not sure I stopped running until all of Rapeville and it's ridiculous Nunchuck Man were at least a full zip code behind me.

Back at my hostel, I reviewed these recent events and had to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Except for the whole metal nunchuck thing, it was a classic foot chase through a dodgy part of town that I thought only happened in movies set somewhere in the Middle East. I have no idea what that guy would have done had he caught me, which of course was highly unlikely given my superior speed. He might have just been playing a harmless joke or he could have been a legit crazy person who meant to give me a nice slash or two. Either way, I'm pretty happy with never having to find out.

Travel moral of the story: Yes, it's one we all probably already know, but be smart and refrain from going into parts of town that are obviously infused with excess rape danger, well, unless you'd like to see how you fare against Nunchuck Man!

Fingers crossed that my next post features a significantly less potential for harm.

Lovsies!

From California to Colombia

I'm not dead yet. The first couple days in Colombia have been survived LIKE A BOSS! The few days leading up to my flight out of LA involved some sweet road trip action down the coast of California. I loved getting to spend some time with some great people in the Bay Area, Santa Cruz, and LA. But now it's business time...

Last night, it was not the obscenely loud traffic/street activity just outside my window that woke me up. Nor was it the man snoring at a stupid high decibel in the bed near my own that jostled me free of my happy snooze land. I have learned to sleep through distractions like these, ear plug free. Instead, I was ripped from my rather pleasant dreams by the terrifying sound of a mosquito in my ear. At this point I thoroughly freaked out. It was in these first few moments of awakening that I was convinced that I was back in the Amazon, being bombarded by all manner of massive bug life. The thought of having to face another day on the river being tortured by Nasty Hot and his buddy Gnarly Humidity crushed my spirit. I lay there, eyes wide open, envisioning all the things that would try and kill me in the waiting hours ahead.

About three seconds of horror quickly subsided and I realized two things. One, I am 8,000 feet high in Colombia's capital city of Bogota and not in the Rainforest. The things that are trying to do me harm here are of a completely different breed. Two, I am obviously not ready to venture back into the jungle to take on another raft race. I'm going need a little more time. Sorry Kyle and William. I know you were so anxious to get back, but I'm going to have to postpone until the night terrors cease. Also, I never heard the mosquito again and it is quite possible that there never was one to begin with. I may have gotten the bed a bit soggy for absolutely no reason.

So, here I am in Colombia and I have survived the first 48 hours like it ain't no thang. I have gone against the advice of the majority and ventured down here because of what I have heard from the minority. The reason I trust the minority is because they have actually been here, and have glimmering things to say about this country. The majority is made up of people from the States who are basing their negative connotations off of information that was relevant 10-20 years ago, but is now outdated.

My mission is to investigate all that Colombia has to offer, and hopefully bring a good report back home in order to change opinions and spread the word that Colombia is a super legit, amazing, and safe travel destination.

That being said, my first outing the night I arrived included looking outside the restaurant to see a dude with these crazy sharpish looking metal nunchucks chasing another guy down the street. I love it here already.

Tomorrow, I bail on Bogota via an overnight bus in hopes of finding the small town of Salento to partake in all the majestic natural beauty the surrounding area has to offer.

Until next time, lovsies!

Traveler Vs Vacationer

Here we go again! I am less than a week away from returning to South America after a couple months of spending time with friends and family. And while I loved my time in traveler rehab, I could not be more ready to jump off the wagon. So, as a kick start to the second coming of Ese in SA, I have decided to address a slight issue.

It has come to my attention that a misconception has arisen and it must be squashed. Apparently, some people are unable to differentiate between Traveling and Vacationing. Yes, there is a difference. Quite glaring contrasts actually. Allow me to break it down for you.

First, we shall define Vacationing and Traveling. A vacation is usually two weeks or less in length, includes one or two destinations, is an escape from reality, and 74% of the time a beach is involved. A Travel experience can range anywhere from 1 month to 3 years. Anything over 3 years and you are technically dealing with a hobo. Traveling takes people to many destinations, becomes a reality of its own, but beaches are still included in 58% of cases.

Now, you need to understand how to identify and distinguish between a Traveler and a Vacationer. Take a look at how they pack their belongings. If you see a suitcase, that is a dead giveaway that you have a Vacationer on your hands. If there are wheels anywhere on the luggage, that signals a Class 5 Vacationer. Watch out for those with multiple pieces of wheeled suitcases as they will most assuredly be taking up an absolutely ridiculous amount of space at the most inconvenient of times.

On the other hand, if you instead see a backpack, odds are you have some kind of Traveler. The size of the bag is usually an indication of what type of Traveler this is. If you see a Jansport like the one you were using in high school, this person is a minimalist and is probably rotating back and forth between the same two pairs of underwear. Either that or they have foregone the whole underpants hoax altogether. If you see someone with a backpack that dwarfs them, and is large enough to accommodate 36 boxes of Twinkies, Thomas Jefferson's oak desk, their own flight attendant, and a moderately sized Mexican family, this person plans on traveling for quite some time. In fact, they may already be pushing dangerously close to the hobo zone.

Take a look at the actual individual. If you see any of the following, a visor, designer sunglasses, a giant city map that screams, "steal from me", or a quick reference language guide than includes nothing more than basic greetings and the local word for bathroom, you are looking at a Vacationer. Perhaps you see someone that very closely resembles a hippie, gypsy, or any other kind of vagabond. There is a very real chance that this person is just a Traveler and hasn't been able to locate a shower for the past couple days. Just plug your nose and continue on.

Hopefully, next time you start to confuse Vacationing and Traveling you can help sort out the madness by referring back to this quick guide. If you have any further questions please feel free to send them my direction and hopefully I can set you straight.

In conclusion, a Vacationer goes elsewhere to get away from their troubles, real life, and exist for a short period in a fantasy world. A Traveler goes elsewhere to live their life on the move. Strange foods, foreign languages, different experiences, and saying goodbye to new friends more often than desired becomes reality. Travelers face day to day problems just like anyone else, but all they have to combat those issues is whatever they have strapped to their backs. Traveling: it's not always easy. It's not a vacation. It is a different way of life.

Vacationer and Traveler aside, each and every person that has been given the opportunity to get out and see another piece of this world is blessed. I am continually thankful for the chances I have been granted to explore and experience different places. And as long as I am able, I will never stop devising ways to make it happen again and again.

Colombia, let's do this thing!