travel
The tradition continues! For my 28th birthday I’m sharing 28 photos that I took over the last year for you to choose from for your phone background!
Browse the photos below and feel free to download one for your smartphone background by tapping on it and downloading the image from the new window that opens.
I’m getting to the end of my mid-twenties, which might be daunting for me but it’s good news for all of you! Turning 27 means there are 27 photos that I took over the last year for you to choose from for your phone background!
Browse the photos below and feel free to download one for your smartphone background by tapping on it and downloading the image from the new window that opens.
Gale force winds buffeted the windows of the apartment. Outside, tree branches littered Berlin’s parks and miniature dogs were getting blown down the sidewalk. It was a chihuahua, if you’re curious. A genuinely powerful storm was blowing it’s way across Germany, and it didn’t care about trees, dogs, or vacation plans. Lena and I were set to leave for Bavaria by train that day, but all train service in northern Germany was disrupted by the storm. Our trip was off to a great start.
The next morning train service resumed and we fought our way onto the ICE, elbowing along the aisle in an effort to find two unreserved seats. Otherwise we’d be stuck standing for 5 hours on our way to Munich. After a quick stopover for a family dinner, we hopped on the last train of the night to Kiefersfelden, our getaway for the week.
Our goal for the trip was to hit the slopes for a few days, but without a car our options were limited. The local ski resort operates a ski bus but you have to call the day before to reserve your spot, so everything was pushed back a day after our arrival. For our free day we enjoyed the fresh mountain air on a 10 kilometer loop from Kiefersfelden over the Austrian border, and back again. There wasn’t much snow on the ground, but we didn’t mind the warmer temperatures for walking around.
We awoke early the next morning and walked downstairs for the ski bus to meet us. A decalled VW bus rolled up, I handed the driver €10 for the both of us, and we were off to Sudelfeld. At the resort, we told the young woman behind the counter we wanted to rent for three days and she shook her head no. I didn’t understand. What do you mean, no? I asked. There were three big groups coming the next day and she couldn’t guarantee us equipment past today. I hadn’t even considered the possiblity of the resort running out of skis to rent. There was no use arguing it, though, so we took what we could get and rented for the day.
We had an awesome day of skiing, exploring a new mountain and getting our snow-legs back after a few years off the slopes. The bang-for-buck ratio felt just about right, and great Bavarian food on the slopes never hurts. The forced one-day limit at Sudelfeld was a blessing in disguise, though. Sudelfeld is a fun local resort for low-key turns or teaching younglings, but it doesn’t boast the epic views that can be found further south. With those epic views in mind we had some planning to do.
My classmates Stephen, Paul, and Leo arrived that evening and we got them up to speed on the situation over food and beers. There was a lot of back and forth but we decided to go for the full Austrian mission despite the hurdles we’d have to jump through. At 6 a.m. the next morning the adventure began.
Our trek started with a short train ride one stop over the border to Kufstein. From there we hopped on a bus that took us to Wörgl — with 27 stops in between. There, we took the S-Bahn regional train to the famed ski town of Kitzbühel. Only, we took it to the center of town, not the stop before that’s right at the gondola. 20 minutes later after walking back to the ski resort we were at our destination. We dipped into a ski rental shop and frantically started the check-in process when an employee told us there was no need to rush because the resort was closed because of high winds. It seemed our fairytale Austrian ski adventure wasn’t meant to be.
We walked up the street to the gondola to look at the live resort map to confirm the bad news. It wasn’t entirely true, but only one gondola and two small lifts were open. Compared to the 57 lifts on the mountain only having access to three felt like a massive defeat. After a brief powwow (without gulasch or beer, sadly), we decided that we’d made it this far so we might as well commit, regardless of conditions. We had also heard that the winds were expected to die down by mid-morning. What felt like hours but was really only 30 minutes later we were on the gondola with rental skis in hand and hope in our hearts. After two runs they shut the entire mountain down.
Everyone on the slopes was forced to ski down to the base of the gondola along a slushy, mogol ravaged, disaster of a run to await further updates. When we got to the bottom the gondola was running (with massives lines) and a few lifts had opened up again so our hope had returned. Over the next hour every lift on the mountain came to life and our Austrian fairytale was back on.
We explored all over the huge resort, testing out every lift we could see. We found the best groomed snow, some leftover powder in need of fresh tracks, and a couple of off-piste kickers for a few successful starfishes and unsuccessful backflips. Over a hearty alpine lunch the clouds cleared and our afternoon was blessed with bluebird skies. The fairytale wasn’t just back on, it was better than our dreams.
We were having too much fun to worry about the time until suddenly time was of the essence. With four lifts and a confusing string of runs between us and the rental shop we suddenly had a daunting task ahead of us. One wrong turn and we’d end up stranded on the mountain or in a different town. As the sun slid below the peaks around us we raced down the slopes, making our way ever closer to the final run. At the bottom of one lift I noticed that the “last chair” time and the “current time” were the same.
When we finally made it to the top of the final run we let out a sigh of relief and pulled out our cameras to capture the immense Kaiser mountains bathed in the last light of the day. Grinning ear-to-ear we pushed off one last time and, not wanting it to end, adopted the most leisurely pace of the day for the final run. Lena and I took it slowly, so by the time we made it to the bottom the boys were already enjoying cold beers and classic Austrian aprés ski pop hits (read: terrible, terrible music). Even our commute home contributed to the fairy tale. The train-bus-train became train-train-train and was 40 minutes shorter. I was in love with Austria.
We all yearned for another amazing day of skiing in Austria, but travel plans and work schedules were unfriendly to our continued fairy tail dreaming. Instead, we hiked up into the foothills of the Kaisergebirge from the other side. Along the way we found a slot canyon with snowmelt gushing down.
Running out of time before Stephen had to return for his train we had to decide between an epic view of the Kaiser mountains and some classic Austrian food and drinks. The food won in the end, but we still snagged a glance of the mountains out the window of the hut.
For our final day Lena and I took the train to Salzburg, a town I’ve visited many times but a first for her. I showed her all of my family’s favorites. Meaning we tasted all of the classic Salzburg foods we could get our hands on: Mozart kugel, Salzburger nockerl, and leberknödelsuppe. (Pro tip: the “original” Mozart kugel from Fürst isn’t as good as the copy from Reber). We also chanced upon an organ performance in the Salzburg Cathedral. An organist played a piece on each of the cathedral’s five organs, filling the chamber with resonant music. The fortress on top of the hill was our final destination before we made our way back to the train station for our ride back to Kiefersfelden.
The next morning as we packed our bags and hopped on the train, excited to remember the trip before it was even over, our phones began to buzz with push notifications. What we’d been talking about in the background for weeks had become a reality: Russia invaded Ukraine. Except for her sister, Lena’s entire immediate and extended family were suddenly living in a warzone and all of our attention went to finding ways to get them to safety. If you’re able to support those affected in any way, please find resources here.
I heaved my duffle bag onto my back, and my backpack onto my front before striding out of the Corfu airport. Dressed like a turtle, and feeling just as slow, I trudged along the streets, many of which were missing sidewalks, towards the scooter rental shop. My hope was to snag a scooter to make the 40km trip from Corfu town to our Airbnb. An island-ride with the wind in my face seemed more fun than a 1.5 hour bus ride. Sadly, after arriving at the shop I learned that Greece has different license requirements and my California driver’s license wasn’t valid without an additional international license—which I didn’t have.
I still had an hour to wait before my classmates arrived from Berlin so I thought I’d try the bike rental shop, even though a 30km bike ride with luggage would be miserable. I trudged another few kilometers like a turtle to the bike rental shop only to learn that it was closed for the season. I was secretly relieved that I didn’t have to bike. With my figurative tail tucked between my legs I made my way to the bus station where I met up with my classmates. We bought our tickets and then settled in to wait a few hours for the bus. Over beers I learned that our classmate Paul had successfully rented a scooter from a sketchy shop outside of town and called them up. Five hours later after making it to the Airbnb we were overwhelmed with the sweet rattling sound of 50cc scooters in the driveway. Our special delivery had arrived. We scrounged in our pockets to collect 600€ cash and handed it over for the week-long rental of four scooters.
With our island-chariots secured we hopped on, fired them up and scooted off to the grocery store for supplies. Max speed: 45km/h. For the next six days we explored all over the northern half of the island. We did our best to avoid the rain with varying success while we hunted for the best beaches and food that Corfu has to offer.
My classmate Julia suggested early on that we tackle Corfu’s highest peak for a sunrise hike, so one morning we woke up at 4 am to ensure we’d arrive before the sun crept over the horizon. According to Maps the hiking trail was about 45 minutes away by car. Likely more than an hour by scooter. In the cold dark morning we wiped the dew off of our seats and mounted up, two to a scooter. The extra weight made climbing up the hills a crawl. We pulled the throttles back as far as they would go and still we inched our way up the hill at around 10 km/h.
During the steepest climb I leaned forward and prayed that the scooter would get us up the hill. Over the wail of the engine I heard a scream in the background. I looked in my mirror and watched as one of the scooters drove off the side of the road into a ditch. I wanted to stop to check on whoever had ridden off the road but if I stopped I wasn’t sure the scooter could get going again. So I pushed on.
When the road flattened out around the next bend I stopped so the others could catch up, assuming their scooters still worked. Julia, queen of the sunrise hike, had lost her balance riding so slow on the steep hill and rode into the ditch with her passenger in tow. She twisted her ankle trying to catch the scooter but was otherwise okay. With everyone accounted for, and no serious injuries, we plowed on.
It took us around an hour and a half to get to Julia’s trailhead. But the tardiness wasn’t an issue because there was no trail to be found. Instead we parked the scooters and walked the rest of the way up the steep road to the top. Twenty minutes later we were at the summit, roughly an hour before the sun would be seen that day.
For the next 60 minutes we walked back and forth, did jumping jacks and squats, and huddled like penguins to stay warm. We watched as the sky slowly grew lighter before the sun finally crested the horizon in the distance, bathing Albania and Greece in sunlight. The sky turned orange and the wispy clouds were tinged with purple for what felt like only a minute, but lasted at least 30. We were still cold to the bone even with the sun rising higher in the sky, so we hopped back on the scooters in search of a hot drink and a warm meal.
After shuffling out of the tiny airport we crawled into a tiny Nissan Versa that was delivered by the all-too-friendly Hertz representative who went by Tim (his full name was unpronounceable for us non-Greeks. We pulled up our mapping app and headed out on the tiny roads of Skiathos, swerving around scooters and potholes. Our digital guide took us straight up the mountain, including an 18° rutted incline that made the engine squeal and the whole car shake. We all leaned forward and prayed that the little engine could make it. After that first harrowing drive up the hill nearly everything else went according to plan. (If we don’t count the jellyfish stings I endured on my first swim.) For two weeks we enjoyed ourselves on Skiathos, an island made famous for the scenes of Mama Mia! that were filmed there.
The reason for the extravagant trip was my mom’s 60th birthday, which we celebrated in style on a chartered sailboat adventure around Skiathos’ neighboring islands. Our captain Stefanos, a wisecracking local to Skiathos who hates Mamma Mia!, motored us from his home port of Skiathos Town east to a small cove on the eastern side of Arkos. He outfitted us with snorkeling gear and kicked us off the boat for 45 minutes of underwater exploration. After pulling up the anchor we motored yet again (the wind was blowing towards the west), past the small lighthouse-topped island of Repio on our way east towards Skopolos.
Before anchoring on the coast of Skopolos for lunch we made a snorkeling pitstop around Dasia where we swam through an eerie underwater tunnel and explored caves with thousands of tiny silver fish. Lunch, which was more like a feast for the gods, consisted of no less than four massive courses of Greek breads, spreads, cheeses, veggies, seafood, and pasta; all washed down by tsipouro, a savory take on the famous Greek ouzo. Sadly, I promised our snarky captain that I wouldn’t reveal the details of the banquet to prevent food IP theft by other ambitious captains.
Our midday repast left us stuffed like turduckens and more than a little tipsy from the bottomless tsipouro cups so we didn’t mind a leisurely sail (yes, sail, the wind favored our return) back towards Skiathos. We made one final pitstop on Tsougkrias where we jumped from the bow into the crystal clear Mediterranean waters and drank a celebratory, and thankfully very thin, Gin & Tonic before pulling up our anchor and returning to Skiathos Town. Thoroughly salted and sun-dried we deftly navigated the gangway before setting foot back on solid ground. We claimed it was sea-legs that made us wobble our way through the harbor but I’m not so sure.
For my birthday a little over a week later we went on another boating adventure around Skiathos and its neighboring islands, sans captain. Unless you count my unlicensed sister at the helm of a 12 foot motor boat. Essentially a souped-up dinghy, our transport was small but mighty, and felt like more than enough boat for four inexperienced boaters to handle. But what it lacked in size it made up for in freedom. We weren’t at the mercy of a guided tour so we crafted our own itinerary for the day which began with Lalaria, Skiathos’ most famous destination.
We motored, slowly but surely, around 1/3rd of the coastline before laying anchor among the giant underwater boulders on the shore. Unable to motor directly to the beach, we jumped off the boat and swam ashore for a painful walk along the picturesque white rocks. The far end of the beach features a beautiful stone arch that’s the backdrop to millions, if not billions of photos. What I discovered, though, is that unbeknownst to 99% of tourists who visit (that’s a wild guesstimate) is a second underwater arch. This secluded arch is home to thousands of fish swimming in schools in the safety of the shade under the rocks. Sadly I had no camera so you’ll just have to trust me on this, or go see it for yourself. I swam through the secret arch a few times before making my way back to shore where the others were admiring the beautiful rocky beach.
Our stomachs started to grumble so we swam back to our boat, pulled up the anchor, fired up our mini-motor, and made our way to Arkos for a beachside taverna. After eating some classic Greek dishes we motored west, to a portion of the island only accessible by boat, where we found an idyllic cove with majestic Cotylorhiza tuberculata, aka fried egg jellyfish, floating in the current. With only an hour or so before we had to return the boat we lazily swam around the rocks in search of fish before drying off and starting up the motor for the short ride home.
After two weeks on Skiathos we decided that we wouldn’t mind another week exploring the island’s beaches and cliffs, but sadly our time was up. I, however, had one more Greek destination on the itinerary: Corfu.
Our flight arrived around 9 p.m. and after climbing into a taxi we made our way along the broad highway towards Athens. While Lena and I sat in stunned silence in the backseat our driver Facetimed his son, letting him know he’d be home soon, while swerving across lanes and speeding around other traffic. Luckily he wrapped up his call before we made it into the city proper, where even at 9 p.m. the streets are filled with cars, trucks, and chaotic scooters. With his eyes more focused on the road he pointed out a few landmarks along the way in broken English. We nodded and pretended like we knew what he was talking about. In truth, we’d researched hardly at all.
At one intersection he pointed out the Acropolis in the distance, lit up by hundreds of floodlights and visible from anywhere in the city that had an unobstructed view. I only had a vague idea of what it was (again, no research) but knew instantly that I wanted to go. I’m a history nerd but Lena isn’t so I made a point of extracting a promise from her that we would go to some of the ruins in the city.
Our stop in Athens wasn’t really our destination, it was a way to get two trips out of one on our way to Skiathos, a small Greek island north of the capital, where we’d be spending two weeks for my mom’s 60th birthday. This was the justification for our lack of research.
In the end I didn’t need to extract any promise from Lena to see historical sites because that’s just about all there is to do in Athens anyway. Punctuated by brief stops for coffee and prolonged Greek feasts we hoofed it from one ancient ruin to another over two days.
For lunch Lena found a famous souvlaki stand that she said was worth the 20 minute walk through Athenian traffic. When we arrived there was a line of ten or so. Nine of which looked like tourists. We couldn’t all fit into the tiny shop so I volunteered to order for us when we got to the front of the line. I stepped through the door and waited for the cook behind the counter to show me he was ready to take my order.
“Two chicken, one veggie, and one beef souvlaki, please,” I said through my mask.
He looked at me with a blank stare. “We don’t have that, only pork,” he said in accented English.
I paused, feeling stupid for having no clue about what food I would be getting. I shrugged.
“Then four pork souvlaki, please!”
I passed the man’s wife 10 euros for the bag of souvlaki and squeezed past the line back outside. Still shocked that each bundle of pork and veggies wrapped in pita was only €2.50 I relayed the story to the others and they laughed, not at all upset that they wouldn’t get what they’d ordered. We walked to a nearby park and dug into what can only be described as heaven. The pita was soft and doughy, the pork tender, the veggies fresh and crisp, topped with fresh tzatziki for both creaminess and some zest. It’s one of the world’s many wonderful flatbread wraps. We enjoyed every moment of our wraps while resting our feet in the park before moving, somewhat reluctantly, on to the next set of ruins.
After a long first day our feet were all sore but over dinner and ouzo I insisted on waking up early to be at the acropolis at 8 a.m. when it opened. There was some pushback but we all agreed in the end that avoiding the heat of the Mediterranean sun and quite a few tourists would be a good idea. It didn’t hurt that the light for photography would be much better.
The next morning, with our bellies full of greek yogurt and caffeine, we made our way across town and up the hill that sits under the acropolis, arriving only a few minutes after 8. It was already bustling with people. I ran around shooting hundreds of photos of the Parthenon and Erechtheum as the sun marched higher into the sky. Before long we all craved a cold drink and some shade so we made our way back down the hill.
Before we knew it our two days were up. But we didn’t have a moment’s thought to spare before boarding a tiny Olympic Air propeller plane on our way to the real vacation: Skiathos.
The phone background tradition is a whopping 5 years old—and I turn 26—which means 26 new photos from the past 12 months for you to choose from.
Browse the photos below and feel free to download one for your smartphone background by tapping on it and downloading the image from the new window that opens.
Susie and I pushed off on our bikes bright and early from Kiefersfelden, around 9 a.m. Within three minutes we were over the border in Austria—her house is practically on the border, it’s not that we were biking really fast. It was sunny, our legs felt fresh, and the bags on our bikes didn’t feel all that heavy, yet. It was just the start of our four day bike touring adventure, after all. The plan was to wind our way south from Kiefersfelden in southern Germany over the border into Austria before turning west to cross Liechtenstein (which doesn't take long, even by bike). Once in Switzerland, we planned to wind our way through the lake country to Zürich where we’d catch a train home. About 400 kilometers in all. We didn’t have any time to spare so we didn’t build in rest days or touristy activities along the way. The trip was set to be Type 2.0 fun all the way and we were stoked.
After crossing the border to Austria, Susie and I made good time to Innsbruck, where we stopped for a grocery store smorgasbord of ham, cheese, and bread. With 85 km behind us and another 65 km to go we hopped back on the bike in good spirits. Our elevation slowly started to increase as we made our way to Imst.
We climbed over a mountain pass with cars and trucks whizzing by us. Luckily this was one of the only parts of the ride with no bike lane. After descending into Imst I thought we were done, we were so close to our destination. But in the last 5 km we climbed straight up, sometimes at a 15% grade. We gained 400 meters (with many breaks in between) to our hotel in the mountains. I was huffing and puffing. It was already my longest ride ever, and now it included the most elevation I’d ever climbed as well, 1,296 meters. The effort seemed more worth it when the server at the hotel restaurant treated us with complimentary schnapps (which everyone got, it had nothing to do with us biking up the hill to the hotel).
I took a hot bath to ease my tired muscles but no position seemed comfortable for my legs so I gave up and dried off. We both climbed into bed and promptly passed out.
Day 2 was set to be significantly easier than the first. A rest day, if you will. 68 kilometers from our hotel above Imst to a small hut in the mountain town of Stuben. We started off by descending the hill we’d worked so hard to climb the day before. Today, though, it was wet with morning dew and a sketchy route to ride. We didn’t spare a moment's thought for the alpine landscape spread out in front of us; or the charming town of Imst that we sped through on our way to the river at the bottom of the valley.
As we followed the river’s path up into the mountains we stopped and snacked on all manner of fruits from the local orchards. A local Oma (grandma) told me that as long as the branch hangs over the fence onto the road it’s fair game, so we enjoyed the apples, plums, and pluots guilt-free.
With the daring descent completed we breathed a sigh of relief, but Susie wouldn’t let me off too easily, even on a rest day. The route included a climb over the St. Anton am Arlberg pass, aka another 1,279 meters of climbing for the day. Our reward for the climb was another picturesque, speedy, and very chilly descent down to our hut in Stuben.
After a hot shower and thirty minutes curled up in our puffy jackets under the bed sheets we ventured out to one of only a handful of restaurants open in town that night. We stuffed ourselves to the brim and then rolled out and back into bed.
The next morning we woke up early. We had a daunting 116 km to travel on our third day of riding, but luckily it was mostly downhill. Unfortunately, the weather was against us. We started by bundling up for a quick sprint down the hill to the nearest town with a bakery where we ate premade sandwiches and drank hot coffee and tea. As we sat there the rain started and we looked out the window nervously. Beginning a 116 km ride with rain was a recipe for wet feet the whole day. We put on every layer of clothing we had and made our way into the cold, wet mountain air. It was only a light dusting for now, so it wasn’t horrible. Before long, though, it became a downpour.
We wound our way down wet gravel paths with water soaking us from above and below. The downhill path was a blessing and a curse. We hardly had to pedal to keep up a good clip, but no peddling meant we weren’t warming ourselves up from the inside. My whole body was wracked with shivers so violent that I was worried I’d wrench the handlebars left or right and end up in the bushes. We got soaked through. And we laughed about it, mostly. Susie very smartly suggested stopping in the next town for another hot drink but I was worried that if we stopped we wouldn’t have the fortitude to get back on the bikes. So we pressed on.
Before we knew it we had pedaled the first 50 km to Feldkirch and we decided it was high time to make a stop for warmth and sustenance. The rain picked up again while we sat inside, still soaking wet from the morning’s wind-chilled descent. We waited for the rain to subside a bit and then ventured back out.
Not long after, Susie—thinking out loud—asked if we might already be in Liechtenstein. I hadn’t even thought about it, because Susie was in charge of mapping. While riding through a residential neighborhood we looked around and saw signs telling us we were in fact already in Liechtenstein: “FL” license plates, LIEmobil bus stop signs, and slightly different infrastructure accents (aka the cobble stones and curbs looked different).
We laughed that we’d almost missed it and talked about how small of a country it is for five minutes and before we knew it we were leaving already. We passed over the Rhine river on a wooden pedestrian bridge and stopped halfway to take pictures at the “border” before continuing on into Switzerland.
We were just over halfway to our destination and feeling strong when the rain and wind picked up again. It didn’t dampen our spirits but it definitely slowed us down. We wound our way around Walensee with whitecaps dotting the lake surface and the shore on the other side obscured by rain. It was definitely no picturesque Swiss getaway.
But we were making the most of it either way. The bike path which was rain-soaked but otherwise pristine snaked its way along the lake, up and down the cliffs until it spat us out in a new valley with an even heavier downpour. We’d been talkative and chatty all day but by this point we wanted to get there so little was said between us. We put our heads down and rode in the pouring rain along a gravel path that followed a canal up river towards Mollis.
When we finally made it to our Airbnb we removed our shoes and socks at the door to avoid making puddles on the floor and headed straight for the bathroom to wash up. We donned the same wet jackets we’d been wearing all day and set out for food, but there were few options. The only grocery store in town closed at 4 pm that Saturday, an hour and a half before we arrived. So we walked 20 minutes in the unceasing rain across the river to the slightly bigger town next door and walked into the only open restaurant, a burger joint.
In unintelligible Swiss-German, the waitress told us that they were full and we could only order to go. We sighed and looked forlornly outside at the sky. She didn’t budge, they were fully booked until closing. We ordered anyway, hoping that we might find a nice, covered, place to eat outside once our food was ready. Twenty minutes later the rain had lessened to merely a heavy mist, so we plopped our paper bag on the rock wall across the street and devoured our burgers and fries before heading home for sleep.
The final day of our tour started early. Our train from Zürich back home to Susie’s apartment in Kiefersfelden would leave at 12:43 with or without us. We woke up at 6 and got on the road by 6:45 in order to give ourselves plenty of time to make the 70 km trip at a leisurely pace. I even insisted on building in extra time for emergencies.
6:15 a.m. Rain passing through the light made by a streetlamp outside our bedroom window.
And it’s a damn good thing I did. 45 minutes after leaving Mollis, Susie fell back behind me and looked down. Something was wrong with her bike. She had a flat tire. We groaned but quickly realized it could be a lot worse. It wasn’t raining, we had all the gear we needed to fix this kind of problem, and we had built in plenty of extra time for exactly this scenario. After a quick repair we were back on the road. No problem.
The rain stayed at bay for another few hours as we made our way across the valley and towards Obersee and Zürichsee. We stopped at a BP gas station for a late breakfast and continued on, crossing the lake before riding through the never ending neighborhoods around the lake. We arrived in Zürich with plenty of time to spare. In no rush, we picked up our tickets, grabbed some food and celebratory beer, and headed to our platform.
The train ride followed our bike route almost exactly, in reverse. In four hours we wound around the lakes and mountains that had taken us four days to conquer on our bikes. But we didn’t mind that it was so easy by comparison. It gave me a chance to see all of the sights without sweat running down my face or rain dripping from my knees. And it gave us greater appreciation for what we’d just accomplished.
We rode 400 kilometers and 3,260 meters of elevation on our bikes over four days. When we made it back home I slapped the side of Susie’s building in victory and let out a sigh of relief.
On a whim, I asked Lena if she wanted to go bikepacking over the weekend. I proposed we ride 40 kilometers east of Berlin to a lakeside campground in Brandenburg for one night outside of the city. It would be Lena’s longest day of riding ever, but she didn’t hesitate before saying yes. In the end, the route ballooned to 50 kilometers but we were still happy and confident about the weekend’s planned adventure.
On Saturday, just after 2 p.m., we loaded our gear on our bikes and set off through the glass-covered streets of East Berlin. We made our way south through Neukölln to the canals for the scenic route to Müggelsee. Ever the food opportunist, Lena insisted we stop to munch on some boysenberries discovered along the way.
After our snack we wound our way south of Müggelsee before swinging north through Erkner and finally arriving at the campground at around 7 p.m. The woman at reception guided us past rows of mobile home bungalows surrounded by gardens ranging from disheveled to perfectly cultivated.
After leaning our bikes on a nearby pole, we stripped down and jumped in the clear water of the lake to cool off and get rid of the grime of the trail. Feeling much cooler and cleaner, we donned long sleeves and pants and sprayed bug repellant on our hands and faces before preparing dinner. The mosquitoes were already relentless a couple of hours before sunset. Our European backpacking meals were underwhelming compared to the great options in the U.S., but we still ate our fill. After dinner I settled in to read a bit before bed but it was hard to focus with all of the mosquitoes buzzing about our heads.
We reapplied bug spray and bundled up with our rain jackets to try to keep them away from our faces and settled in, assuming that after dusk the mosquitoes would turn in for the night. In the meantime, I tried using the towel as a makeshift tent to cover our hands and faces but it was so stiflingly hot underneath that we couldn’t breath. At 11 p.m. the mosquitoes were still buzzing about and skewering through our clothes. It was so hot in our sleeping bags and rain jackets that we gave up and stripped naked and ran to the lake. We quickly sat down in the water, leaving only our heads exposed, relying on bug spray to keep our faces safe.
After a few minutes of respite from the heat, the lateness of the hour pushed us back towards our sleeping bags where we tried to fall asleep again.
At 1 a.m. neither of us had slept a wink and I was certain that the mosquitoes weren’t going anywhere that night so Lena and I started spitballing solutions. I floated the idea of giving up on sleeping altogether, packing up, hopping on our bikes, and biking back to Berlin in the dark. Lena considered it but didn’t like the idea of biking so far in the dark. She proposed a taxi but neither of us had phone service or any hope that a taxi would come to the middle of the woods an hour after midnight. I then remembered that on a walk around the campground a few hours before I had noticed a gazebo wrapped in mosquito netting. I proposed that we bring our sleeping bags and pads across the campground and sleep in the safety of the gazebo. Before committing to it Lena and I agreed that I should check and see if the mobile homes surrounding the gazebo were occupied—we didn’t want a rude awakening the next morning when an old German man found us squatting in his outdoor dining room.
After a quick look around I was certain that none of the spaces around were occupied and went back to our camp. Lena and I quickly grabbed the essentials and threw our tarp over the rest of our gear before walking across the camp grounds to our safe haven.
We hurriedly slid our gear under the mosquito netting and slipped in after as quickly as possible in an attempt to keep out the gazillion mosquitos swarming around us.
We breathed a sigh of relief as we lay on our pads without the familiar buzz of mosquitoes dive-bombing our faces. Finally, we could lay in the heat without our sleeping bags closed up as tightly as possible to keep the horde at bay. I pulled my book out to try and wind down before falling asleep. Five minutes later I heard an unfamiliar ding from a nearby cell phone. Lena and I looked at each other.
“Is that yours,” I asked. She shook her head no.
We held our breaths and looked at the darkness surrounding us, waiting for any noises. The phone dinged again. Then we heard voices.
An elderly German couple was talking—at 2 a.m., no less—and we were camped in their gazebo. It seemed that the “empty” mobile home that was 2 meters from Lena’s feet wasn’t so empty after all.
Lena and I looked at each other, horrified. I imagined an angry old man kicking open the door to his trailer and finding us in his mosquito haven. I gulped in fear and tried to push the idea out of my mind. I assured Lena that if they came outside and found us we could calmly explain the situation to them and they would have to understand. Right? I knew it was true deep down, but at 2 a.m. and half crazy from the never ending onslaught of mosquitoes I was having a hard time convincing myself. Lena wasn’t having it. We laid there for another 20 horrified minutes waiting for them to come outside and discover us. Instead, the voices slowly disappeared and were replaced by snoring. I set my alarm for 5 a.m.—just in case we fell asleep—so we could vacate their space before they woke up.
I offered to Lena that I could stay up and talk to anyone who might discover us but she was as stressed as I was and neither of us could imagine sleeping any time soon. Even without the mosquitoes. So we both lay there in the ironic half-safety of the netted gazebo trying to fall asleep. After another 30 minutes the exhaustion finally took its toll and we dozed off here and there. We slept in nightmare-plagued 15-minute spurts, constantly jumping in our sleep imagining that someone was just outside the mosquito netting looking in on us.
Despite the nightmares the night passed uneventfully. When my alarm went off we dragged ourselves out of our sleeping bags and cleared our things out of the gazebo. We hustled away as fast as possible in case we had woken them again while putting their table and chairs back where we found them. We dropped our stuff back on our tarp and, with nothing else to do, stripped down for a morning swim before the rest of camp woke up.
Our mosquito net-engulfed gazebo was both a safe haven and nightmare-fuel.
The sunrise was amazing, but both of us would’ve rather gotten a few more hours of sleep before enjoying it. We swam in small circles in the lake with the purple and pink clouds unfurling above us—swatting at mosquitoes all the while. The second we stepped out of the water they went in for the kill so we jumped back in our sleeping bags for protection, certainly not sleep. We decided that a quick breakfast and a cup of coffee were necessary to fuel our departure back to Berlin. Estimated time of departure? ASAP.
The plan was to bike 10 kilometers, much less than the 50 we biked the day before, to the nearest train station that could take us home: Erkner. The second we were packed up we hit the road without a second glance at our cursed campsite. With the wind in our faces and no mosquitoes buzzing around our ears we suddenly felt infinitely better. We started to laugh about how ridiculous our experience had been.
Before we knew it we were already in Erkner. Despite our rough night it felt too soon to get off the bike for the day so we pushed on past Erkner and through Müggelsee. After 30 kilometers we hopped on the train in Köpenick for a quick ride home. We topped up on lost calories with a quick meal before Lena donned a sleeping mask and napped for a few hours. I made the couch my home and turned on the Olympics in the background while I googled affordable two-person tent options with the hope that I might convince Lena to join me for another bikepacking adventure. If it ever happens again I’m sure you’ll read about it here.
After class, Paul and I raced home to pack up our things (and in Paul’s case picked up his newly-repaired bike from the bike shop) for our overnighter at Parsteiner See, 80 kilometers northeast of Berlin. He haphazardly strapped things onto his rear rack with an old bike tube and we pushed out of his driveway just before 5 p.m.
Watch the video below to see how the trip unfolded.
The smell of the paella wafted up from the back seat, sneaking past the aluminum foil that covered it. The massive cast-iron dish, which was nearly a meter wide, dominated the back seat of one tiny European car; the other car was packed with people. We were driving to Moraira harbor where, after arriving, we tossed pillows and blankets aboard Nirvana for our overnight. I straddled the water, one foot on the dock and one on the stern of the boat, before carefully crossing with our most precious cargo, the paella.
After a few equipment checks, Jonas fired up the motor and expertly piloted the boat out of the harbor and to our distant prize. The sun was just about to set but, unfortunately, the cloud cover made a beautiful Mediterranean sunset unlikely. The smells emanating from the paella dish kept us occupied, though.
Five minutes and no more than 500 meters of motoring later and we made it to El Portet, the comically close cove just outside of the Moraira harbor. Jonas and his sister Tara laid the anchor and before long we were rotating in the wind in tandem with the three other boats anchored nearby. During the stress of anchoring no one seemed to notice but the moment we looked up we realized that the sun had slipped below the clouds on the horizon and was painting the sky from bright yellow to deep purple.
I grabbed a few dozen photos and then decided that the best way to enjoy the sunset would be from the water. I tossed my shirt in the master cabin and dove in off the bow. The others were too cozy on the boat to bother jumping in.
The moment I climbed back onto the boat and the sun had set our stomachs grumbled and everyone’s mind went back to the paella sitting on the deck. We opened the folding table, cracked our beers, and gave a quick toast before attacking the paella with gusto. At the speed we were eating it wasn’t long before our stomachs were filled to the brim and the beer was our top priority.
An hour later we got confirmation that Jonas’ friend Stan had landed at Alicante and was on his way to El Portet. When he arrived there was only one obstacle between him and our party on the boat: 300 meters of water shrouded in darkness. Luckily, Jonas in cotton shorts and a t-shirt on a standup paddleboard was ready to act as his knight in shining armor.
Jonas and I wrestled the paddleboard off of the boat and around to the stern so he could carefully step on. He confidently charged into the darkness as we yelled at him that the board was backward. He didn’t hear us. 30 meters from the boat he rocked left, then right, and fell in.
Head cleared by the cold water, Jonas charged into the darkness unperturbed, his goal only 270 more meters away. I rushed below deck and grabbed binoculars for us to follow along from the boat but with so little light we could only hope that the shadow we were looking at was Jonas and not a trash can on the shore. We spotted him when he fell into the water a second time.
A few minutes later we heard shouts from the beach and assumed that he made it — wet but in one piece. Stan joined on the board and they slowly zigzagged their way back to the boat avoiding a blunder the whole way. Once they were both safely on deck the party started in earnest.
The next morning after being rocked to sleep on the boat in the wee hours of the night we woke to the sun shining through the porthole and the sound of seagulls in the distance. Some of us slept more soundly than others but we all felt different degrees of horrible. In my eyes, the only medicine was a dip in the cold salty water so I climbed above deck and jumped in. I instantly felt better.
Hours later and back on dry land we all logged in to Zoom for work or school. The house seemed to rock slowly back and forth and I longed to return to the cool blue waters of El Portet.
We spent the rest of the week hopping between our computers and the ocean — climbing Ifach, replacing on rocky beaches in idyllic coves, and enjoying a drink or two looking over the water — before flying home to Berlin where the weather was even warmer than in Spain.
As always, thank you so much to Jonas Breuer for hosting us at your family’s amazing home in Benimarco.
As our ferry from Capri approached Positano we marveled at the hillside strewn with buildings at all angles and the beaches dotted with umbrellas of all colors. There wasn’t a sliver above the water that wasn’t covered in houses, apartments, or stairs.
We stepped foot back on the mainland and took a second to take it all in before we googled how to get to our hotel in the hills. A mere 700 meters away and not accessible by taxi we had no choice but to walk, but we didn’t mind. At least at first. The path meandered along the coast to a secluded beach before making a hard turn up the hill. It felt like a thousand steps and a million drops of sweat before we reached the front door. I huffed and puffed and wiped the sweat out of my eyes as we checked in.
We’d already spent all day in the sun on Capri and didn’t have much daylight left after checking in so I jogged up the hill to the nearest pizzeria for dinner. I hustled back to Olena with two full pizza boxes and a bottle of wine for a sunset picnic looking out over Positano’s harbor. After some limoncello from Capri to top it all off we had no problem hitting the sack as soon as the sun dipped under the horizon.
Before breakfast on the terrace the next morning we slipped out of our room and down the ‘thousand’ steps to the water. No tourists were in town for the day, yet, other than us. We shared the water with a few old men and the fishermen getting their boats ready. Before long hunger drew us back up the steps despite the pristine water. After a few rolls and an espresso to top up the fuel tank we went right back down to the rocky beach for another day of sun and swimming.
Unfortunately, the good vibes didn’t stop the clock from ticking so before long we had to make our way to the bus stop to catch our ride to Sorrento. We hiked up the hill and made it to the bus stop in time for the last bus to Sorrento and settled in to wait for our 5:45 bus.
5:45 came and went and I started to stress but Olena reminded me that we were in Italy. Things are always late. I pushed down my anxiety for another five minutes. And then ten more. And then finally at 6:15 I looked at her in despair.
With no alternative I popped into a cafe and asked them when the bus might be arriving. In perfect English the woman behind the counter explained to me that a wildfire on the road between Positano and Amalfi was wreaking havoc on the bus route but busses were still coming. Supposedly. As we waited for the phantom bus to appear we started making tourist friends who also wondered what to do. We decided we’d grab a taxi to Sorrento together. €100 doesn’t hurt so bad when you split it six ways, afterall.
But then the bus rounded the corner. Olena and I fought to the front of the line to ensure a spot on the packed bus and made our way to the last two seats in the back row. For the next hour and a half we listened to three loud Scots talk about which is better, Ayahuasca or shrooms, as the huge bus barreled along the narrow coastal road. Hundreds of feet above the ocean. Olena and I stared straight ahead and focused on taking deep breaths so we wouldn’t throw up. After what felt like a lifetime on the bus we piled off in Sorrento, happy to have made it in one piece. But our journey still wasn’t over.
We had to walk 2 kilometers along Sorrento’s narrow streets with our bags. And it was beginning to rain. We made it to the hotel without even a drop hitting us, but as soon as we went back outside for dinner the lightning lit up the night sky around us and the rain began to dump. It took all of two minutes running to the nearest restaurant for us to be soaked through by the summer deluge. Our Italian waiter looked at us incredulously as we told him our order, soaking wet, but luckily served us anyway.
Sorrento was meant to be our relaxing location but we started off the next day with an 11 kilometer walk along the cliffs of Sorrento. We kept an eye on Mount Vesuvius across the bay and looked down at the busy beaches below, lined with row after row of lounge chairs and umbrellas to provide respite from the burning sun. By lunch time we were gassed and the hotel pool was all we were interested in for the rest of the day.
Until sunset, that is. Not one to miss a photograph I dragged Olena to the cliffs looking out over the ocean. Camera in one hand and cup in the other, I alternated taking photos and sipping wine while we watched the blazing red sun peak in and out of the clouds all the way down to the horizon.
On our final day in Italy we made the trek from Sorrento back to Rome for our flight back to Berlin. With half a day in Rome we made sure to take in all the biggest sights, even if we had both seen them before. We stopped by the Trevi Fountain and the Pantheon, then walked up the Spanish Steps with hardly a soul in sight.
Over dinner that night we looked back at the past week as if it was some fever dream. We were completely incredulous. I won’t say each city was more beautiful than the next because Capri takes the prize for looks; but each town was so unique and vibrant that I would never tire of exploring. Apparently Olena had the same thought.
“Where are we going next,” Olena asked, before she’d even finished her pasta.
Europe’s COVID stricken summer was drawing to a close and borders were tightening after a short summer tourist season; but Olena and I still had the rest of September off and we were determined to make the most of our free time. While I was biking to Copenhagen she was busy figuring out where we could travel to. She explained our plans over the phone while I was riding along endless cycle paths in the middle of nowhere.
“Flights to Rome are the cheapest,” she began.
“OK,” I said distractedly.
“But you and I have both been to Rome and they don’t have nice beaches,” she continued.
“So we aren’t flying to Rome,” I said.
“No we fly to Rome but then take the train down to Naples. Then we take a ferry to Capri and spend the night. Then we take another ferry to Positano. After a night there we go to Sorrento,” she rattled off excitedly.
“Wait. Where is Capri,” I asked.
“An island off the coast of Italy,” she said, like I was crazy.
“This seems like a lot to do in just a week. Shouldn’t we just pick one place and hang out on the beach? This is supposed to be relaxing, after all.”
“No, no, no. It’ll be amazing, you’ll see,” she said.
Boy, was she right.
That’s how—not even 12 hours after getting back to Berlin from my Copenhagen bike trip—I found myself making my way to the airport at 5 a.m. to fly to Rome.
After our flight and a few trains we made it to Naples around noon and started walking to our hotel. We dodged scooters coming from all directions while avoiding piles of trash and mystery liquids in the gutter. We dropped our bags and made our way right back into the fray of Naples, meandering along the Via dei Tribunali in search of lunch: pizza. A neapolitan pie quickly made all of the disarray of Naples seem worth it and it gave us all the energy we needed to charge through the rest of the day’s activities.
We explored a handful of churches, and as much of the Spanish Quarter as we could handle. Which really isn’t much. We hiked up to the San Martino Monastery for views of Mount Vesuvius and refueled with espresso along the way. After 10 hours we’d already seen all of Naples that we wanted to see, and capped it off with a rich pasta dinner and a bottle of wine.
With Naples checked off our lists, the next day we made like tourists and took the train to Pompeii. Neither of us had been entirely set on going to Pompeii but once we were there we had a blast getting lost among the city’s ancient streets and exploring villas from another time. But after four hours in the Italian heat we called it a day and made our way back to the hotel. On our way we grabbed a pizza from the famous L’Antica Pizzeria da Michele (Eat, Pray, Love, anyone?) and scarfed it down before passing out.
The next morning we zipped up our bags and made our way to the ferry port for our trip to Capri, a small, picturesque island known for limoncello and mega yachts. After shuffling on to the island with a load of tourists we made our way to the scooter shop to get our hands on some wheels. It wasn’t going to be cheap. But it sure beat getting a ton of taxis or sharing air with a dozen other people on Capri’s tiny buses.
I reassured the scooter shop that I knew how to ride a scooter before swerving out onto the street with Olena on the seat behind me and our bags tucked in wherever we could find space. I pulled the throttle back as far as it would go and the little-yellow-scooter-that-could coughed its way up the hill surrounding Capri’s harbor. I struggled to navigate the hairpin turns with the scooter so heavily loaded but after a harrowing ride we made it to our hotel in the mountains.
Not wanting to waste a minute on the idyllic island we tossed our bags in our room and hopped right back on the scooter to explore. The turns were much easier to navigate without bags so we started to enjoy the ride as we made our way up the mountain and over to the south western tip of the island to the beach.
We laid out in the sun and listened to the waves lapping against the rocks. Oh, and the children screaming at the top of their lungs as they jumped into the water. Families swarmed around us, teaching the young ones how to swim and splashing each other in the hot sun.We succumbed to our hunger pangs before the sun got too near the horizon and buzzed on our scooter back to town for dinner and the sunset.
We set our alarms for just before sunrise and rushed out onto the terrace as the sun’s rays turned everything orange. We took picture after picture until the heat of the sun started to overwhelm us, not even 30 minutes after sunrise.
Then, with sunrise over, we made our way straight to La Fontanilla, an exclusive beach club and restaurant that felt like a dream. We soaked up the sun until we got too hot to think straight and then jumped into the turquoise water, over and over again. All morning and afternoon we rotisseried until we had to leave to catch the last ferry to Positano.
The phone background tradition turns four this year—and I turn 25—which means 25 new photos from the past 12 months for you to choose from.
Browse the photos below and feel free to download one for your smartphone background by tapping on it and downloading the image from the new window that opens.
After we’d bought our flights for what we hoped was one of the warmer areas in Europe over the holidays I messaged a friend and asked about what to do in Portugal. “Don’t go in December, it’s the rainy season,” was the first thing he said. After a quick Google to confirm that, yes, my Portuguese friend knew a thing or two about the weather in his home country, I steeled my resolve and admitted that it was too late. I had already booked flights. After a bit of finger-wagging, he sent along a list of things to do and wished me luck.
I forgot about the expected weather to come until two days before the flight when the airline sent a message about our upcoming flight:
Weather Conditions in Portugal
Due to the adverse weather conditions in Portugal, air traffic is heavily conditioned and may cause delays or cancellations on flights from or to national airports.
TAP Airline Services - 12/21/2019
Despite our last-minute fears there was nothing to do but hope for the best.
Luckily for us, the best was all we got.
After arriving in Lisbon we made sure to take advantage of the good weather by exploring the whole city on foot. We hit all four of the biggest churches, dodged streetcars on Lisbon’s impossibly steep hills, and sank our teeth into some of the city’s local food. On our last night in town, we timed it perfectly—along with what felt like every other tourist in Lisbon— to watch the sunset over the Torre de Belem.
On our way to Porto the next day we stopped at Cabo Carvoeiro, a peninsula that holds an ancient walled city along with a Rip Curl outlet for the surf tourists that come for the point break with never-ending Rights. As we clambered over the rocky cliffs and watching the surf I couldn’t help but feel like I was standing somewhere on the California coast. The water, the sun, even the ice plant beneath our feet felt like home.
After exploring the peninsula for a few hours we charged straight to Porto for the next adventure.
Our first day in Porto was spent taking in all of the sights (read: more churches). On day two we explored the Serralves Estate’s museum, mansion, gardens, and farm before making our way to the coast for the final sunset of both 2019 and the decade.
After enjoying our time up north we headed as far south as you can go for some R&R in warmer weather. On our way south to Faro we happened upon an ancient hilltop fort with views for miles where we sat down for a quick canned sardine picnic before continuing south.
Feeling rested and ready for one last push before flying back to Berlin we made our way to Cabo da Roca, the western-most point in Europe for the final sunset of the trip. Again, it felt like half of the tourists in Portugal had the same idea—bus after bus of tourists piled onto the already crowded cliffs surrounding the lighthouse at the point.
Torn between the prospects of actually seeing the sunset and the inevitable traffic-jam leaving the Cabo we hustled back to our parked car to get a head start on the mad dash back to Lisbon. The winter sun set quickly as we zoomed up into the hills towards the city, with Big-Sur-Esque views unfolding around us.
It was mid-September when we sat there—in the middle of a Fall cold-spell that blanketed Berlin—lamenting the early end of a hot summer. The city had traded 30° days for 12° days all too quickly and it felt like we were staring at the cold darkness that is Berlin winter right in the teeth. We couldn’t accept this was the best weather that we’d have for the next 6 months so we did the only logical thing despite the souring weather: we made the unwise decision to travel North.
I’d heard of a cheap weekend train ticket from Berlin to the Baltic Sea from a coworker so we decided that if we were going to be cold no matter what, at least we could see some open water while we shivered. As we looked out of the train window a few weeks later it didn’t take long to transition from vibrant Berlin to the dark, foggy, flat landscape of former East Germany. We zipped past decrepit train stations and neglected roads on our way north, unsure of what lay ahead. Despite our low hopes, the weather went from near-freezing and overcast to crisp but sunny while we sat in the warm safety of the train.
Four hours later we clambered off of the train and checked into our hotel before we dropped our things off and headed for the water. Olena and I ambled along the jetty that protects the harbor and watched the sunset with the lighthouse to our backs before we stepped onto an old boat in search of a hearty dinner. As we took our seats an older gentleman leaving the table recommended number 11: Baltic flounder. After we ordered said flounder and a beer we settled into our seats.
The boat rocked us back and forth gently while we waited for, and then devoured, our food. Suddenly exhausted with our stomachs full of food and drink we paid and stepped outside to head back to the hotel. And of course that was when it started to rain. Hard. We bundled our jackets around ourselves to stave off the wind and water and hustled back through town as the cold rain fell through the darkness.
After that first rain the weather held all weekend, which gave us the chance to comfortably explore Jasmund National Park all day without getting drenched. We popped in and out of the ancient Beech forest as we walked down the coast towards Sassnitz, taking our time in the sun and hustling through the shade to stay warm. We walked down the steep stairs to the rocky beach below the cliffs and wandered up and down the coast along with the few other off-season tourists.
As we stumbled back into town I glanced at my watch and noticed how late it was. No wonder I was starving. We went straight to the harbor and stepped onto the first boat-restaurant we could find. The sun set across the harbor as we scarfed down battered shrimp and fish with fries and beers. Despite the cold we stayed on the upper deck of the boat until after the sun had set before we called it a night and made our way to the hotel.
The next morning we bought tickets for a boat tour that took passengers 45 minutes up the coast to look at the cliffs from the water. It smelled like diesel fumes inside the cabin so we stood outside at the bow as the cold sea air swept past and blew our coats around our faces. The weather was crap—overcast and cold—so the cliffs didn’t look majestic, but they still looked impressive from sea-level.
We stepped off the boat and realized that we had 4 hours to kill until our train so I searched for an earlier option on my phone.
“6 minutes,” I said to Olena, “the next train is in 6 minutes, can we make it?”
She swore. Sassnitz is a small town but we were at least 10 minutes from the station. I thought for half a second and started to jog towards the station as Olena yelled after me.
“I’m not waiting 3 hours in this town, there’s nothing left to do,” I yelled behind me.
She threw her bag over her shoulder and ran after me with an evil look in her eye.
Somehow we made it to the train with two minutes to spare. Either we underestimated how fast we can run or how small the town is. We plopped into our seats and huffed and puffed while we stripped our jackets off—just as the train pulled out of the station.
After the hour long train ride to Stralsund we still had 4 hours to kill until our regional train to Berlin. We explored for an hour before we succumbed to a cozy coffee shop on the main square and pulled out our books.
Later, after we made our way to the train station and found our platform we heard a voice on the loudspeaker. Our train was cancelled. After five minutes of despair we learned that an inconvenient alternative only got us into Berlin 2 hours late, so we pulled out our books and settled in to wait.
My cousin Jared was set to graduate from the National Film and Television School at the end of March; so my dad and I planned on meeting in London to celebrate his graduation as well as recent engagement.
But life had other plans.
Less than a week before my dad was scheduled to fly to the UK his partner slipped on a pesky patch of ice in the Sierra Nevada mountains and broke his back. Logically, this meant that my dad needed to stay home in California and ensure that a drugged and mostly bed-ridden Vince made a speedy recovery.
So I was forced to tough-out London on my own.
OK, maybe tough-out isn't the right phrase. My aunt and uncle wine-and-dined me to the moon and back and it felt more like a luxury cruise than a struggle of any sort. From sun-up to sun-down on Saturday the five of us (Aunt Sandi, Uncle Jack, Jared and his fiancée) hopped from beer to beer with champagne in between.
We started the day by taking the train from Kings Cross to Cambridge where our first stop was lunch, of course. I excitedly stuffed fish and chips down my gullet and washed it all down with a pint of local ale.
From there we meandered (slowly, remember the pint of ale) through the charming old town before snagging a bottle of champagne for our punt ride on the River Cam—we were celebrating a master's degree and an engagement after all. I may have snuck a couple of cans of pre-made Pimm's Cup aboard also. After the leisure cruise we made the logical next stop—more beer—before walking back to the train for London.
As if all of that wasn't enough we decided we needed to go out with a bang at Le Relais de Venise, a French restaurant with no menu and only one delicious option: steak and fries. After plenty of beef and potatoes and three bottles of wine we rolled ourselves out of the restaurant and made our way home.
The next morning I woke up with a headache (no idea why) and slowly made my way to the British Museum (to look at artifacts stolen from all around the world) and Hyde Park before taking the Heathrow Express to the airport.
And finally, as reconciliation for such a taxing weekend British Airways consoled me with a completely empty row of seats to spread out on for the short flight back to Berlin.
“Most people do the John Muir Trail in 30 days, but I think we can do it in 15.”
My cousin Mark had texted me offering a backpacking trip as a graduation present.
“Uhhh, I don’t have 15 days for a trip Cuz. I’m not even going to be in California that long,” I replied.
I figured that was easier than trying to convince him that the JMT in 15 days wasn’t exactly reasonable. After some more texting back and forth that included a few date changes and some gear talk we decided on a three-day trip in California’s Emigrant Wilderness just north of Yosemite. We were both familiar with the area and realized we didn’t have that much time for a wilderness trek after all.
After running into road closures that added another hour to our drive we got on the trail around noon as we looked at nearby snowy peaks and talked about how lucky we were to be able to find any way into the backcountry this early in the season.
While we hiked my cousin told me about hunting in the region and how he met a Mi Wuk couple who owned a 100-year lease on cattle land that we’d be hiking through. He hoped that they’d already be living in their Cooper Valley homestead at 8,000 feet so he could see them again.
We made quick work of Eagle Pass but still only arrived at the homestead around 5 p.m. because of our late start on the day. The Mi Wuk couple wasn’t there but the little cabins and outhouse made for a picturesque place to make camp so we decided our hike was done for the day.
As we started a fire and cooked dinner we broke into a fifth of Crown Royal that we’d carried in (with its felt sack) to pass the time. A few hours later when we reached the bottom of the bottle and the end of our wood pile we scattered the coals and hit the sack.
We woke up the next morning to everything in the valley covered in frost. We made our way over to our camp kitchen to start on coffee and breakfast when we noticed the bottle of Crown Royal sitting in the dirt, empty. Suddenly our headaches made more sense. After the coffee kicked in we got to work planning our day over some hearty homemade granola.
“There’s this peak, Granite Mound, that I’ve seen in the distance when I hunt this area. I’ve always wanted to climb it but never had the chance, you up for it?” Mark asked.
“Sure. We’ve just got to hike through this valley, and this valley, and this valley, and then make this part of the climb to 10,000 feet without a trail,” I said as I pointed at the map that was laid out between us.
“Yup,” he replied, as if it would be as easy as skipping a rock.
We hiked in and out of mosquito infested valleys all morning, crossed a half-dozen streams, and lost the trail in huge swaths of snow along the way, until we finally got a glimpse of Granite Mound two miles in the distance, according to Mark’s GPS. We haphazardly planned our summit route from afar and then embarked on the portion of the hike that was off-trail.
An hour and two false summits later—which dashed my hopes more than I’d like to admit—we stood in the middle of a field of snow with soaked boots and looked up at the summit. It still felt impossibly far away, but there was no way we’d turn back now. We scarfed down some salami sandwiches and gummy bears before we slogged our way to the top as we huffed and puffed from the altitude.
When we finally made it to the top we looked off in the distance at Yosemite Valley and turned in amazement at the 360-degree view that surrounded us. We saw the valley that our camp was in and plumes from forest fires in the distance. I had barely caught my breath when I looked at my watch and thought we should head back home if we didn’t want to be hiking the last mile in the dark.
As we hiked back all of the fields of snow that we’d traversed on the way up became sledding hills on the way back down, and with our tired legs we didn’t care about wet butts.
We were still a valley away from camp when I asked Mark how far he thought we’d walked.
“Today wasn’t that far, I’d guess seven or eight miles.”
“Total? Or one way,” I asked incredulously. There was no way we’d only hiked eight miles, I thought.
“Total,” Mark responded coolly. Don’t forget, this is the same person who thought we could hike the John Muir Trail in half the time that most people do.
I didn’t have the energy to argue so I focused on the trail ahead and the freeze-dried backpacking meal that waited for me at camp.
Our home valley didn’t end up being the warm welcome we were looking for. The three minutes it took the water to boil for dinner felt like an eternity as we were swarmed by what felt like all of the world’s mosquitos. Despite the heat we bundled ourselves in every bit of clothing we had to try and keep them at bay while we ate our food in silence, too exhausted to talk. I was the first to admit defeat in the battle against the bugs and trudged to our tent to lay down and rest. Mark wasn’t far behind.
In a daze, we pulled out the map to sort out how far we’d actually hiked that day. After some quick math, we realized Mark was way off. I wasn’t shy in rubbing it in that his estimate was so far off.
“16 MILES. Ha! Man were you off, Mark. 16 miles to a 10,000-foot peak,” I remarked.
He wasn’t embarrassed to admit how wrong he was as he folded up the map.
We didn’t need Crown Royal or an hour of reading to help us sleep that night as we curled up at 8 p.m. trying to find a position, any position, that didn’t hurt.
Compared to the day before the hike home was uneventful. We meandered our way up and out of Cooper Valley and back down to the car, an easy 5-mile stroll. We rinsed off in a stream and cooled off our blister covered feet before getting back on the road. The first place that sold burgers was our first stop on our way back to civilization and crazy times in the world. (Trump and Kim Jong Un met while we were gone.)
Today was the first day of snow in Boston. I walked around the city browsing through stores looking for good Black Friday deals and got a little too cold on the walk home. Sitting here with a cup of tea looking out the window I caught myself thinking about my trip to Hawaii this summer.
My friend Kevin texted me: “Come visit me.” He lived in Hawaii and said it as a joke. He had told several of his friends from his freshman year in college to come visit him on his island in the middle of the Pacific. Most people responded with various reasons for why they couldn’t, but I said “OK.”
Later that day I asked my Dad if we could go to Hawaii later in the summer. We had been planning a Father-Son trip for August anyway, so after deciding to take the easy route (we were considering destinations like Mexico City, or Antigua, Guatemala), we booked flights to Oahu.
When I told Kevin that my Dad and I had just bought tickets to spend a week in Hawaii, he didn’t believe me. “Wait, really?” he asked. “Yes, really,” I assured him.
After landing in Waikiki at 11 p.m. I turned on my phone to a text from Kevin: Sunrise hike, I’m picking you up at 4:45.
Gulp, I wasn’t prepared for that. Even with the time difference helping me out I wasn’t excited to wake up that early to go for a hike. But hey, he was the local and knew what to do in Hawaii. That was half of the reason for coming to Hawaii anyway, I didn’t want to spend a week being a tourist going to the wrong beaches and eating shrimp at the wrong shrimp shack. I replied and we confirmed our plans.
The alarm rang at 4:00 and I slowly lumbered out of bed, trying to stay quiet so my Dad wouldn’t wake up in the other bed across the room. I mindlessly showered, pulled on some board shorts, and gnawed on a Cliff bar.
He picked me up outside of my hotel and we drove through the empty streets of Waikiki to his friends house. After picking her up we headed to McDonalds (the only place on the island that opens early enough) for some early morning grub. We ate our breakfast sandwiches as we drove to Makapu’u, watching the light in the sky grow brighter and brighter. I’m not sure about the other two, but I started to doubt our timing as the sky got brighter and brighter.
Needless to say, we made it in time:
The hike itself was relatively short, 20 minutes at most, so more of a sunrise walk, but I’m not complaining.
We made our way to the summit and then spotted a lighthouse below us that we wanted to explore as the sun rose.
The lighthouse.
We got to the lighthouse and discovered a fence separating us from our goal.
(We managed to get a little bit closer to the lighthouse).
My hiking companions.
After watching the sunrise, we hiked down a cliff and snorkeled in these tide pools.
This photo, and the next two below are from a hike up Diamond Head (not a sunrise hike, but still an early one) that I went on with my Dad later in the trip after I had recovered from the first Hawaiian hiking experience.
Thousands of houses are packed into the hills beyond the ridge of the inactive volcano.
Waikiki.
Two trees compete for space, somewhere on the North Shore.
Obligatory underwater photo.
For the first semester of my freshman year at Northeastern, I was able to study abroad rather than go to the Northeastern campus in Boston. I could study in Australia, Costa Rica, Greece, England, or Ireland. I chose to go to Ireland. I chose Ireland for several reasons. First, there was no language barrier like there would have been with Costa Rica and Greece. Second, Ireland seemed relatively safe (at the time, there had been student riots in Greece because of unemployment). Third, I was going to be 17 at the start of the semester – the England and Costa Rica trips required that I be 18 upon arrival in the country. Finally, I’d never been to Ireland before, I had travelled to England and Australia before, and I wanted to travel somewhere new.
The program was split into two groups, science majors and business majors. Science majors attended the University College Dublin, and business students attended the Dublin Business School. At the time I was studying psychology, so I was enrolled at UCD. I lived in an off campus apartment, cooked my own meals, went grocery shopping, cleaned up after myself, and took a 45 minute bus ride to campus every morning. In short, I was 100% independent (except for money) for my first semester away from home.
I loved it. I met amazing people who were also part of my program, and went on weekend trips that really immersed me in Irish culture. We went to a farm and jumped into a bog, made bread and learned how to play Hurling. We traveled to the Cliffs of Moher, County Cork, Howth, the Aran Islands, Causey Farm, Northern Ireland, and County Sligo where we stayed in an eco lodge and surfed in a freezing rain.
For our first weekend in Ireland we took the Dublin Area Rapid Transit to a small seaside town, Howth. The town was quaint and beautiful, and framed by sweeping landscapes of the ocean. It was a great first place to visit outside of Dublin to give us an idea of how beautiful Ireland can be.
After having some time in the town of Howth, exploring a farmers market and the small harbor, we went on a coastal hike. This is one of the spectacular views that can be seen while on the trail.
Jumping into a bog at Causey Farm, extremely messy, but extremely fun. (I’m in the air).
Stunning, breathtaking, awe-inspiring, jaw-droppingly beautiful, terrifying; these are all apt descriptions of the Cliffs of Moher. I couldn’t have gotten any luckier with the weather when I went. No fog, no rain, some clouds but not too many; perfect for experiencing the terrifying heights of the Cliffs of Moher.
Looking along the coast, rolling green grass gives way to cliffs that are up to 700 feet high.
If you look really closely, you can see tiny specs on top of the cliffs. Those are people. That might give you an idea of how high these cliffs really are.
A view from above. It makes it seem like the water is so close to the grass. That couldn’t be more wrong.
More tiny specs (people) can be seen in the distance.
Members of my program “relaxing” on the edge. It was scary sitting on the edge myself, but even scarier watching my friends do it.
It’s hard to understand how green Ireland really is until you go there yourself.
A cow stands guard over a decaying farm house on the Aran Islands.
These cows are standing at the top of some very tall cliffs on the Aran Islands. They seemed to be more comfortable with heights than I was.
Standing on a cliff’s edge.
This is a view of the University College Dublin, where I took classes for the semester. Being from California, it was my first real experience of fall colors.
Dead leaves on flourishing ivy.
A view down a road on the grounds of Blarney Castle in County Cork.
