Trips By Sam

      Last night at a post-yoga event dinner of 20-some femmes, the woman across asked her acquaintance next to me, "How are the kids doing?"         Between bites of pumpkin soup, Next-to-Me replied, "Tyler is in his last year at university, and has a job lined up in construction."  She paused, insecurity (or perhaps, simply indigestion) rippling across her taut visage.  "In logistics. At an eco-friendly firm," she added, clearing any mistaken notion of her youngest subjected to grubby hands of manual labor.       "Molly started school for PT, then changed to design, just like me. I never wanted to push her, but I always knew she had a knack for it!  One of her clients is even (notable CLE brewery)," Next-to-me gushed.  An unshared story involving her daughter's leap of faith sparkled in her eyes.  The oozing pride left no doubt as to who the favorite child was.       Especially whe...

    "When can you eat?" the shopkeeper asked as I plucked my 6-pack from her mini fridge upon finishing a CBD pop-up.     Right now if I wanted to , I thought, glazing over the assorted snacks in her office.  Instead I answered, "Tomorrow," thus breaking the 5-day juice cleanse .  I was choosing not to eat.  Paying, in fact for 6, cold pressed juices per day.  Though I have a fridge full of food while refugees flee their homes with little more than a rucksack.       Why, then, to subject myself to such masochistic torture?  To follow the Ayurvedic teachings of a yearly, spring fast; to give my overworked digestion a break; to exercise mental fortitude;  to heal my relationship with food.  I wasn't noticing food's presence in my life.  Scrolling on screens at lunch, staring into space with handfuls of granola, oblivious to textures, flavors, the joy of eating.  What became jarringly apparent was food's a...

      Rain came after the full moon, keeping us inside.  Maybe that's why Nepali believe it bad luck to travel on certain lunar days.  I didn't tell him this.  I let him book the cabin he was so set on, despite its sparse availability.  Had we followed superstition, we'd have traveled on that rainy day, spent the subsequent in  sun and forest.  But we drove down with the full moon, rain in tow.  A steady drizzle from dawn to dusk.       I geared up for our hike with a poncho; him with water, snacks, sage, a fully-charged battery and probably a backup.  The forest rangers and their orange cones halted our muddy Subaru tracks.  "Trails closed 'til tomorrow," they grunted from trucks, exhaust vanishing into cold fog.  Law enforcement, along with the elements, nudged us back inside.  Inward. To a landscape presenting more challenges than treacherous, icy trails and all day downpours.  Or so I'd be...

  I’m in a field on the outskirts of Uruapan with 100 Mexican machos swinging machetes.  This is what everyone (unsolicitedly) warned me about.  Except one.  My yoga goddess-sister Allison who, before my departure, sang a protective kundalini mantra and gifted a sticker-- “Be Dareful Out There.” Finding a stranger on the internet and asking to crash on their couch for two nights is a bit daring, for both parties.  For all my host knew, I had my own scythe in my 75 liter pack.  Or un diagnosed schizophrenia.  Or bed bugs.  Or all of the above.  Yet we both agreed to the risk of hosting / staying with a stranger based on a handful of photos, references, and brief bio that (for him) mentioned both Buddhism and artisanal mezcal. His mid-sized, Michoacan city was void of hostels, and, after two days alone, I was craving a bit of companionship and adventure.  Just not expecting to trudge through waist-high grass with a knife wielding mob...

    Salt tears splash into steaming pozole .  A bleary, sheepish glance at the cocinera earns me both curiosity and concern.  "Todo bien?" she asks.  Her warmth melts me more.  I choke, and nod towards the hot sauce with a self-deprecating grimace.  The mercado is bustling with families enjoying their Sunday supper while I sit alone at the bar, sobbing into my soup.       It's these moments that we travelers conveniently keep hush.  For me, they tend to surface on Sundays, especially in countries that honor the day of rest with family gatherings in lieu of errands and bulk buying.  Plus PMS, and it's my first day alone after traipsing through Jalisco with Hilary.       I awoke this morning knowing that it would be a tough one.  Mazamitla is a mountain town geared towards families, offering luxury cabins rather than backpacker dorms.  Alone, I opted for a spartan Airbnb.  Ignoring the horm...

  “Sam, I love you,” Isam gushed with an embrace.  I was taken aback.  Our two-day acquaintance had been stark with his straight-laced German mannerisms: the first greeting a brusque nod; our first conversation about his regimented jump roping and beet-garlic smoothie routine.  He’d skipped while I had scrolled on the far corner of our hostel rooftop on my first night in Mexico.  I never would have fathomed hugging him at a jungle rave.   It came to be by way of a very different first impression: Capri from Belgium, fresh out of university on her first backpacking trip.  “Do you want to come to dinner with us?” she’d asked before I'd even put a name to her lithe frame and oversized glasses.  I was just returning from my own, lone meal, but we spent the following afternoon along with Isam at the beach.  She had a knack for uniting, acknowledging each new backpacker and gleaning their story as they shyly entered the hostel kitchen....