Concerned about having a good time with out spending money? Leave your wallet in your pocket and follow some of suggested free things to due on the Santa Barbara tourism website, www.santabarbara.com. Bulging with cost free adventures and sights to see Santa Barbara has plenty to do. So don’t fret when it comes time for a steamy date or it becomes too cold for beach days; look into the following and you will find ways to entertain without spending. Whether it be an exploration with friends or some quality time with a significant other it’s important to look beyond the bubble within the bubble, Isla Vista, and see the sights and locations in Santa Barbara and the greater area.

All Photos by Brennan Peggs

     I’ve lived most of my life in the Philippines. It is part of the Association of South East Asian Nations (ASEAN), which in a smaller way is like the European Union (EU), in that it facilitates smoother travel for citizens of member nation states with the removal of visa requirements for tourists within a given number of days or weeks. My parents found such a fact favorable for their wanderlust-ridden feet. Whenever the opportunity and the right timing presented themselves, my parents grabbed them and took us kids along on their quest to set foot on the lands of all our Asian neighbors.

     Around two years ago, I found myself being whisked away to this tiny island south of the Malay Peninsula called Singapore. I understood then why the country is most known for its “no gum chewing in public” law. The country’s systematic schema of rules paired with the stringent discipline exercised by the people overwhelmed me, but also enlivened my adventurous spirit. The order helped preserve the pristine beauty of the land’s natural sights and looming skyscrapers. It made the area a very tourist-friendly place, which was accentuated further by the accommodating smiles of kindhearted Singaporeans, who go out of their way to willingly help lost tourists.
     What’s wonderful about Singapore is that it is a land created from fused, diverse cultures. Having four official languages–English, Tamil, Malay and Mandarin–is a testament of this fact. Being so, one can expect such variety from its food selection too. What sealed the deal and left me entranced and wanting more was when I had my very first chili crab, which is often touted as the country’s national food. The first whiff of the crab down to the last finger lickin’ of the chili sauce sent me on cloud nine. It had captured my stomach’s fancy and with that, my heart.
     Apart from the chili crab, two other foods made me giddy from their unique tastes. They have the utterly scrumptious, Hainanese Chicken Rice, an off-shoot of chicken cooked in Hainan, China that was brought in by Chinese immigrants. Another famous delicacy is one that has its origins in Japan, and this is the yakiniku burger, or the “rice burger,” that can be bought from the franchise, MOS Burger. As the name suggests, the burger is composed of buns that are not bread, but sticky rice. It may look disgusting at first, but the orchestrated tastes of the rice and chicken/shrimp/beef marinated in soy sauce won me over.
     Aside from the obvious food binge that I had during my stay in Singapore, other activities kept my family busy, one of which was hopping from one tourist attraction to another. Notable places are the Merlion and the Esplanade and Orchard Road. The Merlion is the imagined, national symbol of Singapore. It illustrates the title of Singapore as a “lion city” with the symbol being that of a lion’s head with the body of a fish. Presently, there are five recognized statues of the Merlion, but the best one to go to is the original, which can be found a few throws away from the Esplanade. The Esplanade contains Singapore’s theater buildings and concert halls. Akin to the Sydney Opera House, it is highly-recognized for its unique architectural design.
It is a quintessential tourist must-do to pass by Orchard Road. The street alone contains thirty plus shopping malls, which sell items from luxury goods to electronically forward gadgets, all at very low prices. What is an even better incentive to go shopping in Singapore is that if you are a tourist, all you have to do is present all your receipts to a counter at the airport before your flight out and they will reimburse all the tax placed on your goods.
One day, I plan on visiting Singapore again. This magical country and its culture is just to captivating to ever forget and let go.

    Ok, my friend and I didn’t just decide on Colorado for no reason. We had at least one good reason and another fairly decent excuse to visit this specific state. The first was that a small town right outside of Denver was going to be hosting a spectacular 3-day concert event, sort of like Coachella but on a smaller scale, called the Monolith Festival at the Red Rocks amphitheater. The event had a large number or musicians and bands both of us enjoyed, such as Justice, Cansei De Ser Sexy, Pwrfl Power, and many others, who would be performing in an amphitheater placed directly between two geologically formed, 300 foot red sandstone monoliths, giving the venue a tremendous beauty and near perfect acoustics.

      As it turns out, going to Colorado for the Monolith Festival was definitely reason enough to make a trip to this humble state. The acoustics were simply amazing. Even when sitting in the nosebleeds of this huge amphitheater, the sound of the music coming far down on the stage was loud enough to sound as though you were right in front of the band. Combine this with the amazing scenery, a rather astounding lack of annoying hipsters, and the crisp, clean air, and you’ve got one heck of a music festival.

After our three day musical bonanza up in Red Rocks, my friend and I headed back into the Denver area to check out what else we could find to do before our weeklong visit was up. After an amazing hike up a decently sized mountain and a few asthma related issues with my friend, we decided to check out the Butterfly Pavilion, located in Westminster, which is in the northern part of the Denver city sprawl area. Though small, this place is also worth a visit if you ever find yourself in Colorado with nothing to do.

Upon entry to this little museum, you’re greeted with a very kid friendly environment, with rooms showcasing the best in creepy crawlies and sea creatures, as well as some amazing giant robotic ants and other insects as big as mustangs to show you just how extinct we would be if insects were bigger than humans. But the real treasure in this museum is definitely the Tropical Conservatory, home to around 50 different species of butterflies and moths from around the world. My friend and I spent nearly 2 hours in this greenhouse looking around with our mouths open, standing as still as possible to entice possible landings on our shoulders.

The last, less rational reason I wanted to visit Colorado was a personal one. Some of my favorite childhood memories take place in a little town I moved to when I was nine called Manitou Springs. It’s located about an hour south of Denver, right next to the better known Colorado Springs. Surprisingly, this area turned out to have just as much to offer as the Denver area did, with even more amazing natural rock formations to gape at, plus other great tourist destinations like the Pikes Peak Cog Railway, which is, for train buffs, the worlds highest cog railroad, as well as the highest train in the United States. It climbs up the 14,110-foot mountain called Pikes Peak, named after the first white man to ever climb it, who also has one of the coolest names ever, Zebulon Montgomery Pike. 

So if you ever find yourself with a hankering to get away from the tamer mountain ranges of California, and you can’t or don’t want to leave the United States, consider some alternatives stateside. From my experience alone I can tell that Colorado is a great choice for people with a passion for pristine natural beauty, trains, or rocks, as well as people who love rocking out in the middle of rocks.

I often mentally return to my room at Pembroke College, Cambridge, the third oldest college in the University of Cambridge system. I walk down the centuries-worn staircase and through the courtyards, taking in the beautiful architecture and feeling again that I wouldn’t rather be anywhere else in the world.

Along with about 150 other college students, most from the UC system, I took part in UC Irvine’s over-30-years-in-the-running Travel-Study program in Cambridge, England. While studying South African Literature and Shakespeare on Film, two of the most fascinating courses I have ever taken, I explored many places throughout the UK, made amazing friends, learned a lot about myself, and became broke by the end of it (thank you, USD). Still, I think this trip was life-changing and worth every penny. 

The first thing that struck me about Cambridge upon my arrival was its architecture. I had never been in a city that felt and looked so old. The narrow, cobble-stone streets were composed of one beautiful neo-Gothic building after the next, lined with small shops and punctuated, of course, with the occasional Starbucks (a Frappuccino cost about $6!). I had never seen anything like it. The grounds of the colleges were picturesque and the sights of Cambridge never became dull. 

Each week we had a formal dinner in a Harry Potter-esque hall, participated in activities with the T.A.’s (punting, museum visits, etc.) and took day trips to different parts of England including London, Bath, Stonehenge, and Stratford. My friends and I spent the last weekend in Wales, and many of our classmates went elsewhere in Europe.  

But prior to these explorations, we had hardly started classes before we took a five-day trip to Edinburgh, Scotland, checking out ruins on the way. 

I never imagined that I would travel to Scotland, but it was by far one of the best parts of the trip. We stayed at the University of Edinburgh and explored the city by day. We went on a “Sinners and Saints” tour of the old city, and it seemed like at every stop, our tour guide Neil informed us that we were standing at the execution site of some 16th century criminal. We ate lunch at the café where J.K. Rowling started writing the Harry Potter series on napkins, and the view of Edinburgh Castle from the table where she supposedly sat seemed like an undeniable inspiration for Hogwarts Castle. We hiked to the top of Arthur’s Seat and went to Rosslyn Chapel of “The Da Vinci Code,” and due to scaffolding, were able to get up close to the exterior levels. Those five days did not feel long enough for a place so full of history. 

One Saturday, after taking a walking tour of London, I stopped with some friends to eat sandwiches on the grass under Big Ben when I noticed a bunch of protestors having a tent city. I wondered what they were protesting so approached a group of them, and as soon as I opened my American mouth, a crazed looking man stared at me with wide eyes. He started telling me the wrongs of my country and then-president, but was glad that I agreed with many of his criticisms. And then he fell of his rocker when he said Bush and Obama “drink the blood of children.” I considered it metaphorically and he quickly assured me that he meant it literally, telling me of some forest where the elite feast on the blood of pre-pubescent youth (his words, not mine). “Follow the line of inquiry,” he kept repeating as I politely excused myself to return to our picnic. But I had hardly sat down before we began a mad dash to catch the ferry to Bankside, where we would later see “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” at the Globe. 

The highlight of the trip for me was without question seeing this play and two others. We saw both “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” and “King Lear” at Shakespeare’s Globe (a re-construction of the original Globe, the site of which was about 750 ft. away). I had studied Elizabethan theatres before, but standing in this reconstruction was an amazing experience unattainable from any PowerPoint slide I’d seen in lecture. Standing in the yard, I leaned my head back and took in the sky framed by the circular rim of the theatre. Before “King Lear” began, musicians came on stage and politely asked those seated to silence their cellular devices. They then barked at us groundlings to shut off our mobiles. The plays themselves were amazing, and combined with the experience of the Globe, they were totally unforgettable. A few weeks after seeing these plays, we saw the Royal Shakespeare Company’s “The Taming of The Shrew” in Stratford on Avon, the birthplace of Shakespeare. Although we didn’t get to explore the town, the phenomenal play and 30-minute Q&A with the director totally made up for it. The director told us about how “The Taming of the Shrew” could be either a misogynistic play, or a play about misogyny and his portrayed the latter. The play began as a comedy and ended in tragedy, changing in period along the way. It was the best play I had ever seen. 

Going abroad made me challenge myself in new ways. One evening for example, I had to travel alone to London to meet up with my 11-year-old cousin and his uncle for dinner. They happened to be in England for a few days on their way back from Finland. It wasn’t exactly a complicated journey, but I was terrified at the thought of traveling to London by myself in the evening. I made my plans and everything ran smoothly until I convinced myself that a certain train stop was London (it of course wasn’t, and it didn’t help that a man I asked assured me that it was London). As soon as I stupidly stepped off that train, my greatest anxiety about going abroad came true: I was lost and alone half way around the world. After a momentary freak out, I did some asking around and fortunately a kind woman informed me that I had picked a good stop to get lost at; another train bound for London swept through shortly after and I was only 10 minutes late. 

During my last day in Cambridge, the Pembroke College bartender spent a day showing some of us around town, shamelessly discrediting official tour guides we encountered along the way. Every street, alley and corner had so much history. While Cambridge seemed worlds away from Isla Vista, there are apparently some characteristics of a college town that are universal. Not unlike I.V., I could hear groups of loud, drunk students stumbling through the streets at 2 a.m. in search of some late-night greasy food, in this case, The Trailer of Life (which should be called The Trailer of Death judging by the menu).  

All of the events I have described do not begin to truly depict my experience in the UK. Seven months after returning to the U.S., I miss Cambridge every day. The freedom of leaving the stresses of my life at home to see new places and make new friends made every moment spectacular. I knew that this experience was once in a lifetime; that even if I went to England again I could never relive this experience. And so when I occasionally mentally return to random memories from my time in England, from something as breathtaking as feeling the wind blowing through my hair atop the Scott Monument overlooking Edinburgh, or as mundane as waiting in line to use the toilet at the Globe Theatre, I think in all of those moments, whether I thought of it consciously or not, I knew that those five weeks were magical and meaningful; that I was having the time of my life. When I run into people on campus who were also in the program, it is a refreshing validation that it was not a dream and that yes, it all really happened.

To be truthful, the only tangible image I was able to associate with Cambodia before my brother’s announcement was clothing. I knew nothing about the culture of Cambodia. The only real connection I had were some clothes whose labels read “MADE IN CAMBODIA.” So, I was anxious to see how my future sister-in-law’s family would accept my family and me. A marriage is not only a tie to the individual that you vow to support in life, but a union of two different families.

My first meeting with Narann and her family occurred the morning after my family’s arrival at midnight. I was still tired not only from the over 33-hour long journey to Phnom Pehn, but also the three-hour ride from the airport on the only paved road that was full of potholes and cracks to Kampong Cham. The drive felt like the Disneyland simulated ride, Star Tours, only without seat belts. Signal lights and street lights were nonexistent and our driver, Inn, was driving in the middle of the road. Every means of transportation could be seen from Narann’s house, which was located right by the main road. I saw an old, white ox pulling a large cart of goods followed by a small moto carrying a family of five with dozens of schoolchildren bicycling close behind. My family was treated to a wonderful home-cooked lunch outside. All of the food was delightfully fresh and flavorful. The chicken on the table had just been caught and prepared that morning and our mildly sweet coconuts, which were collected by Narann’s brother from a coconut tree behind the house, were just hacked open to drink when we sat down. Our conversation was tense at the beginning since only Narann and her mom knew some English and talking required the help of our translator, Mr. Bo. We found that the best icebreaker was good ole laughter; our families connected and joked over how much food my brother ate since Narann’s mom’s cooking was absolutely delicious. The rest of the meeting consisted of my family presenting gifts and Narann’s family showing us their property: the wooden house is lifted on large wooden poles to prevent flooding and is surrounded by abundant and lush tropical flora. A golden Buddhist temple can be seen peeking from the treetops and numerous ducks, chickens and pigs live on the property. This is all a far cry from the concrete-dominated world that I know as home.

As for the wedding, my brother did not even know all the details. There were many opportunities for surprises. My family and I were the only ones present for my brother’s side in addition to being the only ones from America, while my sister-in-law’s side consisted of over two hundred unknown soon-to-be relatives. I felt no real connection to my new extended family until I got my hair done. One of Narann’s cousins, who spoke wonderful English, along with one of the hired stylists styled my hair in to a beautiful curled bun with purple flowers. While watching and having my own hair styled, I experienced something special. I did not need to understand Khmer, the national language of Cambodia, to understand what was going on. I laughed with my family when Narann’s little niece ran wildly out of the bathtub still naked and slipped on the floor and when one of the cousins felt her butt was too big in her fitted Khmer costume, and I smiled with my family when I noticed the little girls trying on fake eyelashes while the elderly women chuckled in their seats. We were all sharing the same intimate and priceless experiences.

According to my new Cambodian relatives, the combined modern and Cambodian wedding lasted for a “short time,” from sunup to sundown, compared to the more traditional three or more days of celebration. There were various ceremonies and prayers that I did not understand, including one in which the groom and bride ceremoniously wash each other’s feet. Public displays of affection are taboo, so the traditional western kiss on the lips was not practiced. Narann and my brother had to change seven times in total into elaborate wedding costumes. Interestingly, the cake ceremony included the parents of both the bride and the groom. The worst part of the wedding was the excruciating wait for dinner. All of the immediate family had to wait for the guests to be greeted and eat before they could eat. I was actually dancing before I even got to eat which was unfortunate since I was later asked to dance while I was eating and then my food got taken away. But I could not pass dancing to bass-thumping techno music with a bunch of tanned Cambodian college boys.

The rest of my time in Cambodia consisted of exploration and adventure. I explored Angkor Wat, one of the Seven Wonders, and many other majestic, ancient ruins while keeping hydrated with questionable bottled water including one called “Oral.” I climbed to the top of Phnom Bakheng and witnessed one of Cambodia’s brilliant blood orange sunsets. I even stomached a fried locust and rode a 49-year-old Asian elephant in the capital’s park. I paid my respects to the thousands brutally murdered on The Killing Fields and shopped in the local markets, straying away from the commercial shopping centers. My roommate also wants me to add that I got downright attacked and peed on by a temple monkey in Kampong Cham.

As my family and I went through airport security, paying our ridiculous $125 “airport service fee” that the Cambodian government charged us, and walked to our gate, I could not help but remember what Narann’s mother said: “I hope to see you again, some day. You can come visit me, but I cannot visit you since I am poor, I cannot.” I was saddened by her words but felt she was humble in how truthfully she spoke. Most of the Cambodian people, with the exception of the corrupt officials and the like, are warm and generous people, which I hope to see again as well some day. I could not have asked for a better winter break. I may not have had a traditional Christmas this year, but what I did have were once-in-a-lifetime experiences and a new, loving family — things that can outlast any manmade object.

It’s architecture is one you may not come across any where else. The historic domes of the Red Square are enough to look and awe at. They originate from wooden churches that were later updated into brick and vibrant tilework. Their onion shaped domes create a dazzling color scheme of swirls and different patterns.

The Red Square itself was a medieval city guarded by walls. It is on a hill overlooking the Moscow River. The city of course grew outside of these walls; however, the seat of governement remains there to today. It is most famous for its military parades and celebrity scene of legendary concerts such as Pink Floyd and Paul McCartney. It is an ideal place to walk through, especially in the winter, when the snow has peacefully rested on all the buildings, and the contrast of the red brick and white snow is just breathtaking. I remember this because our school used to take us on many field trips during the year, and the Kremlin was one of them. We would also go to the outskirts of Moscow where we would take Troika rides on horses, a carriage ride drawn by three horses, and sip tea at a local hotel made of all wooden logs where the owners would share fascinating stories of their region.  

The experiences we shared being in a country so rich with culture and history is one we cannot compare with any other. As winter approached, and temperatures dropped to below 30 degrees Celcius, the school would prepare the ice rink. Yes, we had an ice rink on campus, set up outside, so when P.E. time came, we wouldn’t do the usual basketball game or learn volleyball; we learned ice skating and ice hockey. I remember I tortured my parents to get me ice skates for the next day so I could keep up with the rest of the class. My dad managed to drop off the skates 10 minutes before we went outside. As soon as I stepped onto the ice, I slipped instantly and landed on my bottom, which led me to the nurses office to examine the bruise. The next day, my attempts to stay on the ice were successful and learning ice skating became the most joyous thing for everyone. In a couple of weeks, my third grade class of squirming nine-year-olds was tearing up the ice in a very intense game of ice hockey.  

The teachers and faculty at the school were just as amazing to be with. During our poses for photos on trips, instead of the word “cheese” for a picture, they would tell us to say, “Vodka!” Looking back at it now, all we can say is wow… amazing. All the experiences and memories that we left with are life-long. They create a sense of home in a foreign country you shared a part of your life with. The friendship I got out of it was well… I’m rooming with her now, so you can make the judgement. Those two years in third and fourth grade are unforgettable, and they keep me attached to the wonderful city and school I commit to visiting every year. 

Participants of the Folsom Street Fair have celebrated and championed their right to escape conformity and spice up their lives for over a decade. A painfully hedonistic event, the Fair fills San Francisco’s streets with more whips, cuffs and leather than you can shake a fist at. In fact, the bondage/sadomasochism street fair was one of the most interesting events I’ve ever attended. 

I quickly realized I had dressed conservatively in pants, a tank top, and high-heeled boots. As I approached the event, a forty-something gay couple sidled up waiting for the crosswalk. I couldn’t help but smile to myself at their intriguing combination of assless chaps and pleasant conversation.

As I paid and entered the parade, I found myself in a wonderland of kinky sex. A quarter of the men there wore kinky outfits, including leather, harnesses, and even gags. A scattering of women wore corsets, nipple clamps, or handcuffs. I even saw several men completely naked except for leather cock rings. 

Walking among the crowd of normally-and kinkily-clad attendants, I realized that this event represents of the sort of acceptance that should be going on every day outside of Folsom. It gave me hope that one day, individuals who are queer or kinky or swingers or enjoy any sort of relationship other than the ideal heterosexual norm will just become an everyday, accepted part of society without having to conform.

I felt part of a rebellion of sorts, a challenge against passively accepting the vanilla. I also felt like a sexual orientation minority, as I was greatly outnumbered by men loving men. I was ignored by booths advertising gay gyms and bathhouses, and I found only one shop that even carried vibrators or dildos. The rest were filled with kinky torture implements — cuffs, cock rings, harnesses, etc. — all made for men. I felt slightly excluded, yet appreciated the chance to feel that opposite side of the fence. Experiencing a taste of it for myself has made me more determined to support queer rights wherever and whenever I can. 

As I walked down the street I passed the charity spanking booth, donated money, and prepared to be dominated. But too uncomfortable to be flogged in front a group of strangers, even for charity, I admit I chickened out.

Further down I saw confidential HIV testing, a reminder that all activities have their risks. After a while, all the shops began to mesh together in my mind, and even the novelty of assless chaps and men making out in the street seemed to lose its appeal. I smirked at the thought of a kinky sex fair getting boring, and decided I had seen enough.

Looking back, I feel proud to have been part of an event that embraced the different, the minority, and the unusual. And I vow to do that a little more in everyday life. 

The Cairo airport is huge, which means a lot coming from a frequent flyer, and a little overwhelming with all the foreign languages plastered all over the walls, confusing the hell out of me. We quickly gathered our luggage and headed out the doors to a road full of awaiting taxi drivers. 

The first stop on our journey was the Great Pyramids. After watching NatGeo and seeing pictures of the pyramids, I had pretty high expectations, which were met immediately. In the midst of a small market with an Egyptian man trying to sell us some sketchy bottled water for a buck, the pyramids loomed grandiosely over the hustle and bustle. Of course they were eroded and chipped, but the beauty of their structure was undeniable. The inside was even more unbelievable. Before I say anything about the inside, let me just add that Egyptians must have been ridiculously skinny in order to fit through those hallways. And if you thought the heat and musky smell you experience in IV Theater is bad, try walking through the corridors of a structure with no windows, full of mummified corpses. Yes, who am I to be complaining? I was in an Egyptian pyramid, surrounded by bodies that have been preserved for thousands of years. Even with the lack of oxygen and adequate light, the architectural setup of the Giza was remarkable. Who knew that without cranes and caterpillars, humans could build such an exquisite structure? I wasn’t lucky enough to see any actual tombs, but being able to walk through the halls and corridors of buildings built way before the birth of “modern technology” was an experience that will be ingrained forever in my memory. 

After seeing the Great Pyramids and being bombarded by locals selling knickknacks, my family and I made our way to the Nile River.    We arrived at this enormous cruise ship appropriately named The Ritz. The ship reminded me vaguely of some mediocre imitation of the Titanic, but it was spacious enough for me to run around on, which suited my needs. It was a week long excursion down the Nile, which consisted of constant Kodak moments and hopes of seeing a crocodile attack some small naive creature. The first few days of the trip were extremely uneventful, but then I met Ahmed. To my knowledge, he was the same age as me, but he spoke not a word of English, and the only words I knew in Egyptian were “la” which meant “no” and “imshi” which translated to “go away.” Despite the language barrier, we bonded; we played cards, chess, and chased each other around the edge of the ship, while my brother was too busy fretting about accidentally dropping one of his shoes in the Nile. I did learn one last Egyptian word from Ahmed before exiting the ship and making my way back to the U.S., which was “habibi” or “sweetheart.” 

Years later I visited the beautiful Paris, France, but the romantic atmosphere in the air hardly compared to the picturesque feeling gliding down the Nile next to my Egyptian fling. 

I’m not going to lie, I had a multitude of bizarre encounters that just don’t happen at home. This will give you an idea: I demonstrated the health benefits of termite consumption in the rainforest, karate-chopped a few men in the streets of Istanbul, and eventually woke up in front of a gay bar named the Ramrod in Mykonos. Yet if we whittle it down to what truly matters, my experiences in Costa Rica, Turkey, and Greece can be symbolized by three unexpected, yet glorious words: grow, observe, and seduction.

Let us begin with Costa Rica. For 10 weeks, I was a paid intern on a bio-dynamic and organic farm in the area of La Fortuna. The farm, Luna Nueva, is better described as an herbal estate; it encompasses over 200 acres of ginger and turmeric, more than five gardens, and, oh yeah, a five-star eco-lodge and pool. I guess you could say that Luna was a far cry from “roughing it.” I became the princess of Luna Nueva, performing the duties of an agro-tourist coordinator. My daily activities consisted of making hotel reservations, guiding tours through the rainforest and gardens, and creating artistic designs and labels for the hotel. If this doesn’t already sound unbelievable, I also got to drive a golf cart. With my love for ethnobotany, organic food, and the color green, I was the poster child for bliss. On the tours I led, we discussed endangered medicinal plants, the composition of natural fertilizer, and the symbiotic relationship between sloths and algae. By staying with a gentle Tico family that worked on the farm, I received the full immersion experience. And the food… it was pure decadence. Cooked with traditional Tico recipes from ingredients in the biodynamic gardens, the meals were the healthiest and most vibrant I’ve ever had in my life. And did I mention I almost died watching an active volcano erupt with four outlandish Columbians? I also witnessed a toucan get murdered by an opossum, fended off a massive army ant invasion, ate berries that transformed sour tastes into sweetness, and yes, ate copious amounts of jungle termites. My one word for Costa Rica is grow. Growth is the only rule that the cycle of plants, humans, and all of existence truly follow. 

Leaving straight from my precious farm reality, to the jarring lights and sounds of Istanbul was intense, to say the least. In Istanbul, I met up with a few school friends and we sampled the spice bazaars, ancient mosques, and the nightclub scene with vigor. Our ultimate Turkish destination, however, was the small town of Seljuk, where we attended one of UCSB’s Summer Travel Study sessions. I felt lucky because one of my favorite professors was not only our translator and professional tour guide, but became an epic buddy. We trekked though the Roman city of Ephesus, which stands as one of the seven ancient wonders of the world. Unlike Costa Rica, I found the Turkish vegetarian scene to be a struggle. For instance, my friends and I had quite the debacle at our favorite fruit stand one day. The owner, an old woman with crow-eyes as deeply flowing as the Aegean waters, expressed her gratitude by pressing homemade meatballs into our hands. We were convinced the dubious-looking meat was about to sprout furry legs and jump out of our palms, so we chucked them over our backs when she wasn’t looking. We then pretended to rub our bellies, filled with content. To add to our guilt, her toothless grin was as warm as sunshine. This country, which appeared so peculiar when filtered through my western bias, taught me to take a step back and simply observe. That was my word for Turkey. I observed its history, I observed a Muslim culture, and I observed the game of life with a different set of rules. 

Now Greece was an entire 180 from Turkey. My friend and I went to the Greek island of Mykonos, which is renowned for its happening gay scene, upscale beach bars, and international debauchery. We were gifted easily 200 euros worth of alcohol, catnapped on Grecian beaches, and were verbally admired by men, women, and oddball couples at the corner of every white wall we passed. The characters on that island… there were so many instances of insanity that I still scratch my head to this day and say, “What the fuck was that?” One short encounter that continues to conjure chortling should be called “An Ode to Mozzarella.” My friend and I had just finished a late seafood dinner and were invited to join two men for a shot of liqueur. A bit wary, we acquiesced to the free booze, but were soon pleasantly surprised by our new friends. The men were two Italians on vacation, introducing themselves like so, “I am Marcelo and he is Alfonso. We are from Napoli and we own a mozzarella factory!” Now imagine that in an over-the-top Italian accent, with hand gestures and all. The rest of our conversation with them involved a discussion of feta versus mozzarella (of course the mozzarella won out), a toast to mozzarella, and when we told them we had to leave, they offered to give us a ride in their mozzarella mobile. The rest of the night we avoided getting molested by a Dr. Evil millionaire look-alike and his gold-digger girlfriend from New York. In a nutshell, Mykonos was seduction. Sensuality is the beautiful acceptance of human nature and form. To realize its manifestation in myself through movement, energy, and social exchange, I allowed a whole new layer of richness to enter my life. 

So that is it. Grow. Observe. Seduce — written chronologically, not in order of importance. These travels, as cliché as it sounds, have changed my life. Speaking now with these three new words in my expanded life vocabulary, I challenge all readers to add a new word to their repertoire as well: Go. Go travel, go live, go with love. 

I have heard plenty of last minute travel tales and always wanted to try the last minute.com ploy — book your flights the night before take off and figure out the rest when you get there. So that was our plan this summer, to make no plans. To me it was the epitome of spontaneity, which is one of the main causes, I believe, of that thing we call the travel bug — the thrill of the unknown, escape from routine, routine, routine. 

My best mate and I had three weeks to play with, left open intentionally for some adventure to appear before us. After a weekend of wreaking havoc on the streets of San Francisco and in our bank accounts, we realized we had to get out of America or at least the city. We had our hearts set on escaping the western world somehow, yearning for a culture shock of some kind. The most obvious place was to ride share down to Mexico’s border but earlier on in the summer I’d heard about cheap return flights to Guatemala. They were about half the price than the ones I’d looked at to Mexico City, which didn’t make sense seeing as its further away, but relating best to the nonsensical circumstances of this world we checked it out. Even better, if there was no demand to travel there it implied drama of some sort, therefore we wanted to go. 

But I’m not going to lie, this time spon-travel-aiety definitely had its costs. 

Number one rule, the idea that cheap deals exist the night before is a myth, which I naively still dreamed of being possible. 

Number two, in my experience, lastminute.com does not have any good last minute deals, which I thought was the whole point. 

Number three, the cheapest ticket out of all considered options is always the cheapest for a good reason; it is very indirect, which infers it is going to take at least double the amount of time because half the time you are going in the wrong direction. (A good example of the messed up priorities we all have: where the planet’s limited resources are more disposable than people’s time. I mean here I am moaning about having to go out of my way even though it was cheaper!) 

Our flight was still not cheap but the cheapest by a speck because we soon realized, just after the no going back ‘BOOK’ button had finally been pressed, that Hurricane Edouard was right in our path of flight! 

“Its all your fault,” I blamed my friend. “Just because you wanted to fly over hill billy country and see if you could spy on cowboys making out.” 

We had chosen to fly via Bush Inter-continental Airport, Houston since the other alternative was via North Carolina, which was north as well as east when all we wanted to do was go south. We were basically traveling two sides of a triangle instead of one, which inevitably involves a stop over somewhere no one would ever travel otherwise. 

After spending hours sifting our way through the unfathomable depths of the internet, the dream of just booking a flight and instantly setting off, gradually became a nightmare. The typical hassles of traveling abroad began to reveal themselves with questions that were essential to be answered before we left. Did we have travel health insurance? What were the visa requirements? Did we need malaria pills or vaccinations? What were the flight details and luggage weight limits? What was the weather report? It was monsoon season. 

By dawn the following day, the prospect of lugging our bags across San Fran on the BART to the airport certainly deflated any remaining thrill in the wild spontaneity of it all. There was none of the usual nervous giddiness when you wake up in the dark hours of the morning and sneak off before the day begins, as we didn’t even get a chance to sleep.  

Once we made it safely through passport control, changed our money into Quetzal, bought a Spanish phrase book, and grabbed more coffee (it was pushing it to justify getting a beer at 9:00 a.m.) there was a little catch up time, but it was more like disbelief and shock at just having been “randomly searched”  if you can call it that, as they did it to us again on the next flight. Being criminally shoved in an air jet stream where they suddenly shoot air at you in all directions, sounding like its letting off some deadly gas, definitely helped to wake me up to the situation we had gotten ourselves in to. 

But my first real trepidation about our choice of destination was not so much the fact my friend and I had no knowledge of the Spanish language between us, or that I realized I’d lost my departure form somewhere in between check in and the gate (the authorities had no problem letting me board anyway, but kindly warned me they might not feel the same on the other end) but the sudden realization we were on a flight with not just one, but at least two different New Age, born-again Christian, “Jesus Kicks Ass” missionary groups. (One way to get some insight to the place you are traveling to is to pay attention to the kind of people going there.) 

“At least we will have a safe flight,” I encouraged my friend who, besides the fact we were headed straight towards a Hurricane, is petrified of flying. Whilst she prayed we weren’t going to plummet to earth, I prayed they wouldn’t start singing. 

Looking back, it was quite befitting of the slightly kookie, but also wondrous spiritual journey we weren’t aware we were about to embark on, and 24 hours later when we landed in Guatemala City, we definitely received the full blown culture shock we had hoped for. 

(to be continued…)