Ziegler Travel Diaries Archives | Maven Nomad Travel Diaries

Category: Ziegler Travel Diaries

April 6, 2020

You Are Now Entering Coronaland

Since the last time I wrote, the world has changed dramatically in ways I am not even entirely clear on yet. COVID-19 has snuck into our lives… smashing daily routines. Separating families/friends/coworkers. Attacking the most vulnerable. Filling people with fear. Life has come to a standstill. Comparisons to great acts of war or legendary plagues are bandied about pretty often. World War II. 9/11. Black Death. Flu of 1918. The economic impact alone will likely eclipse any recession in my lifetime. In some way, the virus will likely touch every human on the planet.

It’s been approximately 19 days since life ground to a halt for me personally. (And maybe a handful more since I first panicked that the virus might be a game-changer after an especially terrifying and confusing Oval Office speech from 45).

On March 17, I was living in a cute little poolside hotel room in Koh Tao, two hours from the mainland of Thailand. I was about to embark on three days of dive training. Remote Year had just cancelled our transition to Japan, which I had begrudgingly decided I would join a few days before. Even though international travel was being greatly discouraged (and it seemed like an optics nightmare), Remote Year seemed confident that Kyoto would be safe and most likely pretty relaxed since there were no major outbreaks of the virus there and most of the tourists had gone home.

But that Tuesday, Remote Year put all transitions for all groups on hold. They assured us they would continue to provide housing in the cities we were in and support from city teams until it was safe to travel to our next destinations. (All of that would fall apart even more in the next few days as they advised us to get somewhere we felt safe and the pandemic picked up steam).

My travel sister Ashley (who got an honorable mention in the Brač biking debacle post) had joined me in Koh Tao for dive training. After the Remote Year announcement, we stayed up late talking – the only patrons at a tiny poolside bar three hotels down the path from our room, discussing our options since travel to Japan was cancelled and people were starting to panic and fly home. Should we stay in Koh Tao? Get back to Koh Samui where a group of our remote friends were posted up? Make our way to Krabi, near Phuket? Maybe it would be smarter to be in a relatively urban place with international airports and world-class hospitals? We both felt safe on this tiny island of a couple thousand people, where no cases had been reported and life seemed to be humming along as usual, if not a little quiet. But what if the ferries cut off the islands? What if we got sick here where there would be very few health care options? What if the airlines stopped making international flights at all and we couldn’t get home? We finally decided we needed to sleep, and would continue with SCUBA training in the morning. We made no major decisions.

But I didn’t sleep that night. I spent it Facetiming with my California family, chatting with Sabra and Andrea while they hiked, weighing my options, waffling between panic and resolution in my room, and basically being kind of a nut. I cancelled all my work meetings, and called probably a half dozen friends to ask what I should do. No one seemed especially concerned about the US yet. And no one said I should absolutely come home… In fact, most people didn’t seem that worried at all.

Ashley emerged from her room around 8 a.m. pretty convinced that soon there would be no way to return to the U.S. because airports would close and flights would likely be cancelled. She had made the decision to leave the next morning, and planned to travel through three international airports before touching down at home in Denver — which seemed like an epic odyssey to me, but was also where I would be heading if I were to leave. I called my sister AGAIN, who assured me that international air travel would never just end, and even if the airports did close temporarily, they would eventually reopen. She also said I sounded pretty unhinged and likely needed to sleep.

“Um – have you slept yet?”

“You mean like — today?”

I begrudgingly passed out for a few hours.

When I woke up that afternoon, I decided I wouldn’t leave because I was afraid. I had leaned into every experience this year that had scared me, and this would not be different. I went to the staff at the dive school to confirm that I was going to actually start my PADI certification the next day — this time at least mildly rested.

Ashley knocked on my door and hugged me goodbye at 6 a.m. the next morning, both of us welling with tears, probably because neither of us were sure we were making the right decision. After she departed, I awoke in the late morning, alone on a tiny island in the Gulf of Thailand. I’d worked most of the night shift, trying to pretend everything was normal, but worrying occasionally about the health of my parents and siblings, the ongoing stress on my sister, and whether I could live with what felt was a mildly selfish decision to stay on a beach island in Thailand during a global pandemic instead of trying to get home. I just couldn’t stomach returning to the US where I have no healthcare, no real home of my own, and it’s still snowing.

Carin, another one of my travel sisters, showed up during these first uncertain days in Koh Tao, in need of some dive time. At 150-ish logged dives, she finds it comforting. She was a flurry of energy (and a bit of anxiety), and we circled endlessly about what we should do. We rehashed some of the same conversations I’d had with Ashley – should we stay? Should we go someplace else? Was this tiny 8-square-mile island a safe place to wait out a virus shitstorm?

In the end, we decided to stay together and get a house in Koh Tao. We had made a few connections in the diving community, and for some asinine reason, we were convinced the dive shops would likely re-open in a few days when the virus scare blew over, so we would have something to occupy our time. (This is not something that would actually happen until late May).

But if Carin hadn’t stayed, I am not sure I would have stayed, either. I got PADI certified over the weekend and spent most of the next three days trying to manage our collective anxiety while she found us a house to rent for the month. Moving back to Samui, traveling to Krabi, all of those plans went out the window.

After my dive course finished, I made a pain-in-the-ass flight up to Bangkok to get the rest of our luggage, and then turned around and came back the next day. Because we had planned on meeting back up with our group on the way to Japan, we had only brought a handful of our things for a week or so on the islands, leaving the majority of our shit in a friend’s apartment in Bangkok. I barely made it back to Koh Tao before they shut down the daily ferry service. For 14 days after I returned, I had to check in with my landlord everyday for a temperature check and symptom assessment.

Every day in Thailand, there’s an English update on the situation here that they broadcast across social media. It’s grim, but focused. This many new cases in these locations. This many deaths. We worry about what to do when our visas run out. But although bars and restaurants are closed and the famous Koh Tao walking path is deserted, we feel safe and people are calm here.

I’ve tried to stop doomscrolling my social feeds every morning, but find it hard to disconnect from the situation back in the U.S. where almost every human I love lives. There are worse headlines from the U.S. every day. The White House is now predicting 100,000 to 240,000 deaths (And who can tell how accurate that is and wtf is with the massive 140,000 person spread in the range?). Hospitals are stretched thin — too many patients in need of ventilators. Schools and businesses are closed across the board. No one can leave the house. New York City is a virus warzone. Everyone who is able to is working from home. Getting groceries is an exercise in disinfection. For the first time, the CDC has recommended that everyone wear masks, something we’ve been doing in Asia for months, but has likely caused even more anxiety for a lot of people who aren’t used to seeing people in masks walking down the street.

And 19 days later, Carin and I are still here on Koh Tao. We’re both healthy, despite my ill-advised Bangkok run. There are no cases of the virus on the island.

We manage one problem at a time — fixing our visas, getting groceries, finding strong internet, renting scooters, setting goals for yoga or writing or working out. We get delivery food and work on our thatched-roof patio. We go snorkeling when we’re feeling stir crazy. Laze in the pool when our anxiety is low. I have video chats with my family most nights when I’m working, and I just billed the biggest month ever for Drizzle Digital. I know I am lucky and privileged as fuck to be spending this time overlooking palm trees and sand on Sairee Beach.

We can no longer leave the island. Ashley’s predictions have largely proved true. If we leave the island for any reason and try to get back on, you need to have evidence of a home, a work permit, a letter of good health and a reason to be here. Thailand has also shut most of the airports down until the end of April, so it would be tough to get back to the US if we wanted to. We are ostensibly trapped, but it doesn’t matter because we have no intention of leaving until borders are open and it’s relatively safe to travel again.

Everyday I wonder what the end of Coronaland looks like. Do we just go on to the next country? Pick up with the other Ramses remotes in South America? Go back to the US? Will Remote Year even survive this? Our visas look like they will hold out for the long haul since the Thai government has graciously offered 30-day visa extensions until this is over.

But how long will that be?

February 15, 2020

Leaning into the Hanoi Chaos

“This is mayhem,” I thought to myself as our bus inched through Hanoi traffic.

My first impression of Vietnam? People can get real creative with scooter transportation. I had a window seat in the van and I couldn’t help it… I was straight-up gawking at what people were fitting on their motorbikes — giant loads of produce, boxes packed up over driver’s heads, full-size peach blossom trees for Tet celebrations, and in a few cases, a family of four.

Houses of Hanoi

Hanoi Street Views

We had just landed in our first country in Asia, and the sky was tinged yellow-gray. Small fires burned on the side of the road along flooded rice paddies near the airport. Tall, precariously thin buildings lined the roadside as we got closer to the Old Quarter in the city. There was a smokey smell to the air and people on scooters were everywhere — sliding along the van in our lane, driving up onto the sidewalks, some wearing helmets, some not, and a handful driving against traffic in the wrong lane. A few drivers kindly waved and smiled at me through the van window. (Gawking acknowledged. Nice, Dree. You’re a real sophisticated world traveler.) There seemed to be no rhyme or reason as to when or how the traffic flowed. As we made the 45-minute drive to our apartment, I started to feel a bit overwhelmed. My feelings weren’t exactly assuaged by our first walk through the neighborhood. After dropping off our luggage, we went to find the workspace and grab some food. Crossing the street was an act of faith — you just had to start walking and the scooters would flood around you like you are a stone in a stream. Cafes filled the sidewalk to the curb, tiny stools and tables with people talking, laughing, slurping noodles. Motorbike repair shops spilled out of storefronts to the street, paint fumes and greasy parts and pneumatic drills in use, mixing with the sound of honking from the road. Knots of electrical wire cascaded from pole to pole along the building facades. We dodged several small fires on the curb, stepping out into the street where I was pretty sure I was going to be smoked by – you guessed it – A scooter.

Before I get too far with this description of my first day in the city and you, dear Reader, start to visualize Vietnam as a fiery, scooter-infested hellscape, I want to be clear that my experience in Vietnam was incredible and lovely and somewhat transformative (although I think “transformative” is kind of a douchey word. But it’s probably accurate). I just wasn’t hadn’t done nearly enough to prepare myself, and was thus surprised. In retrospect, what I think I was feeling was culture shock.

cul·ture shock /ˈkəlCHər ˌSHäk/ noun The feeling of disorientation experienced by someone who is suddenly subjected to an unfamiliar culture, way of life, or set of attitudes.

So what do you do when you’re feeling paralyzed with anxiety just thinking about crossing the street in a new city? You lean into it. Or at least that’s how I decided to handle it. You cross the street repeatedly. You sit on the tiny stools and awkwardly load noodles into your face with chopsticks. You ask why people burn papers on the curb, and discover they are honoring their ancestors. You start to enjoy the novelty of a wet bathroom with no real shower stall. You learn. You get uncomfortable. You make mistakes. And eventually, you start to feel mildly embarrassed that you were ever distressed in the first place.

I say all this now in hindsight. In that moment, I wasn’t even sure how to start… so I grabbed a Hanoi bingo sheet from the workspace — a silly game we play in each city where we eat local foods, visit a few must-see locations, and generally get to know the place we’re in by checking boxes on a bingo sheet. I haven’t played in any of the cities we visited previously, but it seemed somehow necessary to start tackling a tangible list of foods and experiences. A few girlfriends took on the challenge with me, and we decided to try an easy one: egg coffee — A delicious Vietnamese drink that uses a whisked egg substitute for condensed milk (invented due to a shortage of fresh milk during the French War). The coffee shop we chose was hipster-esque, with tons of people posted up working on laptops… This is a space I knew and understood and I felt myself starting to relax.

Egg Coffee

Getting comfortable on a tiny stool.

Desert

We kept going and walked around the lake and crossed more streets. We trekked through the Old Quarter to try a dessert called chè and coconut coffee. We huddled into the back of a tiny cafe together, where we ordered bùn riêu (crab and pork noodles) sitting on six-inch stools and started piling unfamiliar table spices into our soups. And that was it for me… Those noodles played the first notes of a love song that I would hear all month long in Hanoi. It was something I could hold on to. When my friends and family back home would call, most of the time I would respond, “I’m on a noodle hunt.” Because I likely would be. Give me a tiny stool, a Hanoi beer, and a steaming bowl of noodles on a table made to fit a 4-year-old… and I am the happiest.

Give me a tiny stool, a Hanoi beer, and a steaming bowl of noodles on a table made to fit a 4-year-old… and I am the happiest.

We tried a few other things that day on the Hanoi bingo, but this was the real turning point for me. My anxiety eased considerably after that. And I found that once you start leaning in, you just keep going. You start buying fruits you don’t recognize from the produce stand, just to taste them. You commute on the back of a stranger’s motorbike. You work on the few words you know and try them with street vendors. You eat the chicken hearts from the meat case. You start seeing the beauty you missed when you were too busy worrying that you might never adapt to the chaos.

January 25, 2020

Let’s Talk about Periods

In some rural and semi-urban areas of South Africa, many women and girls face hardships during their periods.

Access to sanitary products can be very limited, or prohibitively expensive. They may face discrimination and stigma during their periods. And some do not have the educational resources to inform them about safe, sanitary hygiene practices.

According to Stellenbosch University Law Clinic, 30 percent of girls in South Africa do not attend school when they are menstruating, because they cannot afford sanitary products.

Up to 30 percent of girls in South Africa do not attend school when they are menstruating, because they cannot afford sanitary products.

Stellenbosch University Law Clinic

In mid-January, I found myself jammed into the back of an Uber with four other lady remotes on a day trip to one of the townships on the outskirts of the city. We would be hosting a period workshop in Philippi Township with some young ladies between the ages of 11 and 20. Our goal was to give the girls a safe space to talk about their experiences, and introduce some options for managing their periods with dignity. We’d also crammed 30 pink period comfort kits for the girls in the back of the car, each with a pack of pads, soap, washcloth, a pen and journal, and a few other essentials we hoped teenage girls would enjoy.

I envisioned this event happening in a clinic setting of some kind – mostly because we’d facilitated it through the Philippi Clinic – and that’s where we were headed.

But upon arriving, our plans quickly shifted. We would not be holding the event in the clinic, but walked a few blocks away from the clinic to a tiny church nestled in between shacks. And not just 30 girls, but more like 50 young ladies waited for us, seated in rows, chatting and full of energy. There wouldn’t be room for small group discussions or breaking up to to play games — there were just too many girls and not enough space.

At this point, I should introduce Nomfundo Eland, the facilitator of this event and the founder of Emthonjeni Counselling & Training. Nomfundo has done a ton of great work in women’s health, working to educate women in Cape Town on everything from HIV and AIDS to sexual violence. Google her. She’s doing really rad things in South Africa, and I was so delighted to meet her.

We decided to form a panel at the front of the church and did our best to make the girls feel comfortable as a group discussing their periods, each of us offering up some of our own experiences and encouraging the girls to ask questions. Nomfundo translated in Xhosa occasionally as we explained that having a period is a normal, healthy part of being a woman.

Philippi Township Period Panel

Learning about Reusable Pads

Periods5

We talked about common health issues, and what to look out for, and we introduced a few tools to manage their periods in a hygienic way – disposable pads, tampons, the menstrual cup, and reusable pads.

And I kid you not, these girls burst into applause when we introduced the reusable pads.

We had only brought five reusable pads in a single pack to give away as a raffle at the end of the workshop, but they had been too expensive to buy for all of the girls, so we couldn’t offer all of them this solution. And based on their reaction, this seemed really unfortunate.

The Period Crew

As we packed up and headed back to the clinic, I felt very moved to get all of these girls the reusable pads they wanted. If this was the solution they thought best fit their lifestyle, we had the means and support to get it for them. On the ride home, we agreed that we should do a fundraiser for reusable pads, since they were so obviously excited by the idea. We could tap into our Ramses family for funds, and share with our networks back home to get additional support.

We kicked off a GoFundMe a few days later with what I thought was a very achievable goal of $750, which would get us enough pads for the enthusiastic group at the church. But by the next day, we had blown through our goal with just a few friends donating and sharing the fundraiser. We upped our goal to $1500, and asked for more.

The Fundraiser

I started researching where we should purchase the pads from. Buying locally, so we could support a South African business with our funds, seemed like a win-win. I wasn’t able to find something in the immediate area of Cape Town, but did find Palesa Reusable Pads, a company in Johannesburg that employed South African women. Their mission aligned with what we hoped to do in the township — de-stigmatize periods for women and provide them with a cost-effective tool for managing it hygienically and without shame.

In the course of about a week, we raised more than $2,000 on our GoFundMe page — A sum that would support not only our initial group of 50 women and girls that attended the period workshop, but far more women in their community. Our family and friend networks in the U.S. really stepped up, with more than 40 people supporting our campaign online. Palesa Pads gave us the wholesale price for the pads and we ordered almost 1,000 pads of different sizes.

The Period Packs have arrived!

Our work with Nomfundo and the Emthonjeni organization has not paused, even though we’ve moved on to the next country. A few of us have continued to work with her, planning writing workshops, day camps, and helping her build a new website remotely while recruiting the next round of Remote Year volunteers rolling through Cape Town.

December 16, 2019

Mi Español es mierda.

When I arrived in Spain, I had high hopes for communication in the official language of the country for the first time since departing the United States. Unlike in Croatia, where there was pretty much zero chance of communication in anything other than English (Slavic languages are real hard), and Portugal, where I mastered the art of “obrigada” (and that was pretty much it), I did study Spanish in my youth. And not exactly an insignificant amount. I took at least two semesters of high school Spanish, followed up with some intermediate classes in college and even took a Spanish literature classes (In retrospect, I am not sure I actually finished that class). With all that study under my belt, I was wildly hopeful that I wouldn’t come across as an asshole American at every encounter with a barista.

Unfortunately, I figured out pretty quickly (like on day 1) that my Spanish was more than a smidge rusty. For the first few days, I worked on just remembering the appropriate hellos – Buenos días, buenas noches, buenas tardes – But the correct version of buenos tripped me up repeatedly, and I found myself grappling with conjugations for verbs. (Should I say “Quiero” first when I order? Is that right?? Is it buenas? Buenos? If I say the wrong one, will sound like a douche? Am I likely to sound like a douche regardless? Probably.)

I continued to brush up a bit with some internet study and a lil Duolingo, and then attempted to practice what I’d learned on unsuspecting grocery store clerks and restaurant waitstaff. And every time, the scene would go something like this…

Enter the cafe/shop/pizzaria. I am full of enthusiasm and determination to give my Spanish another go.

“¡Hola! ¡Buenos días! ¿Cómo estás?!” I would chirp. All smiles. All enthusiasm. This is going great. I’m doing the thing!

And they would respond in kind, asking me what I’d like to order. Everyone’s still on the same page. And then I would place my carefully practiced coffee order in Spanish in a properly-conjugated sentence. Work your accent, work your accent….

“¿Puedo tener un Americano por favor?”

And that right there – THAT is the moment where I have effectively fooled this person into believing I am capable of complex communication in their language.

I’m still in the middle of congratulating myself for my coffee order, and this individual immediately machine-guns me with something in Spanish that I am totally unprepared for. I’m sure these are not hard sentences. They are likely questions like — Do you want milk? Or Would you like that for take-away? Or in one instance, I’m sorry, but we’re closed now.

But it doesn’t matter. Those are sentences in Spanish I am woefully unprepared for. Enthusiasm vanishes.

So I panic… And I stare at them, slack-jawed, silently.

My face basically says Buffering… Buffering.

I know some of the words they’ve volleyed at me, but they are not close enough to the surface, so I’m searching the database in my mind. Leche? Hielo? Cerrado? I know these words!! BUT WHAT DO THEY MEAN?!

And after an uncomfortable amount of time, this poor clerk who’s watching me melt down in silence offers me an out.

“English?” they ask with sympathetic eyes. I nod and give them a wide, toothy smile of apology. Because I’m embarrassed and my face is starting to get hot and I desperately want out of this now. Then the barista/clerk/shop owner proceeds to perform the entire transaction in perfect English without any hesitation or flaws in grammar.

In many other countries, people routinely speak two languages, and many times – more than two. In Spain, your bartender, bus driver and cashier all probably speak two languages. This was true in Croatia and Portugal, and I guarantee it will be true in a lot more countries I visit this year. I recognize that I’m benefitting from that reality, but honestly, it doesn’t feel very good to me. And considering how much time I’ve spent over the course of my life trying to learn this particular language, now that I’m here, it feels like a pretty major failure on my part. I never presumed that the rest of the world would just know English. I thought we might struggle along together to do these little daily transactions — buying food and coffee and beers — by pointing and smiling and the occasional assistance from the Google Translate app.

But many people do know English, and although I’m grateful that they can meet me where I am with English, I’m disappointed that I cannot do the same for them in their language, particularly in Spanish because I’ve spent time in my life studying to be able to do just that. And I can’t.

So after struggling through several of these interactions, I decided to rectify the situation — as much as I could in a short period of time. I might not be able to learn the language of every country I visit, but with Spanish, some of the words are already there — just swimming around in the deep recesses of my high school mind.

I signed up for eight 2-hour classes during my month in Spain with the Hispania Escuela de Español in Valencia (10/10. Would recommend.) and joined a class of folks from all over the world all trying to understand Spanish and struggling like I was. I was heartened by my new classmates from Japan, Ireland, China, Uzbekistan and other corners of the globe — all buffering along with me. The teacher spoke entirely in Spanish in these classes. The more time I spent there listening to him, the more I understood. I even started to respond in un-practiced half-sentences. Sometimes.

I’m heading to Michigan for the holidays, and then South Africa for the New Year. But I’m hoping to continue studying on my own and get a tutor to work with me over the coming months. The back half of our trip takes us through Chile, Peru, Colombia and Mexico. It would be really nice to leave the slack-jawed American tourist behind, and meet my barista’s machine-gun Spanish with a sentence or two in response.

December 1, 2019

Where’d You Go, Portugal?

I’ve been living and working in Lisbon, Portugal for the last month. And the subheadline here is that I’ve basically written nothing in that time. I struggled this month to achieve any kind of moderation in work/life balance… I was either posted up in my favorite chair in the WIP for 10-12 hour days or I was living on vacation with my sister. Essentially — It didn’t leave a lot of time for blogging or video posting or anything else really. I walked the (ankle-busting) streets of Lisbon (carefully) back and forth to work, and I got to know a few great little spots for coffee, but I don’t feel like I did as much or saw as much as I was able to that first month in Split.

We make the life of a digital nomad look really amazing from a distance. We post pretty photos and videos on social media on the good days. Blue and green views over the ocean. Winding cobblestone streets and seas of red tile rooftops. Drinks and dinners more like art than food. Group photos with dozens of people where we all look happy and delighted by our surroundings — and we’re getting along perfectly. In the photos, we make this look easy and beautiful. In the photos, we are all the #squadgoals.

This is What Lisbon Looked Like...

20191103_111720

Started from the Bottom Now We Here

My Favorite Spot

But I am still carrying exactly the same anxieties and stressors and personality flaws that I was in Michigan… Almost constantly concerned about my clients and wondering if I’m working fast enough. Putting in extra time to make sure those clients are happy — often to the point of exhausting myself and missing out on the city I’m in and the people I’m with. Thinking abut my family, and how they’re doing, knowing I am not there right now (and feeling like I maybe should be). Trying to work on myself. Trying to go to the gym. Trying to write. Trying to learn a new language. And occasionally — just feeling totally disconnected as I try to build not-so-awkward relationships with people that I still only kind-of know.

Most of the people I am traveling with are on a pretty similar mission – To live a life that’s full and intentional and overflowing with experiences. A life that gives us real connection to others. A life where we see and do more everyday. Sometimes it works, and we connect to each other in all the fulfilling ways we’re looking for. A moment in a small room echoing with music. A bike ride together along the ocean. A really delicious dinner in a tiny restaurant chock full of local people chit-chatting and laughing.

And sometimes it’s completely and utterly lonely and isolating. You get up in the morning. You go to the gym. You work. You go back to your apartment tired. You get up the next day and do it again. There are days that are exactly the same as they were at home, except none of my people are here to cushion those days with me. And at the same time, I’m sad that I am maybe missing a lot of what’s unique and inspiring about being in a new country in the first place.

But I get to try again next month. One of the really special things about the Remote Year lifestyle is that every month, we move to a new city. We get new roommates and a new view. We get a new apartment and a whole list of new activities to try. We get to start all over. The beginning of every month in a new city is like New Year’s Day. What do I want to do this month? What do I want to be different? How can I do this better? How can I *be* better?

I’m sorry I wasn’t a better citizen in November, Lisbon. I’ll be back to try again someday.

Hello, Valencia. Let’s get to know each other.

October 26, 2019

Taking Time Out from Vacation

Some days, this definitely feels like I’m living on vacation. Please don’t get me wrong – I am working my ass off here. I have two active website builds in progress, and I’m kicking off a Magento 2 upgrade, so I am still the same eager nerd I’ve always been. But still. Even when I spend 12 hours in the WIP slogging through page builds and wireframes and sweating it out in the tiny call closets on the phone with clients, I can still look out at the Adriatic right across the road. Or just walk away from my computer for five minutes to put my feet in. Or take a quick ride on my scooter. I am slipping in and out of vacation several times a day.

And then there are my tenacious and enthusiastic traveling companions. My Ramses crew. Every day, there’s a new onslaught of Slack messages about dinners and tours and daytrips and drinks. And those are just the unofficial “Hey let’s try this thing!” conversations. As a true joiner at heart, I find this to be both delightful and difficult to turn down.

On top of that, Remote Year has side trips and local experiences and add-ons in addition to the track events I wrote about before. Like canyoning. Which is pretty much not available in the US due to liability concerns, so I took some time off to do that this week (and crunched an ankle pretty good. Hence the liability concerns). You can see the whole canyoning gallery here.

Don't Crunch an Ankle...

It’s a lot.

So on top of running my new baby digital agency, I am constantly going. There doesn’t seem to be a day to catch my breath. At home when I felt like this, I would snuggle up with Sassy and Spicer on my couch, get terrible takeout, and crank up Netflix for an entire Saturday while I caught up on emails and work projects that I’d been putting off. I would get a chance to clear my head and my to-do list without feeling like I was missing out. Because — let’s be honest. Most of my compadres would be doing the same.

And the older I get, the more I need introvert days to recenter myself after big group outings and spending a lot of time around people. Sometimes that looks like doing something important like catching up on work, and sometimes it’s closer to doing nothing but reading a book or tooling in my garden or taking an amble through the woods.

I love this life I am living. And I am truly grateful to be living it. I am trying hard to soak in every moment fully, and take advantage of every dinner/side trip/amazing view that I can.

But I need to stop and disconnect from all of it for a few hours every once in a while. Lounge in bed until 1 p.m. writing on a Saturday. Sneak into a quiet hotel pool in town and just sit under an umbrella and read. Or post up on the couch on a Friday night catching up on the work I paused so I could go and jump off cliffs in a river on Tuesday.

It would be so easy to just blaze through this year without reflecting on what I’m seeing, learning, experiencing … to just not think too much about how it is changing me. So I am choosing to take moments to pause, be grateful, step away from the group, finish my work, and catch my breath.

It doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a good view while I do.

Legs. Not hotdogs.

October 18, 2019

Views from Two Wheels

I have found that having a destination is sometimes overrated. Many of my favorite traveling moments have been those where I’ve wandered into something magical and amazing completely by accident

The walk from our apartment to my co-working space is pretty dreamy. Getting to the Work In Progress Coworking Space is just a 2 minute walk along a beach on the Adriatic Sea. Not a bad commute. But it just seemed so important to see and experience the places and people and Croatian towns not immediate to my little corner of Split. How could I get farther into the countryside, down the coast, up on the hills overlooking the city? Uber?? Seemed like the wrong answer.

So when I arrived in Split, I hunted down a company that would rent me a decent-sized scooter for the month, just so I could really see the city and get to know it in and out. It’s October, so it gets down into the 50s at night, but during the day it’s still sunny and in the 70s – definitely warm enough to roam the Croatian coastline on two wheels.

Vicko, who owns Enter Scooter Rentals, delivered my new 125 cc baby on October 4. I am not going to pretend that I wasn’t incredibly nervous the first couple days driving it around, navigating a new city. I have a motorcycle license, and I’ve actually rented scooters several times over the past three years. But in a new country, there’s just an uncertainty in everything you do.

I got lost in industrial parts of town, took wrong turns, careened up onto a sidewalk to bail off the road when I thought I was on a freeway on-ramp that I had no business being on (I have since taken that freeway up and down the coast — It’s fine)

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Scooter Life

Over the next few days, the uncertainty wore off and I got comfortable finding my way around. I’ve wandered south toward Makarska and Omiš along the sea. I’ve gotten to the top of the mountains overlooking the city. I found an adorable seaside cafe that I never would have discovered otherwise, and worked for a morning on the harbor, miles away from our workspace.

The scooter has probably been the one differentiator that has made my trip to Split fundamentally different from everyone else in my travel crew. On days when I know I am going to be working long afternoon and evening hours to keep up with my new clients, I make sure to ride for a while, just to see something new, because sometimes, just letting yourself wander without knowing where you’re going results in the most incredible views.

October 14, 2019

Learning (The Hard Way) to Ride with Less

In every city, we get together as a group and take part in Remote Year “tracks,” where our local city guides show us a bit of their country in a way we might not discover on our own. This month in Croatia, I chose the Heritage track, where we would get to experience life on one of the Croatian islands, specifically Brač, the largest of the Croatian islands.

According to the track description, it would include 25 km of biking, an authentic Croatian meal, and a bit of the island’s history shared by our delightful guide, Ivana.

I specifically chose this track because it looked a little more hard core, and I was feeling like I could handle some extra exercise — although, it’s worth noting that the “easy” track was a 7-hour hike up a mountain (that track was literally called “UP!”), so I don’t know why I was surprised that every mile of this bike ride kicked my ass.

Eighteen of us gathered at the Ferry Port in the morning for a breezy boat ride across the Adriatic on the top deck of the Jadrolinija, landing at the Brač port city of Supetar. We met up with Ivana and chose mountain bikes from a local vendor.

“Hmm. Mountain bikes,” I thought. “An interesting choice for a leisurely ride along the coastal road.”

We took off down the road as a group, traveling along the Adriatic at a mostly leisurely pace and spacing ourselves comfortably as everyone got into their own pace.

I fell to the back of the pack pretty quickly. It turns out that most of my Remote Year kinfolk are fairly well prepared for the next Iron Man. And even though I was taking spin classes and working out like a maniac before I left Ann Arbor six-ish weeks ago, I am clearly not in triathlon shape. In addition, I had lugged the largest backpack across the Adriatic, and was now responsible for all of said valuables. And on a mountain bike.

What had I brought? An extra pair of Chacos, my giant Canon camera, an extra lens, and my Smoove steady cam (okay — it’s basically a glorified selfie stick). Initially, I attempted to ride with it in my hand so I could shoot video and capture every moment of this adventure.

This was a mistake.

After struggling to keep up with the group for the first half mile with the combination backpack boat anchor and a selfie stick hanging from my waist, I finally shoved that abomination in my pack and didn’t pull it out again for the rest of the day.

We stopped in Splitska to catch our breaths and to chat about the church bells (Splitska is one of the few places where the bells are rung by hand) before heading on to swim and wander around the quiet seaside town of Postira.

At this point in the day we were only 10 km in, and I was pretty tired. I was really starting to regret some of my camera gear decisions weighing down my backpack (and the extra sandals, towel, clothes, etc.). But I wasn’t struggling physically yet. Our city guide Maja had confirmed — more than once — that the biggest hill was the first one, and we’d already conquered it. How hard could the rest of the day be?

At lunch, we went to town on some lamb peka, a traditional Dalmation dish cooked for more than a day under a bell. It actually takes so long to prepare that it needs to be ordered a day ahead if you want to try it, so keep that in mind if you’re ever cycling through the neighborhood and looking to try one of the most delicious things I’ve eaten in Croatia.

After lunch, we embarked to Dol, a 3 km ride up a gravel road that can only be described as grueling. I was starting to understand why we’d rented mountain bikes and not beach cruisers.

Ashley and I pulled up the rear of the crew into Dol, although she didn’t seem to be struggling like I was. It’s highly likely she was politely making sure I didn’t die under an olive tree on the side of the road. I’m also pretty sure I was wheezing

“There’s just no coasting on these bikes,” I panted at her at one point as the sweat dripped down my face and back, soaking into the elephantine bundle The North Face dared call a daypack. “You’re fighting for every inch.”

We did make it to Dol, a charming village of about 100 people (mostly old widows, Ivana said) in a deep valley. From the top of the hills, you can see the sea in the distance, and it’s surrounded by olive groves and vineyards — all brushed over by a cool October cool breeze. Ivana shared with us her family home, Kaštil Gospodnetić, which is roughly 400 years old and has been in her family for 12 generations. She told stories of pirate attacks on the town and war, growing grapes and olives for generations. From their website:

Dol has only 100 inhabitants and, unlike other parts of the Island, tourism didn’t spoil us. Island life is still authentic here… We will talk about legends, monsters, so many sheep that people from this village own and living in the caves that used to be a thing here. My goal is to make you feel this unique Mediterranean tranquility.

From the KAŠTIL GOSPODNETIĆ website

Ivana and her family were so gracious, sharing with us all the flavors of grappa made on their property and the stories she remembers from her childhood, and some handed down from her parents and grandparents.

They gave us a tour of their wine cellar (which, I kinda got the feeling people don’t get to see too often), and she poured us each a tasting of wine (Let’s be honest. It was more like a full glass.) while her father cut us thin slices of prosciutto that melted in our mouths. The wine and the experience was all just so damn delicious that I couldn’t help it… I bought a bottle of their wine and stuffed it too into my giant pack. I was already carrying 30 lbs worth of crap in my backpack. One more thing couldn’t hurt… right??

Prosciutto & Wine in Dol - Island of Brač, Croatia

As we departed Dol, I realized we’d need to return exactly the way we came. The “grueling” gravel road was mostly downhill from Dol, and I flew past people, just soaking in the wind in my face and the fact that I was actually coasting.

But that was pretty short-lived. I fell back again in Postira, and stayed there as my remotes peddled into the horizon and eventually entirely out of site. I was starting to blame my pace on a lot of factors at this point, and my stream-of-consciousness inner monologue just raged on.

“Ziegler — why did you bring so much shit?? Oh my god, my ass is so sore. That’s going to be gnarly tomorrow. Is that the bike making that squeaking noise? It must be the bike that’s making this so difficult. Or maybe it’s because you haven’t seen the inside of a gym in six weeks. Ugh. It’s definitely that. WHY did you bring so much shit?! I am so glad no one is here to see this and that they are so far ahead that they can’t witness this struggle. Maybe I can stop and walk for a while. Dree, you are SO. SLOW. This pace is just embarrassing. WHY DID YOU BRING SO MUCH SHIT??“

There was not a lot of self-love happening in the last 10 km.

Full transparency: I definitely stopped and walked the bike at a couple points, and I was pretty well demoralized by the time I made it back to Supetar. Yeah — I walked the bike the last tenth of a mile back to the bike vendor, too.

“I was not emotionally prepared for that ride,” I said as I caught up with the group along the wharf. Lindsay took me by the hand and led me to the cafe.

“Let’s get you a drink,” she said. “You look like you need one.”

So. Let’s reflect. Would I do this again? Absolutely. I have no complaints about the event, and they warned us that it wasn’t a beach cruise.

I saw the magic of the quiet towns and villages, unsoiled by tourism or the technology-driven world I tend to live in on a daily basis. And I loved getting to experience something authentic from the past at the castle. The food was great. The people were amazing. The views were incredible. I regret nothing about it.

But without making this whole experience a giant metaphor, I think next time I will evaluate exactly what I carry with me. Do I really need a second pair of shoes? A steady cam? An extra lens? My purse? (Yes — I had another bag IN my bag).

Did I miss out on some of the experience because I was carrying too much crap?

Probably.

Maybe let some of that go and just be present, Dree.

This is why I’m here.

September 30, 2019

Travel Debacles and Finding Your Zen

This seems like an obvious place to start my trip, considering it’s probably the lesson I personally need to absorb the most — and the plan for my day has pretty much gone to shit.

At this moment, I am sitting on a train in the middle of London… And the train is not moving. I hadn’t planned on being on a train at all today. I should actually be landing in Split in about an hour — on an airplane. But due to slow luggage collection and delays from Orlando, I landed too late to make my last connection. The best EasyJet could do to get me in today was re-book me through the Luton airport. So, I forked over more money and am now sitting comfortably in a Thameslink train from Gatwick Airport to the Luton Airport. I even successfully navigated a ticket purchase and getting to the right platform. Turns out everyone in England speaks English, making travel about 1000 times easier. Total transparency: I am still not entirely sure I am on the right train, but it appears to be going in the right direction.

I had a ton of anxiety about missing my flight out of Orlando yesterday. Waiting in line to get my ticket, silently prodding the passengers in front of me to Hurry… The Eff… Up. And then security and the shoes off and the bins and the laptop/tablet/monitor all out on the rollers, and the pat downs and the children hopped up on Disneyland and Sunday evening travel mayhem and getting dressed again after security — All of it totally anxiety-inducing and generally undignified. And my plane was supposed to leave in 15 minutes.

But the flight to Orlando was delayed, so all that anxious energy I burned waiting in line in Orlando was just wasted because I ended up posted up on the floor in front of the gate for 90 minutes, stuffing my face with snickers and chips, as I waited for boarding to start.

So, when I landed in London 8 hours later, I made a conscious effort not to care that my flight to Split was leaving in an hour and that I was probably not going to make it. I was sitting there in the baggage claim, waiting for my luggage to arrive, tracking my flight on my phone. I still had to get through customs and check into a new airline, and give them my enormous (likely overweight) suitcase.

Flight Status: On Time…

Boarding…

Last Call…

Gate Closed…

Departed

I just straight up missed my flight and watched it happen in real time through the magic of mobile technology. And somehow, I came to the conclusion that there was really nothing I could do about it but turn on some Ben Folds, pay for a new ticket, and watch London out the window.

Observations from London: Mostly the landscape looks like Ohio, but with older houses and more moss. Everything is brick here — sooty, painted, chipped brick houses, walls, streets, bridges. A few sharply glass buildings, but mostly everything seems old and weathered.

I keep hearing “Please mind the gap between the train and the platform!” from the loudspeaker, and I think I just rolled across the London Bridge. I’m definitely getting the 15-minute London experience.

We are flying out of the city now, past modern loft complexes and soccer fields and green bramble and farther out — thin curving roads and cars with round edges and green expanses dotted with sheep. This train is moving again. See you in Split.

Hello, Croatia.

Now I sleep...