Meanwhile... in Russia - August 12, 2011

Without warning they run east on the Admiralteyskaya Embankment and without hesitation I follow. Twenty-three bridges are brought up nightly so tankers from the Gulf of Finland can cruise in and out of port. The Troitsky bridge is scheduled to go up at approximately 1:30 a.m., and we are determined to see it rise. As the five of us throw down the gauntlet - pedestrians, spectators, and a late night rush hour - the soft spoken Ksenia glances back at me over her shoulder. She smiles and laughs. It feels like a movie.

Ken Johnson (Team Leader) watching tankers along with Ksenia, Galina, and Zhenia.

*

St. Petersburg had an unexpected mix of everything. The city presents itself as a Slavic beauty adorned in fine European dress. There are the Italian architectural influences at the Peter and Paul Cathedral, the Venetian  style canals of the Nevsky Prospect, and the presence of potentate monuments being reminiscent of western royalty. The history of this city is large and 5 days was not nearly enough time to learn and see it all, but experiencing more than than just the history, people, and fun of St. Petersburg are the moments I can easily share.

 

St. Peter and Paul
Cathedral

The Smolny
Cathedral

The golden tops of cathedrals peeked out of the skyline like sharp goosebumps as we caught a luminous view from  atop the Water Museum. Edging up to a hidden balcony (with the help of a friendly employee) was stirring, but our confession to the staff in order to retrieve a forgotten hat made the memory that much more comedic. I was told about the laughter and disbelief  as a member of the team scurried back up the narrow staircase to retrieve the forgotten item. The museum staff was forgiving.

The Smolny Cathedral was an impressively large convent, but it was born of a father's coddling. It was commissioned and constructed by Peter the Great as a nunnery for his rebellious daughter, Princess Elizabeth. Initially, after coming out of her adolescence, Elizabeth chose a life devoted to God and boasted her intentions by renouncing a royal life.  Smolny can hypothetically be compared to signing up for Peace Corps, having a rich father purchase an island, and then fill it with under served individuals for the duration of service - a safe package set up to satisfy all parties involved. Ultimately, Elizabeth changed her mind.


Mead is sweet and best on tap. We unintentionally drank the most expensive brand on our first day in St. Petersburg after a long day of sightseeing around the city. This was a lesson as the team quickly learned - how to say expensive and cheap in Russian. (I have yet to learn the word for money.)

Then we applied for and received public library cards. Not bad, for a souvenir.

The most haunting memory came from the sound of a metronome inside The Monument to The Heroic Defenders of Leningrad. During WWII, Nazi Germany had the city under a blockade and for almost 900 day the citizens fought and kept their enemy at bay. "[The Metronome] was the only sound heard by Leningraders on their radios throughout the war." - Lonely Planet, Russia.

Outside The Monument for The Heroic Defenders of Leningrad

While walking down a random street by our hostel, the store Alpini appeared out of my peripheral. This was an unexpected game changer for the team. It is where we bought our guide book, and the reason we headed north to the wilderness and not south to Moscow. We went off for the first rock climbing excursion of our entire trip.

Kooznechneya was a four hour train ride to the middle of nowhere in north west Russia. Upon arrival we were greeted by local Russians who were quick to mock our team and our climbing endeavour. One Russian offered to assist but demanded an exorbitant amount of Euro to drive us to a place that neither they nor we were certain existed. In turn, we agreed that we would go it alone. We took out our guide book with its indistinct directions and walked on to find a trail. With some help from a security guard at the rock quarry, we located a trail. It was a 15km hike through the wild. It was mud, mosquitoes, log bridges, hundreds of fallen trees, rain, and lots of back pain. In the end we arrived at our destination, Lake Yactrabinoe, exhausted and defeated.

Not more than 10 to 20 seconds had passed when an old stoic gentleman came walking up the trail after us. A brief discussion occurred and it was decided that we would be camping neighbors with him and his family. George has been living in exile for over twenty years as part Russia's Azerbaijani Diaspora. Upon arrival at the campsite, he feed us chicken soup, then we had tea, and then a sip of cognac. Finally, as the night linger on, they invited us to join them in their homemade sauna.

Over the course of three days we would often get a wrap on our tent door - "Come... tea," or "Come... barbecue." We could only offer light conversation, smiles, gratitude, and a song or two on guitar. The team was very grateful for their hospitality.

     
When it wasn't tea time, the team hit the rock. It was rough first day. The drawn out  march through the wilderness to the campsite had taken a toll on us. It would have been easier to skip out early everyday, but the lake, the granite, and the forest were too beautiful. I personally wanted to be up there every second that we had sun light - working problems and topping out at 20 to 40 meters. 

The Team on Lake Yactrabinoe

On Sunday night, after our new Azerbaijani friends had left, we discussed entertainment options:

  
Question - "Should we fire up the Sauna?"

    

Answer - "Yes."

  

The challenge had been accepted. Over the course of four hours, 20 to 25 birch trees, and sawing up countless logs, we finally got the embers and coals hot enough to steam the lake water. The flames were good and lasted long enough for four steams. It was a relaxing way to end our time on the lake.

Back on a platform in St. Petersburg, we found wagon 16 and prepared to board our train to Moscow. I was waiting for the conductor to take my ticket, when a man only slightly older than myself inquired about my guitar. I was polite and tried to understand but didn't fully grasp what he was asking. (In retrospect, I believe he was asking to play it for a moment.) We boarded the train and got settled into our third class sleepers when that same man from the platform took his seat beside me. His name was Sergi and he was interested in us as Americas traveling in his country. Not more than a half hour into our train ride he had treated everyone in the cabin to a bottle of vodka and accepted some challenges to a game of chess. We left St. Petersburg in good spirits, knowing that the hospitality and kindness of Russia could only follow us well on into Moscow.  

Cheers with Sergi

     

Kremlins, Trains, and Городы - August 24, 2011

His mausoleum is made of large granite blocks, alternating in patterned hues of dusty rose and charcoal. A spacious, cold, dim tomb houses the glass sarcophagus and 5 guards from the Kremlin Sentry preside over the body. Our procession walks single file along a barrier up to an observation area. Looking down at Lenin's waxy body, I notice his hands. One is clenched and the other is lax.

Ten Minutes later I'm inside the G.U.M., Moscow's largest shopping mall, looking for an ATM. I pass by Burberry's Autumn/Winter 2011 collection, I see the luxury leather goods and fashion of Louis Vuitton, and I hear a Phil Collins song playing somewhere in the distance. As I wait for the machine to count my dyengi I'm aware of duration and development in Russia.

Workers everywhere will rise up and overthrow their capitalist masters. Some argue that you can't stop progress (capitalism, democracy, corporatism) but "progress" isn't solely responsible here. Many reasons lead to the collapse of soviet Russia - the US defying the spread of communism (Korea, Vietnam), China breaking an alliance with the USSR, Perestroika (the Kremlin's attempt to fix a broken economy and modernize), a wasteful bureaucracy, and corruption. The intricate network of economy, regime, and leadership gradually expired within a few decades and now only the granite monuments are proof of it having been.

Lenin and his contrary hands seem to have the heft of all the granite in Russia. What purpose could they still serve in a post communist era? They may be considered a relic for the future concerning the past, they may sustain his cult of personality along with the other countless monuments dedicated to his honor, or maybe there is no purpose, just another attraction no more thrilling than a roller coaster but with greater bragging rites. It only seems fitting to consider the mausoleum a house to the era in which the people living under communism showed collectivism, generosity, and warmheartedness. It's not that these values were born of the era but perhaps they have been amplified from then, well on into the 21st century.

St. Basil's and Red Square

*

I stepped off the train very early in the a.m. and drank a large bottle of water. The morning air was wet and without sun. Moscow's weather would remain this way for the next few days. Outside of the PT Revolyutsii metro station, my face in a map and walking in the direction of our hostel, Ken calls my attention to an archway. It's not the archway that is the sight, but what is visible on the other side.

St. Basil's might be Russia's Statue of Liberty or Eiffel Tower. The nine churches that make up the cathedral are rallied into one building on the east end of Red Square. Passing through that archway and into Red Square at 5 in the morning - tired, baggage in hand - reinforced my enthusiasm for this trip and the sights and scenes I now know...

The Peter The Great Monument on the Moscow river is a well deserved monument to a man who pushed Russia into the European realm, but it is unfortunately misshapen. Literally. It conjures up images a Fritz the Cat panel. Voted in the top 10 worst monuments in the world by UNESCO, Moscow "generously" offered it to St. Petersburg. The offer, was graciously declined...

Constantine proclaims to listen to real Russian music, as we speed through the streets of Moscow in his Mercedes. He is kind enough to take us around to see some interesting monuments at 2 in the morning. He takes us up to the trees lined with padlocks of recently married couples and then on to the Children Warning Monument. He drops us back at the hostel shortly after...

Spending an afternoon inside the State Tretyakov Gallery was time well spent. Seeing Russian art through the years beginning with Russian Avaunt Guard and Cenisism and culminating with Contemporary pieces and Soviet commissioned pieces. Stalin instructed artists to emphasize the joys of living in Communism under wise leadership...

We snapped a quick photo at the zero kilometer marker as we started the Trans-Siberian railway from The Yaroslavsky Station. At first the babuska (grandmother) only got part of the team in the frame. There were no problems with a second photo...

Falling asleep on benches in the Kremlin at Nizhey Novograd was well deserved after being up for over 24 hours. When I woke up for a brief moment, an old man had joined me on the same bench for a nap. When I came to later, two babuskas had joined our bench gang...

Train Station in Nizhny Novogorad

The Mosque (left) and The Bell Tower built by Ivan the Terrible (right) 

Swimming the Volga river in Kazan on the opposing bank from their Kremlin gave me a slight sunburn on my right  side...

Ken Johnson in the shade relaxing on the Volga

We arrived at dawn to the Church of Spilled Blood in Yekaterinburg. This is were the Russian royal bloodline came to an end when the Bolsheviks murdered Tsar Nicolas II, his wife, their three daughters, and their 14 year old son. The Romanova's have reached the statues of sainthood in the eyes of the local people of this region...

The Romonova's burial plots until 1998 when the remains were moved to St. Petersburg

After Yekaterinburg we started the longest leg of out journey. A 37 hour train ride to Krasnoyarsk. We arrived as tourists looking to climb at Stolby Natural Reserve, but we got much than just a climb or two...      

         

      

We Had It for Lunch - September 8, 2011

"It's not really a law," she says as she sends out another text message. "It's more like a rule."

It has been less than 24 hours since we met and already trust is an issue. I was only curious and the green eyes and the kind smile were just incentives. But now, sitting in the backseat, buried under baggage, I  have second thoughts about everything and everyone.

Our driver, a young doctor, stands by the driver side door. He smokes a cigarette and keeps his eye on the path.

"That's fine," I say in a calm and kind tone, "but there's a difference. His friends are Russian and they don't have visas to worry about. We can't just break rules." She shrugs off my concern with a limp wrist motion of her hand. I feel helpless. Out here in the middle of Siberia decisions are things I no longer make and whatever happens to me is up to them. If they host me, I am their guest. If they rob me, I am their mark. If they hurt me, I am their victim.

The sun is setting and the overcast sky is pink and gray. From the backseat, I can see the path leads into a dense forest of tall trees, think bushes, and tangled weeds. I wonder what is behind the green flora and the kind light that illuminates the terrain.

"Пора пойти." Time to go says the doctor. His cigarette is finished and the butt is smoldering in the gravel. I step over it as I exit the car.

The doctor takes us down towards the path. He stops us by a set of railroad tracks where Lucha is already waiting. He has been occupying his time by flicking open and snapping shut a three inch jack knife. His hands are strong and he has the stature of a wrestler. We all pause for a second and then Lucha nods. He doesn't speak English so he offers this silent gesture to ask Are you ready?

It takes 20 seconds to run from the tracks, to the path, and into the shrouded interior of the woods. I can not help but make a few remarks along they way.

"This is a bad idea... How far is it?.. Keep an eye on that knife?"

Lucha quickly shushes me and we continue to walk in silence until the path winds into an alley.

To one side, there is a fence. Plastic and sheet metal rooftops peak out from behind the planks of wood. I speculate that this is a shanty town and the people living here might be suspicious if they hear English. On the other side, there is an amalgamation of barbwire. It is a mess of rust, posts, and blades which correspond along the entire length of our bearing. It is not hard to identify the history of barbwire alongside of me. Some posts are wooden and others are aluminum. Some spots are shiny and other areas are dull. Some wire is straight with jacks and other is coiled in blade. Someone has been trying to keep somebody out of here for a very long time.

Lucha points down to 2x2 square foot opening at the bottom of the wire. Only a stick and a piece of wet particle board prop up and defy the tangle of carnage. Lucha ducks down and goes first. He moves with  quickness and confidence, and comes out clean on the other side. His hand makes a motion for me to get down and crawl. It still harbors the knife. I squat down and look at the opening. For a moment I consider how this will end. Will it be bloody? I move under the wire with caution. Then, the top of my hat gets snagged by a single blade. I start to panic when I can't get it free and I worry that the rest of my head will get snared. Lucha  reaches out, pinches the cloth on my hat, and pulls it free. A smiles appears on his face.

The doctor has driven our baggage and our new friend with green eyes to the rendezvous and I see that they are waiting for us when we come out of the woods.

"Welcome" she says, as we arrive at the car. Her hands now free from the cell phone.

"Thanks. And, thanks for having us," I say as I put the baggage back over my lap.

She smiles kindly. "Yes. Home sweet home."

*

My last days in Russia were as much the dream as they were a bonus. The days I had hoped to have were enriched by unexpected moments and new friends. Like a Matryoshka doll that keeps revealing itself until there is nothing left to reveal, so were my last days in Russia.

We bagan our last days with Yelena and Roman. I searched them out online because I had questions about climbing in Stolby National Reserve. Not only did they have answers, but they had a place for us to sleep, time to guide us, friends and family to join us, and an initiation of sorts that made us feel fortunate to know them. We couldn't have been happier to share our time with such awesome people.

We said a brief goodbye to Yelena and Roman as Ken and I decided to camp out at Stolby. It was awkward at first. Two Americans camping alongside 25 to 30 Russians, but it didn't take Ken long to make us some friends. That night we were welcomed to all the food, drink, and conversation we could handle - Ken speaking Russian and me saying "Cheers" an awful lot. This groups of weekend climbers and campers (Stolbyists) we're by far the coolest people we met in Russia. They love the rock, the nature, and the lifestyle.

A day or two later, we had a farewell dinner of sorts with our new friends in a Yurt. We drank teas, ate foods, and sang songs. It was the closest I will ever feel to being a part of a community in Russia.

Ken Johnson and our host

An 18 hour train ride later, and we were in Irkutsk with two goals: get the laundry done and get to Olkhon Island. Mission Accomplished.

Olkhon Island on Lake Baikal was an adventure. We bouldered around on the cliffs and ledges, hiked around the beaches, and rented Mountain bikes. The bikes were the best part of the trip. Flying through the steppe, the forests, and the valleys at speeds that test your reflexes was something I haven't experienced before. It was well worth the one wipe out.

Olkhon Island's view of Lake Baikal

Back in Irkutsk we met Michael, a local climber and he graciously offered to take us climbing on the cliffs of Lake Baikal. We accepted. He put us up for the night and took us out the next day. Sadly for him we were met with gray skies, wind, and rain upon arrival. And though he never got a climb in he never lost his optimism. "At least I get to practice my English with you." What a guy. Ken and I climbed for two days afterward and got to work on some more technical climbing problems in the comfort and beauty of Baikal.

Ken getting ready for a climb on Lake Baikal

Sadly our time had decidedly ended in Russia, so we packed it up and headed for our last train. Along the hike we met Andre, "The Guru" and his band of Yoga loving hippies. They invited us for tea and invited us to join them on the hike to the station. Again and unsurprisingly they were very kind. They gave me a present  and fed us fried fish for dinner. It only reinforced what I had already come to know about Russian people. They value friendship, sharing, and warm feelings.

*

Early on in the trip I overheard another tourist say "They had it for lunch. We had it with lunch." I don't know the context in which this phrase was said and I'd like to believe that he was in no way trying to distinguish himself  by whether someone eats something as an appetizer or a main course, but it's difficult to deny the brazen aspect in which it was said. I've thought about this tourist from time to time while we traveled. I don't expect that he would get much joy out of comparing which Borscht tastes the best, or that the Hermitage has more to offer in the way of Russian history than a few pieces from Da Vinci and Monet. Maybe he even traveled first class on the train - all shut off from everyone in a first class compartment never having shared a drink or some food with a stranger. This is of course a character in my mind, but I would have had a less satisfying experience in Russia if that had been mine. The few friends we made and the unique experience that rock climbing afforded us leaves me feeling full. We got in all the sights, history, and travels that most tourists can expect but when that ended we continued our experience through friendships, songs, and foods. I feel that that's how we had Russia. We had it for lunch.






     

   

Russian Jeep, Mongolian Freedom - September 25, 2011

Dusk approaches as the dune swallows the wheels on our jeep. There is a mutual understanding here. The sand eats, the tires feed, and we get stuck. Wind and chill supplement the coming darkness, sending shivers down my spine and sand into my eyes. I take a moment from digging out the tires and grab my winter coat from inside the vehicle. As I linger around the driver side door bundled up from the cold, the scale of the desert and our situation comes into focus with a single glance.

All around me are long stretches of mountain range, vast steppe, barren desert, and towering sand dunes. The nearest nomad family is at least a 2 day hike from this spot. We are not situated along any of the main sets of tire tracks that wind their way around the desert and no one knows we are even out here in the dunes. But, whatever we lack in location we offset in resources - two tents, three sleeping bags, cookware, plenty of food, 8 to 10 liters of water, 2.5 liters of beer, 1 guitar, and 2 packs of cigarettes. Times are tough out in the Gobi, but the company is good and the scenery is amazing.

The terrain in Mongolia is large, arid, and wind ridden. The majority of the land is untouched as the rural landscapes shift rapidly from one vista to the next. Pale hills blubbering out beneath gray sierras, followed by short sprouts of grassy lea reaching out for miles until they nuzzle up to a solitary mountain rising abruptly out of the steppe. Dirt, stone, saxual bush, mud, river, and sand were the surfaces we passed over to get to the Gobi, and only our patience, wallets, and jeep would feel the adverse impact.

In the dunes the impact becomes apparent. The Mongolian geography has taken a greater toll on our rented jeep than we had previously thought. Our fan belt has snapped when we tried to force the jeep free with four-wheel drive. ("Give it gas!") We open the hood to inspect the task at hand, and discover that our oil valve has also blasted off from the nozzle. Oil has dripped down and splattered onto the lower parts of the engine.We immediately stumble into a crude plan while there is still sun light. Ken volunteers to go off and scan the horizon from a vantage point for any sight of humanity. I will try to fix the engine with Shachar.

Shachar, Ken, and I met while planning a trip out to Terelj National Park the first weekend Ken and I arrived in Mongolia. We were not yet full acquainted with him but when we all met we realized that we all had reasons to head out to the park. Ken and I wanted to climb and he wanted to see the nature. He didn’t want to impose but we assured him that he was welcome to join us. The three of us spent the first few days climbing, cooking, hiking, and pow-wowing around the fire. We took turns climbing different routes, searching for new holds, giving beta from below, and watching the different challenges each of us faced on the rock. When we had met Shachar in the capital city he was just another tourist, but after our five days out in Terelj he was our friend. All of this took place well before the jeep was a reality but Terelj was what the group needed. It set a tone for the jeep trip and gave us the drive to see Mongolia on our terms. No guide. No comfort. No plan. Just three friends exploring outer Mongolia, and the experiences we shared made any adversity we faced worthwhile.

The jeep was the only trying part of the journey. It had a whole catalog of problems from the electrical system to the suspension. On any given day, we could expect something new to fall apart. But, this is a Russian Jeep, which means it’s easy to fix and built like a tank. I realized the jeeps true capacity while Shachar drove through the barranca near Yolin Am. That off-roader fought tooth and nail over boulders and waterways. I was impressed and though it broke down from time to time it was always repaired and always lead us to friendly places.

On one occasion around the eight or ninth day, the steering wheel and breaks ceased and the gears locked up. We found ourselves stranded along a dirt path not far from a small town. Within a few moments a lone motorcyclist came by and called a local mechanic. The mechanic arrived with his 6 or 7 year old son. He took a look at the jeep for an hour or so and decided that it would be best if we travel to his Yurt so he could work on the problems there. We agreed and after we all shared beer, tea, and coffee on the side of the road we carefully drove to the yurt. When we arrived we were invited in to meet the family and to have lunch. We sat around drinking salty milk tea and eating fried bread with egg. We spent the entire afternoon with the family while the father worked on our jeep. To pass the time, I attempted to help (though I failed) to bring in 100 goats for a milking. I also spent some time with the son and helped him duct tape up a tire on his toy truck. (Along this trip everything from batteries, to baggage, to license plates got a little bit of duct tape.) We had dinner with the family and watched Ken and the father play a game of chess. They looked happy and so were we. We moved on shortly after to another mechanic and were met with the same hospitality. From place to place, we always found kindness. Whether is was a bed for the night or just a mug of salty milk tea, we found ourselves living part of the dream - connecting with Mongolians.

In the desert though, we are alone, and stuck in the sand with a broken engine. It’s time to go to work. Shachar and I pop the hood and used everything we have to get this belt back on – blood, sweat, and forks. It takes us a while, but we realize that it all comes down to three bolts, a swinging mechanical arm, and a new clamp for the oil valve. Problems solved. At night, as the wind blows more sand over the tires, we feast on kielbasa with rice and drink up the 2.5 liters of beer. Ken and Shachar discuss Issac Asimov and Enders Games (It was Bean!). The stars are endless. I see satellites flying around and shooting stars as the minutes wind down until bedtime. That night we sleep in our tents comfortably upon the dunes.

The next day in the early afternoon, Shachar and Ken heard an engine reeving off in the distance and ran off to find it. They returned ten minutes later with the Calvary – five Mongolian men who new exactly how to get the jeep out. Lift the jeep, fill in the sand cavity made by the tires, and use dead bush root for traction. We were free in no time and looked forward to our next phase of Asia. China.
      
  

         

    

               

Exit Through a Dark Tunnel - December 6, 2011

"The rope is tangled," Ken yells up to me as he dangles in the darkness mid-repel. At most, I'm 15 meters away, but I might as well be back on top of the 150 meter karst tower. I can't do anything. It sounds like I'll be waiting here on the side of Thumb peak for a while, locked in at the top of the fourth pitch. I'm not too concerned about the rope. Ken will untangle it. It's the darkness that concerns me. They say people do night repels here from time to time, but I wasn't prepared to be doing one when I woke up this morning. Most things in China have been surprising.

I find it difficult to connect with most Chinese. Not a whole lot of playful gestures, or small talk on their part to reciprocate my curiosity. It seems that often enough they give off a stark contrast from the other locals I encountered in Russia and Mongolia. At Silk Street, a goods market in Beijing, the 18 and 19 year old sales girls use high pressure tactics as they cling to their calculators, punching in new prices. "You buy! 25 yuan... 22... 20!.. Why you difficult!?.. I hope you die!" Another example is the story that is all over the news about 2 year old Wang Yui. She was run over by two vans in Guangzhou and ignored by over a dozen people. They all walked, biked, or drove by the bleeding body of a toddler for well over five minutes until a woman finally pulled her out of the road. I was told that the Chinese are divided into two social groups: family and close friends, and everybody else.

I did make a few friends over a game of dice in a bar. They were some young twenty-somethings on vacation. After the bar we moved up to the roof top of their hotel and talked about traveling, dating, and working. They had the same wants as me, but one of them said "But it's different for you." We didn't get much deeper than that.

Of course the history here is staggering. So many dynasties, wars, eras, and figures. The one thing that seems to unite it all unlike European history or American history is that their is keen interest on preserving China as a civilization. The modern shapes of traditional Chinese characters, the everyday tools that are used, and the folk music are a few of the ancient relics in contemporary Chinese society.

The most impressive part of China is in the Guilin providence. For hundreds of miles, thousands of karst towers stretch out well beyond the boarders of China. For me it's like walking on another world. This is supposed to be the crescendo of the trip and it doesn't not fall flat. For six days Ken and I climbed the limestone pillars in Yangshuo.

Climbing makes sense to me, and I'm glad I've been up there as much as I have been. I will encourage you to get some gear, get some knowledge, get a friend, and start climbing something. You won't be disappointed.

*

So, the trip has been over for almost a month and a half and I'm finally getting around to finishing this last blog post. As you can guess Ken got the rope untangled (because he is "wicked awesome") and we lived to climb another day. The above thoughts and experiences have been sitting in my edit box this whole time, waiting for me to return and finally publish them. Today is that day.

I didn't leave China behind the way I left Mongolia and Russia. I met someone, and I've was keeping in touch with them since I'd returned to the states. It was great, and it only reaffirms my belief that no matter where a trip takes you, there's always someone there that you can connect with. That trip was amazing. And I miss it, but time to move on to the next phase of existence. 

I arrived in Beijing a few days before my flight on the midnight train. When I exited I found myself walking through a dark tunnel with other passengers. Among them were a father and a son. While walking behind the two I noticed what the little boy had printed on the back of his coat. It said "Exit through a dark tunnel." I can't remember a moment in my life being so coincidental, and I thought it was a fitting reminder of what part of this trip was about. In my China journal I wrote about the coincidence and said that "the moments of my life have never been so blatantly narrated... I like to think I've been paying attention to those moments over the last few months without the aid of these reminders." So, I suppose living in the present matters to me... but I still like to think about the past every now and then. It's been great.

¡Salud from Miami!