Making it to the safety and serenity of an airline seat has never been a more joyful moment.

Four days on the subcontinent lead me to a simple thesis: India is an incredible contradiction. On the surface, it seems that this place shouldn’t be so distant: English is a major language, colonial heritage is shared with the likes of Hong Kong, and a billion potential voters make this the world’s largest democracy. Even after a year of five continents and 100,000+ miles of air travel, however, India is decidedly the most foreign experience of my life.

Making it onboard a Delhi-bound flight was a small miracle in itself. On Wednesday, I shot straight back to my apartment to pack for the holiday after my last exam finished at 7 PM; by 9 PM, I was on my way to the airport for an overnight flight to Chicago. Upon a 5 AM arrival in the Windy City, I was dusted with a fresh layer of snow while I navigated the city bus system to the Indian Consulate. Seven hours and an unexpected amount of groveling later, I was issued a tourist visa and was on my way back to the airport for an evening departure to Delhi. Fifteen hours of alarm clock-free sleep later, I stepped into a whole new world.

The intensity of India hit me in my first breath stepping off the plane. The stuffy, fume-filled air of the jetbridge initially made me worry something had been wrong with our aircraft, but stepping inside the terminal and looking across an entire room of this haze made me realize that such air quality was “normal.”

The 10 PM arrival in Delhi made me particularly glad that I had secured accommodations while Stateside through the proxy help of my parents and hotels.com (Globalization lesson: the cost of a DVD in America will buy you an air-conditioned hotel room with airport pickup and breakfast in India). Upon arrival, I discovered that pay phones are an innovation that has not yet reached the Delhi airport, prompting me to take a deep breath before stepping out of the safety of the airport into the warm darkness of a continent on which I didn’t know a soul. Thankfully, I soon found my driver holding the “Bajaj Indian Homestay Welcomes John D” placard and set off for three days of adventure.

My Indian immersion plans weren’t two complex: two days in Delhi, one day in Agra (home of the Taj Mahal). The crowds, confusion, and conniving cunning of these surroundings, however, made for an extraordinarily engaging experience. Accomplishing anything outside the four walls of my hotel room seemed to require a scheme to be unraveled, a local to be paid off, or a danger to be avoided.

Since mass transit for a foreigner seemed to be a laughable proposition, I hired a driver for both days spent in Delhi (Bonus globalization lesson: the price of a movie ticket in California is the same as a car and driver for eight hours in Delhi). More than on-demand chauffeurs, these drivers led me to a number of cultural spots that I was interested in and a few “travel agencies” and “tourist stores” that I was not particularly thrilled about. Taken in stride, though, these two days allowed me to enjoy a diversity of temples, monuments, museums, markets.

As I write, I’m genuinely astonished that my journey did not end in a fiery collision on the streets of Delhi. I’ve experienced some exotic driving in China and Argentina, but nothing prepared me for the Go-Kart track that unfolds daily on the streets of the Subcontinent. One particularly artery-cleansing episode occurred en route to the airport for my flight home; due to train delays, I was running late for my flight and had asked a friendly English-speaking acquaintance from the train to help me negotiate an urgent taxi trip. Whatever Hindi words my translator told the taxi driver made the man drive like his life depended on it: he shaved the typical hour journey to the airport into an 18 minute rampage of honking, flashing, crossing medians, and passing with mere inches to spare. In addition to providing impetus to sort out my plans for the afterlife, that ride assured me that there is not a single traffic cop in Delhi.

And so, though the opportunity to dive into an entirely alien world for a few days is one I will not soon forget, I’ve never been so content with “normal.”

With the sun setting on travel opportunities for the year, I decided that six days Thanksgiving were just enough to continue my continental checklist and make a stop in trusty Colorado Springs.

The saga began with a 4 AM departure from my cozy apartment home and a frantic run through my typical parking and bus-riding schemes. Due to Thanksgiving flight loads and the nature of standby travel, I thought I would be lucky to leave LAX after a five or six hour wait. Surprisingly, the sea of full flights parted just in time for me to walk on to the second plane of the morning. Score.

A seven-hour layover in Dallas might have been dull if a strong majority of my Texas-social-circle was not passing through the same airport en route to their own holiday plans in the Rectangular Republic. As such, I was pleased to cross paths with more friends in Dallas than I usually see in Colorado and to eat lunch with my brother Mike. Thanks for stopping my way Doog, Brittany, Sarah, and Abigail. It appears that I’m the only American interested in spending Thanksgiving in the Southern Hemisphere, thus meaning the second flight of the day was wide open.

After thirteen hours of flight and non-alarm-clock-governed sleep, I was thrilled to step into Buenos Aires at 8 AM the next morning. I immediately set to work in the usual quest for a route to the city center and a hostel accommodation. My friends at Lonely Planet didn’t let me down and after a series of buses, subways, and “navigational re-calibrations,” I was checked into a hostel by 11 AM.

Following settling into the hostel, I hit the open Spanish-speaking road in search of as much Argentine culture as I could absorb in 36 hours. I hadn’t walked three blocks before wrapping myself up in my first cultural spectacle: a noontime protest at Plaza de Mayo. The grievance of the demonstrators still eludes me (cut me some slack: I took French in high school) but it was certainly exhilarating to watch these folks hold up traffic while banging drums and carrying a block-long Argentine flag. Seemingly splendidly, the protest terminated at the next stop on my tourist top ten: the Argentine “White House,” quite rightly called the Pink House.

After absorbing the basic political freedoms and institutions of the city, I set to work for some economic exposure by traversing Florida Street, a mile or more-long pedestrian mall. I soon discovered Argentina’s consumer secret weapon: bargain prices without the Third World surroundings. Financial crises earlier in the decade have re-valued the Argentine economy such that it’s an amazing bargain for the rest of us.

The waning hours of the afternoon spent in the shopping sojourn soon gave way to a dusk rainshower. Realizing that my jacket was still in the Bear Republic, I decided that the best escape from the rain lie in Argentina’s Armory Museum. For anyone that played “war” as a child, this place is a WMD candy store. The collection included everything from spears to missile launchers and a number of lesser-known combat contraptions (horse gas masks, anyone?).

While profitable, my afternoon saga on the streets of the Argentine capitol left me a solid fifteen blocks northwest of my hostel home. Realizing that evening dinner plans were quickly approaching, I executed an about-face and scurried back to my hostel. In another case of travelers taking care of travelers, Virginia, a friend from my freshman seminar, studied abroad last year in Buenos Aires and had been kind enough to put me in contact with her host family. Perpetuating their generosity towards American students, the Merodio family was kind enough to invite me into their home for dinner, an evening that quickly became the highlight of the trip.

As I stood knocking at the Merodio’s door, I wasn’t sure what to expect on the other side of the cultural threshold: here I am, an American whose only Spanish knowledge came from Taco Bell, stepping into a home of a family on an entirely different continent. Thankfully, the Merodios—and their three daughters—were marvelously gracious and even spoke a good deal of English. In addition to offering some home-cooked beneficence, they gladly shared hours of intriguing conversation on topics ranging from life with foreign exchange students, to Argentine geography, to current political attitudes. I told them it was worth the trip just for them and that was the truth.

The following morning, I ventured out to continue my city tour in the opposite direction of the previous day’s exploration. Most of the pre-noon hours were siphoned off in stops at local markets and in an interesting, albeit Spanish, bookstore. After grabbing lunch, I set out to visit Casa Holden, Pepperdine’s outpost in Buenos Aires. Though rather surprised that a Pepperdine student who wasn’t in the study abroad program had somehow found a way to their doorstep two days before Thanksgiving, the staff was kind enough to let me in—following a very close inspection of my student identification cards—and offer a short tour of the sharp facilities. After lodging my silent protest of noticing that the Hong Kong program was not supplied with its own swimming pool, I savored the company of some fellow Americans and again hit the open road.

In preparation for an evening departure, the last stop of the day was an American-minded shopping trip to pickup some gifts for folks at home. I found the recommended store and completed my shopping list without a hitch—the hiccup came when I returned to the subway stop that I had dropped me off at the shopping center, only to discover it had curiously closed. My nervousness grew with a quick recollection of the facts: its late afternoon, I’m catching a flight in just a few hours, I’m on the wrong side of the city from my hostel, and it appears that public transportation has decided to take the rest of the day off. The very existence of this post gives away the happy ending to the story, though: after observing the continued closure of the subway for nearly an hour, I eventually found a taxi and played “dumb tourist” until he dropped me off somewhere in the vicinity of downtown.

The rest, they say, is history.

The rare exception of a weekend not immediately followed by an exam or a paper due date recently privileged me with a forty-eight hour Hawaiian vacation. Via a direct hop from LA to Maui, I left my coursework on one side of the Pacific and met fellow Class of ‘03 alum Ashley Bachara on a small island paradise in the middle of the vast ocean. Ashley recently committed to serve for two years on the staff of YWAM Maui and by all indications, she couldn’t have pursued a better opportunity.

Ashley was gracious enough to meet me–lei in hand–at the airport and give me the grand tour of her island home. We hit all the major tourist spots, ranging from waterfalls with canon-balling behemoth Hawaiians to the most densely-populated surf spots I’ve ever seen. Beyond the fantastic temperatures and ridiculously sweet T-shirt prices, I was most impressed with Ashley’s entire YWAM team.

Contrary to the Sunday-schoolin-surfer-dudes I had imagined, these folks were fantastic conversationalists and were contagiously passionate about their work. They had come from an amazing array backgrounds; one particularly memorable story came from the quiet but kind Jorry. Twelve months ago, Jorry had abandoned school and was living life on the streets of Papua New Guinea. Ashley met Jorry on a missions outreach to New Guinea last year and after an astonishing number of opportunities aligned, Jorry is now studying Biblical hermeneutics in Maui. The icing on the Horatio Alger cake: Jorry didn’t speak English when he stepped off the plane six weeks ago. He didn’t mention that fact, though, until we had been talking for at least 30 minutes.

My only travel-miscalculation of the excursion occurred in my prudent parking planning. In an effort to save the $10-15/day charged to park in the vicinity of LAX, on recent trips I have been parking in a friend’s lot and taking the city bus to the airport. The scheme unfolded as planned and I turned $1.50 in bus fare into $45 of saved parking fees. My mistake, though, was neglecting to notice that the late Monday night I had chosen to take the bus back to my car happened to be October 31.

Downtown LA + 11 PM + a city bus + Halloween = a freak show of epic proportions.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Here in A36, we’ve got company tonight: Seaver-alum Micah Kafka is staying over while we wait to see if his place and the others among the sprawling suburbs 10 miles north of Malibu survive the day-old wildfire currently consuming some of the more beautiful parts of SoCal.

So far, it looks like campus is safe. While we’ll continue to watch the action unfold on cable news, Micah enhanced our view of the situation with some photos he took on his way out of the evacuation…

More photos available on Micah’s blog

Everything is bigger in Texas–even the weekends.

Though I’d been through the Dallas-Ft. Worth airport a half dozen times, until this weekend, I had never stepped out of the terminal and into the Lone Star state. Realizing that my own brother would soon be a permanent resident of the Jumbo State, I seized this weekend as an opportunity to visit a new destination and a great friend, courtesy of Texan tourguide Justin Coppedge.

The trip was a 40-hour whirlwind: I arrived 6 AM Saturday and began trying for standby departures at 8 PM Sunday. In the interim, Justin took me back to his higher education home at Austin College in Sherman, TX and allowed me to experience some quintessential Texicana: a campus tour, a stop through the town art festival, his cousin’s little league soccer game, Texas-style church, a Sunday afternoon movie matinee, and some great food.

While short, the visit was a stupendous break from my typical to-do list. If you’re interested in sporting goods store gun collections that would make Rambo jealous or burgers thicker than bike tires, I recommend you pay a visit to our nation’s other proud red state.

Media bonus: Justin tells me that a popular Austin College Facebook group is entitled, “Exit 61 Is The Best Part Of Sherman, TX.” To test that judgment, we revved J. Clyde (his Camry) to the maximum legally allowable velocity and subjected ourselves to this Lone Star highway physics experiment. The results were documented on video (0.5 MB, requires QuickTime).

Departing Dallas with Doog

A 15 day journey over an ocean, through the memory of a friend and hero, across a roadtrip, and into a new semester bring me squarely back to the familiar home of blogging. It’s great to be back.

To rejoin the story from where I last left off: after returning from Israel, I spent precisely 45 hours in Colorado re-packing my bags and re-aligning my life before stepping on a plane to Zurich. I had originally planned to make it a 24 hour-turnaround but was delayed by the overbooking ripples of the British Airways strike. Thankfully, though, an extra day at home allowed me to both realize and remedy the fact that I hadn’t done nearly any of the specific, tactical planning necessary for a successful European sojourn. It stuns me to realize firsthand that a teenager (er… twenty-something) sitting on one continent can plan the traverse of another with nothing but Google and imagination.

Following a successful 7 AM arrival in Zurich, I absorbed as much Swiss culture as I could in a trip to the supermarket and headed directly to the train station, where I cashed in the first day of my five day Eurail Pass on a day train to Vienna. The train ride was quite pleasant and also became an intimate cultural education when our train was halted, emptied, loaded onto buses, and driven through the mountains to bypass track construction. I’m fairly sure that the sweet, German-speaking old lady I sat next to on the bus still doesn’t know that I didn’t understand a single word of her warm narrative.

Pulling into Vienna in the early evening allowed me to keep my appointment of a rendezvous with the one and only Jen Hillmann. Jen and I walked across the same high school graduation stage two distant years ago and, as has been the case with many members of our Class of ‘03, we have been able to maintain a vibrantly platonic friendship despite divergent tracks of schools, states, majors, and travels. Five days prior to our crossing of paths, Jen completed a six-month, three continent Christian service tour and training program spanning points from New Zealand, to New Delhi, to the “new” Middle East of Bahrain, Emirates and more. Needless to say, we both had some stories the other was eager to hear.

The conversation and travel saga of the next six days was a whirlwind to live, let alone to narrate in stop-by-stop detail. To offer an abridgement: we fully utilized the unlimited nature of our train passes with journeys from Vienna to Berlin, to Fussen (near Munich), to Prague, and finally to Frankfurt. We encountered a number of memorable spots found in the tourbook (standing on top of St. Stephens in Vienna; touching the Berlin Wall; touring the castle that inspired the Disneyland equivalent; and walking the Charles Bridge in Prague) and a multitude of unforgettable moments not promised in the brochures (the rush of a Vienna theme park ride most analogous to strapping yourself to a fan blade and throttling up to 68.3 MPH; the humorous 1 AM heartbreak of realizing our train left without us, as we unknowingly but patiently waited right next to it; the hilarity of carrying home groceries from a German supermarket that didn’t give bags, and the ironic realization that walking for sixty minutes in Prague didn’t lead us past a single establishment selling anything edible).

Though a seemingly rapid itinerary, I found a week of Europe to be the carefree moments of quintessential summer that I had been waiting for through California, South Dakota, Virginia, and Tel Aviv. While I’ve been blessed to find friendship and travel at other places and at other times, this particular combination struck me with the poignant truth that such freedom, such adventure, and such companionship is exactly what prior generations mean when they celebrate the wonders of youth. Why such gifts are lavished on folks who have yet to give something back to society, I do not know… but I sure am grateful for the experience.

Decompressing from a fully-loaded twelve months led my back to Colorado and left me with the desire to begin the process anew. The pause between my return from Europe and my departure for California was providentially timed perfectly to allow me to remember, while surrounded in the fellowship of friends and family, the 365-day anniversary of Mark Heinmets’ departure from life as I know it. I’m awed by how much Mark remains a part of my daily thoughts and vocabulary of life. His legacy lives powerfully on in those who knew him best, a truth most incredibly embodied by his remarkable parents. My generation’s daily reality of war and natural disaster brings the probability of loss increasingly closer to home. Mark’s parents, though, re-define my concept of how to live through such heartbreak with purpose and grace. He would be proud.

Following the requisite 1200-mile highway tour to California, punctuated by audio books and excitement made possible by vulcanized rubber (see below), I find myself lunging into the swift current of another semester. It’s busy, it’s uncertain, it’s tiring, and it’s hard… but it’s truly great. I wouldn’t have “being young” be any other way.

Media bonus: Photos from the Europe trip have been posted to the gallery. Also, I sliced together a four minute video documenting one of the surprises in Roadtrip 2005: California Edition (5 MB, requires QuickTime).

After sixteen hours in coach class and my fill of humus and metal detectors, I’ve returned home from two weeks in Israel studying counter-terrorism with the Foundation for the Defense of Democracies (FDD). In short, this was the most undersold experience of my millennium, thus far.

In essence, the FDD Undergraduate Fellowship program is designed to give national security-minded college students a world-class and entirely complimentary education in the art and science of counter-terrorism. In return, we agree to act as a voice of awareness on our college campuses, thus advancing the Foundation’s mission and ultimately urging democratic societies to defend themselves against the immediate and real threat of Jihadist terrorism.

Based on the program website, I was hoping for a free ticket to Tel Aviv, a semi-interesting immersion in PowerPoint, and perhaps a visit to a museum or security checkpoint. Instead, I received two of the most engaging weeks in memory and an outstanding understanding of the world of terrorism: from meeting with imprisoned terrorists, to hearing victims recount a terror attack, to observing the security apparatus of police, military, and intelligence services, the program re-defined my concept of experiential education.

The program included a robust series of lectures, a dynamic schedule of field visits, and even the opportunity to absorb the religious and historical sights and significance of the region. We visited a maximum security terrorist prison and spoke in an open prison yard to convicted terrorists, some of which spoke English, one of which was an American citizen, and some of which were serving up to 45 life sentences for their actions. We shot live M-16s with and played paintball against a clandestine border patrol unit. We visited the Syrian and Lebanese borders and travelled deep into the West Bank. We spent a day at an Israeli Air Force base and watched the power of unmanned aerial surveillance catch terrorists red-handed and unaware. We traced the footsteps of Jesus around the Sea of Galilee, touched the Wailing Wall, and stood at the site of the crucifixion. And, as an extra layer of icing on the cake, I turned 20 while floating in warm albeit salty waves the Mediterranean Sea.

While the program made for quite the brochure of experiences, I was most impressed with the people. Forty-four other Fellows, including Peppers Hall alums Chris Stieber and Kevin Mills, came from the nation’s top schools and brought with them unmatched smarts and sincerity. I’m not sure if I’ve come across another group of peers that was more educated and successful yet down-to-earth and fun-loving like these folks. While it was inspiring to be studying with talented students, it was impacting to be under the care of the program’s remarkable staff. Given my employment experiences earlier in the summer, I could sympathize with the logistics quandary posed by 45 college students… but I still can’t believe such a successful program was pulled off in a tenuous security climate at a time of widespread social and political tension. These folks were professionals, and these folks were good.

In the end, I came away with a hands-on understanding of the precepts I’ve been reading and believing for some time: terrorism is sadistically savage and a brutally real threat to me, my family, and my future. No matter the boundaries of time or culture, a common morality binds us all: you never get to slaughter someone else’s children to make your point. While Israel provided an up-close case study in the tactics of effectively fighting terror on your own turf, it further reinforced my conviction that the best–and perhaps only–defense against these killers is a strong offense. We fight them there or we fight them here. I’m signed up to do it there.

I’m squeezing one last stop into this summer’s saga and will depart in the morning for a week in Europe, namely Zurich, Vienna, Prague, Berlin, and Frankfurt. With the sun setting on travel opportunities for the year, I’m hoping this will be a quick adventure to see a new culture, say hello to some European friends I made while studying in Hong Kong, and hopefully cross paths with a friend or two from high school. No matter what, here comes another 16 hours in coach…

The Powers Of Peppers Re-Unite: With Kevin Mills and Chris StieberMore photos available in the gallery…

Update: Of possible interest to the folks that have already read the following, the Jen introduced below has started her own blog in the time intervening since my original post. Check it out and stay updated with her voyage over at Jen’s Chronicles of Crush. Welcome to the blogosphere, Jen.

Note to readers: What follows is most certainly an uber-post. I sat down at the keyboard this morning with the intention of making amends for a few weeks of relative absence from the blogosphere–judging by the length, I may have met that goal. I’ve parceled out the post into sections; I didn’t write it all in one sitting so don’t feel required to read it all in one glance. It’ll still be here another day.

At the moment, I’m rocking back in the same desk chair that I’ve sat in all semester. Yet, while the setting is the same, I feel like I’m in a tranquil silence some thousand miles from a desk that has screamed nothing but syllabus deadlines. It almost seems that I haven’t been to class in weeks. This, my friends, is the miracle of Spring Break. Allow me to explain…

I began plotting this break shortly after the semester began, seeking to put to memorable use some funds and travel passes held over from last semester’s study abroad. Given my choice of destinations and compulsive fixation with stepping onto other continents, I originally decided to shoot for South Africa via Sydney.

Such was the plan until a few weeks ago when I snagged a few minutes of cell time to catch up with Jen Hillmann, a good friend from the trusty Class of ‘03 (to add another ironic dimension, she’s also a vegan and a server at Texas Roadhouse). Turns out that Jen’s semester plans had been redirected quite profoundly since our paths last crossed over Christmas break: she had turned down another semester of college at home in Colorado and had enlisted in a YWAM missions program that would send her to New Zealand for three months of training and then, quite literally, around the world for another three months of service.

So, to fast forward through a few weeks of fluid details and absent blog posts: as I already had my sights on Sydney for Spring Break and Jen was headed to New Zealand in nearly the same time window, she graciously humored my idea to make my own brief detour to the land of Kiwis and spend a few decidedly platonic days catching up with this old friend. My class and midterm schedule was such that I was able to bail out of Malibu a few days early with little consequence, thus allowing me to return with some Spring Break still left to put my life ducks in a row (hence explaining why this is written on a Weds).

- – • – -

The excitement began long before takeoff. Logistics dictated that Jen transit through LA en route to NZ; thankfully, that part of the plan worked well and she made it safely aboard her afternoon flight to Auckland. My half of the itinerary was slightly-more stress inducing: the morning prior to departure I had a midterm in my Christian Political Thought class. Preparation went as planned the night before; I felt very confident of about 80% of the material and decided that I would get up at 6 AM to do some more review and be primed for the 8 AM test.

I slept very well that night.

I awoke in the morning to the sound of my cell phone vibrating along the window sill. I tiredly fumbled the phone to my ear and heard the voice of one of my Christian Political Thought classmates. Figuring it must be an important last minute question regarding the test, I took the initiative to forgive him for waking me. He replied, “Well, is everything alright? We missed you in the test this morning.” About halfway through the breath necessary to chuckle at his cruel joke, I glanced at the clock: 9:57 AM.

Holy Moses.

I can probably count with an airline bag of peanuts how many times in my life I’ve been in utter shock. This was one of them. I later discovered that apparently in the course of packing my camera charger for the trip, I had loosened the plug on my alarm clock. Why the battery backup kept the time but not the alarm, I do not know. But I slept straight through that exam.

I booked it down to the professor’s office, repeatedly pinching myself to ensure that this wasn’t a bad dream from the cherry pie I had eaten before bed. The tale does have a happy ending: after explaining my predicament and promising to file suit against the alarm clock manufacturer, the professor and I enjoyed a good laugh about the whole mess and she allowed me to makeup the exam in the afternoon.

- – • – -

The day’s supersonic tempo of missing the exam, going to classes, and making up the exam was certainly balanced by the ride to the airport to catch my evening flight to Auckland. As Jordan over at Cheese and Crackers pointed out, after years of “rain, rain go away,” “some other day” finally arrived in Southern California. The monsoonal rains nearly made sure I didn’t leave this continent. Rain and mudslides closed all of the routes from Malibu to LA, including Pacific Coast Highway. The only way to the airport was to drive the precisely wrong direction, cut across the top of LA, and then turn south towards LAX. Figuratively, one had to drive the legs of the triangle instead of the hypotenuse.

And so it was: my driving companion Scott and I left at 4:15 PM for my 8:30 PM flight. Even with the roundabout route, we thought we’d have time to get dinner near the airport. Instead, the typically 45 minute drive to the airport took an incredible three and a half hours. I barely made it on the plane, but I did. Scott earned himself a very big gold star for sticking with me through the ordeal and giving up his afternoon for a tour of California as it washed away.

- – • – -

I touched down in New Zealand at 6 AM local time; Jen had arrived a few hours before and had acquainted herself with the empty Auckland airport. In an instance illustrating just how perfect she is for the international travel game, though, by the time I had fetched my bag and cleared customs, Jen had already arranged for a free ride into the city by befriending a gal from Oregon that was working at a Christian camp in New Zealand and was picking up a friend on my flight. Thinking back now, perhaps I should have been more hesitant about hopping in an early ’80s Toyota, with three ladies, in a very foreign country. But I have to hand it to Jen for pulling that one off–I am impressed.

Jen and I were to cross paths for three days in Auckland before she continued south to her YWAM post in Christchurch and I made my way to Sydney. The insanity of the days leading up to the trip and the jet lag from the flight led us both to opt for a rather quiet first day in Auckland. Jen doubled her existing two hours of sleep from the preceding night with a quick nap at the hostel while I, having had a bit more sleep from the overnight flight (and all that rest of sleeping through the exam!), set out on foot to learn a bit more about the country to which the Rectangular Republic was sending one of our most top notch young ladies.

Auckland is a nice combination of a city big enough to merit exploring but small enough to still be manageable. The rumors of anti-Americanism didn’t seem to be overtly true, but perhaps true feelings were hidden in hopes of my tourist dollars. I wandered through the University of Auckland on the first day of classes and saw a slight twist of poetic justice in that while I was here to escape classes, these folks were here to consume them. I discovered another odd juxtaposition at “Aristotle’s Bookshelf,” a neat little bookstore that I would probably rate as the most ideologically favorable collection of political books I’ve ever seen in one place at one time. The part that I found curious was that the joint was run by a proud homosexual; Stateside it seems that my beliefs don’t usually align with the “gay” agenda. Interesting people in an intriguing place.

- – • – -

While it was terrific to simply spend some “face time” with Jen to catch up on life, the most exhilarating part of the trip would have to be the “canyoning” adventure we joined on day two. Canyoning is big tourist business in New Zealand: essentially, tour operators pick you up in the city, give you a wetsuit and a helmet, drive you out into the mountains, hike with you up to the summit of a large mountain stream, and show you how to expend maximum adrenaline by traveling down the mountain in the aforementioned stream. The stream travels down the mountain through dozens of “steps,” or waterfalls followed by pools. The three possible options at every level of elevation descent are either to jump from the cliff above into the pool below, to slide down polished rock chutes, or, in cases of extraordinary distance, to rappel down through the waterfall–or as they call it, “abseil.” It’s a rush either way.

While the pictures (from the tour operator’s waterproof camera that I’ll post in the gallery as soon as I get the CD in the mail) will certainly tell the story far more clearly than any tapestry of adjectives, I think my proudest achievement of the day is going through with the 30 ft. cliff jump. Jen, of course, had no fear and sailed through the “wickedest jump of the day” like it was as easy as dropping a trash bag of chicken soup off an overpass. I, admittedly, was quite a bit more concerned about the prospect: the height wasn’t so much the problem (just a bit taller than the high dive, right?) as was the size of the target. Perhaps it’s just the view from on top, but in this case the landing zone, surrounded by rocks, didn’t look like it left much room for operator error. At the time of decision, it appeared to me that I was contemplating a jump off my three story dorm into a garbage can of water.

After the tour guide assured me that no one had been irreparably messed up by the challenge, I shouted down to Jen for some last minute advice. Her response? “Go big or go home.” Words never wiser.

Somewhere in that moment I realized that precisely six months ago to the day had been the blink when our mutual friend Mark Peter Heinmets passed from this life to the next. Being across an ocean, on top of a mountain, jumping off cliffs made Mark’s mantra more real than ever before–not just in the serene beauty of the canyon or in the thrill of the expedition, but in the simple and complete pleasure of life. And so, forgetting all the chances when I’ve failed to sink a wad of paper into a not too distant trash can, I realized that I had absolutely nothing to lose and thus hurled myself over the ledge. Slamming into frigid water has never been sweeter.

- – • – -

Jen and I enjoyed our final shared day in Auckland with a leisurely start and a ferry out to Waiheke Island. The said for goal for the day was to relax, enjoy, and do something about the mutual albino lack of tanning that had been the product of the previous day’s wetsuits. Waiheke is a small island paradise available only 35 minutes from the bustle of Auckland. While it’s certainly set in postcard-worthy surroundings, the island itself has done a very nice job of being developed for tourists and residents, yet still feeling very open and very natural. A variety of trails (in New Zealand-speak: “tracks”) crisscross the island and make for some very picturesque hiking (again, New Zealand-speak: “tramping”).

Jen and I found ourselves on a really neat trail that led to one of the highest points on the island. On top was a grassy knoll with a quadpod–some sort of navigational marker–that probably wasn’t meant to be a tourist jungle gym, but did have a rather spectacular view of the ocean. In an odd moment of serenity, I think we both became separately immersed in the world our senses were experiencing. I realized later that we sat there in silence for probably nearly an hour. Quite a world to take in.

We ended the day on Waiheke with a brief stop at the island health food store for some late afternoon snacks and then a mini-picnic of sorts out on the beach. It was a terrific time and place to enjoy a few minutes more of conversation–exploring everything from the process of growing up, to the Global War on Terror, to how ridiculous my map navigation skills are. As the sun soon set, we gathered ourselves and hopped the ferry back to Auckland and enjoyed a final outstanding dinner atop the rotating Auckland SkyTower before parting our separate ways in the morning.

- – • – -

Now, here me clearly: Jen and I are nothing more, and thankfully nothing less, than friends. After harpooning that potential elephant in the room, though, I feel quite liberated to insert a thought on why I admire her. Yes, those that know her know it’s hard not to like her: she’s got a great sense of humor, loves all things outdoors, takes her faith seriously, and works ridiculously hard. But, I think what truly makes Jen unique is her essence of authenticity. She really believes, she really cares, she really is.

Even on two hours of sleep, she shows a profound care for mere strangers. Even six thousand miles from home, she’s the same serving soul you might once have found clearing tables after a double-shift. Even in the midst of heartbreak, she embraces something larger than herself. She is a committed listener, a courageous mentor, a trustworthy fellow traveler.

So, Jen: Go. Do. Continue to be.

I will miss seeing you, Jen, but I know some of your hope, your audacity, your authenticity, and your faith will follow me wherever I go.

- – • – -

As Jen set course south to Christchurch, I ventured further west to Sydney. In all the details of New Zealand, I hadn’t yet given much consideration to how I would spend my time in Sydney. I had decided to save the hop to South Africa for another time and another place, largely because flights to and from Johannesburg are only every other day. Thus, even if I had the good fortune of getting to South Africa, there was a very real chance that I wouldn’t get back in time to keep my commitments Stateside. My Lonely Planet did not disappoint, though, and I found a fabulous beach town on the outskirts of Sydney called Cronulla.

Compared to the city life of LA, Auckland, and Sydney, Cronulla was a delightful niche of small town Australia, which, not surprisingly, seemed to reflect a lot of my ideal of small town America. Old men greeted me on the street, kids rode their bikes down the main drag, and the hostel proprietor even gave out his cell phone number in case of questions or concerns. Cronulla reminded me quite a bit of Ocean City, New Jersey–a beach town in America that my family has vacationed at since before trans-Pacific air service ever existed.

Reflecting on how enjoyable it was to get outside in New Zealand, I decided Cronulla’s 16 mile coastal trail would be the perfect way to spend the following day. I set out at 6 AM and was joined by only one other person on the 6:30 AM ferry to Bundeena, another coastal town across the bay. The Coast Track, as it’s called, set out from there and was an awesome combination of walking beaches, winding through cliffs, hiking ridges, and gazing at the big blue ocean beyond. Some 7 hours and 37,908 steps later (at least according to my pedometer), I made it to the other end of the peninsula. And only saw two other folks on the trail the entire day.

Wildlife in the middle of Australia was not something I had given great consideration to before setting out. I came across quite a few massive spiders who had spun webs across the trail and even stumbled across a porcupine suspiciously waving his tail at me. The most startling moment came when I saw a dark, hairy creature rustling in the tall grass a little ways ahead on the trail. Seeing that the top of its head looked like a small deer or perhaps even a large dog, I wasn’t too concerned and continued ahead. My kidneys about switched sides, though, when the darn creature bounded in front of me like Flubber incarnation of the animal kingdom. What kind of deer can jump straight up? After assuming the judo-chop position, I had a grand chuckle with myself when I realized that this is, in fact, Australia and that creature is, in fact, a kangaroo. The least they could do is put up some signs or something…

Do you believe those stories of folks “accidentally” wandering onto nudist beaches? I must say, I never really believed any of those. It seemed to me that “accidentally” ending up on a nudist beach was like “accidentally” ending up in a pool with all your clothes on: theoretically, it could happen, but practically, you’d just be an idiot to do it.

I, my friends, am just such an idiot. Though it wasn’t marked on the map, it turns out that my 16 mile hike concluded at a “clad-optional” beach, as the Aussies call it. Thankfully for my innocence, the trail wasn’t smack through the beach, but rather on the cliffs above. It took me a few minutes of pondering, though, to discern why everyone below was wearing skin-colored bathing suits. I took a picture when I realized the answer to my question. (Hold your hormonal horses… I mean a picture of the sign

And that’s all I have to say about that.

- – • – -

Oh, and Fabio went through the security checkpoint behind me at the airport on my way out of Sydney. Nice guy. We even had time to strike a quick deal: I’ll wear my shirt half-unbuttoned if he’ll cut his hair. Just kidding. My shirt was already unbuttoned.

I’ll be posting some pictures in the Gallery as time allows…

FRIDAY

In short: a powerful day.

We arrived in Japan last night after the three hour flight from Hong Kong. The cultural experience began with a trip to the local 7-11 shortly after hotel check-in. On the positive side, I was introduced to jalapeño rice crackers and Japanese ice cream, while on the less positive side, I was re-introduced to the English-vacuum and American-style-price-levels. After an enjoyable rest, we set off early this morning for the three hour bus ride to Nagasaki from Fukuoka, the closest international airport and the home of our bed for the preceding night.

While the Japanese appear to be quite serious about there touring, cramming six destinations and two meals into an 11-hour day, the most memorable sites of the day were rather somber reminders of death and destruction: the Atomic Bomb memorial and museum and the memorial to the Martyrdom of the 26 Saints.

The Atomic Bomb experience–first the opportunity to stand in the remains of the Catholic Church that was the epicenter of the world’s second offensive nuclear experience and then to tour the museum that chronicled this event and the advent of the Atomic Age in general–was profound. Both were very overwhelming experiences, particularly as seen through the eyes of an American, a future member of the USAF, and a person of faith.

My primary regret is the abbreviated time allotted for both locations–certainly two hours in total wasn’t nearly enough to begin unpacking the sheer scale of this concept. Also, I’m concerned that the depiction of America’s use of the atomic weapon–and the ensuing arms race–was portrayed in isolation, outside of the context of war and peace, or the greater clash of good and evil. Perhaps this is actually a courtesy of the Japanese, allowing the participant to formulate a perspective based on one’s own understanding of these contextual issues. While viewing the tremendously horrific images of the aftermath of such an event churns one to a more blurred degree of moral clarity on nuclear war than through framing the issue through the statistics of a textbook, I believe that justice–not to America’s decision, but to the lives obliterated–demands a greater and more profound discovery of not only what led to such incomprehensible destruction, but also to the owing of so much, by so many, to so few. War–and the ultimate of such, in the atomic sense–is a hellish thing, but I fear it is not the most cursed of human experiences.

Another sacrifice remembered today was that of 26 Christians who were, quite literally, crucified for their faith in 1597 by a Japanese ruler who feared the potentially subversive qualities of the life-changing message they proclaimed. I found this memorial particularly fascinating in the context described by Endo’s Silence, a required read for my most recent course in Pepperdine’s Social Action & Justice Colloquium. While I was never too thrilled about the quantity of time necessary to invest in the book, I was intrigued by the questions it posed at the intersection of faith, apologetics, and martyrdom. My intrigue was renewed today when I stood on the ground where such uncertainties were resolutely answered with the piercing of 26 quite ordinary, but quite committed Christians.

So, all in all, a very introspective day. I’m looking forward to using this brief experience as a catalyst to dig further into all that has been written about the aforementioned events. Watch this space for the eventual formation of some of my own responses–but, in the interim, remember that you, too, are an intellectually endowed creation just as welcome to share with the world such discovery. Just do what you can, where you are, with what you have… right?

SATURDAY

Today, it seems most expedient to deviate from my usual format of starting at the beginning and instead initiate blogging with the events of now:

It’s just past 10 PM and it appears that sometime in the last few hours, a rather momentous earthquake occurred in Tokyo. The details are very hard to decipher since we’re watching an entirely-Japanese telecast, but we have heard Los Angeles mentioned several times (possibly a comparison to the Northridge quake?) While this doesn’t appear to be catastrophic, it seems to have rattled everyone to the point of uninterrupted television coverage…

This event follows an evening spent gorging myself in a traditional Japanese dinner and spa experience. The dinner was very raw and entirely new, but on the whole, very enjoyable and tolerably tasty. My verdict is that Japanese food is definitely a whole ‘nother animal that Southeast Asian food, and slightly less agreeable to American’s constitution.

The spa experience that followed was certainly memorable–not because of the well-appointed facilities, but because the Japanese do it in their birthday suits. And, after 9 foreign cities so far, I feel qualified to conclude that nothing demolishes a cultural barrier like nudity. Once one gets past the initial, and very defining, difference in bathing apparel, it was actually quite pleasant. After two hours of conversation, I nearly forgot I was conversing commando.

Today’s tour pace was a bit more reserved that yesterday, largely because of the distance involved between today’s sights. We did visit a national part with a dormant volcano and sulfur springs, a Japanese castle that Christians occupied under siege from the emperor’s forces, and a traditional samurai house. Personally, I feel like my sightseeing climaxed yesterday, but it is still quite a thrill to continue exposure to distinctive Japanese culture. More about that in the photos…

I’m off to investigate the impact of this earthquake on our planned departure for Hong Kong tomorrow morning…

For the full story on the earthquake, check the Reuters report. Selfish news: our travel proceeded uninterrupted. Bad news: this is the worst earthquake Japan has seen in nine years.

Photos and video from the trip will be posted as time allows… thanks for tuning in

I’m a bit behind on getting the Thailand adventure online: the first order of business upon my return has been getting ready for my first oral and written Chinese language exams. Just do me a favor and before you go to bed tonight, thank the Almighty for your native tongue…

FRIDAY

One night in Bangkok? Check.

I got on the ground in Bangkok this morning via a red-eyed flight from Hong Kong on Emirates Airlines. I was very impressed with Emirates: flying a new 777-300, getting a full meal on a 10 PM flight, and flight attendants wearing Arabic-berets were all pleasant surprises. After getting into Bangkok, I hopped on the last airport bus of the day and took the 45 minute ride into town and towards my bed for the night.

I stayed the night (or at least what remained of it) at a fantastic joint called Big John’s Guesthouse (No, I’m not kidding–check it out yourself.) It’s an Aussie-run joint and it just opened a new facility at the beginning of the month, so I was treated to a very new, very clean bed, a warm shower, and 30 min of free Internet access (on an iMac, no less!) all for less than the cost of a #1 at McDonalds back in my beloved Etas Unis.

My day in Bangkok primarily consisted of some shopping opportunities and wandering around the city, all while trying to avoid the recent outbreak of bird flu. I visited the Weekend Market, which was only partially open due to my visit falling on a Friday. Nonetheless, it was very interesting to see the massive ramp-up process for the 200,000 shoppers (Yes, that’s what the Lonely Planet says) this place serves on weekends. I also got to experience the run around of haggling with an Arabic tailor over a custom made suite. While the fashions (and certainly everything else as well) are a bargain over here, I’m beginning to think custom-fitted may be a bit more than I need…

On a larger scale, I must remark that while Bangkok is a noticeably dirty and sadly run-down city, the people make it a very enjoyable place. For the first time since I’ve been across this ocean, I’ve found a destination where folks smile back at you, the shopkeepers aren’t pushy in the least, and everyone has a sense of courtesy and personal space. What a marvelous place! It’s been a very welcome change compared to what, in contrast, has seemed like a cultural game of “Smear the Tourist.”

I’m currently sitting in my bunk about two hours into the 12-hour train ride to Chiang Mai. I hope the next hours will be an excellent opportunity to catch up on some reading and some shut eye before my 36 hour trek of Chiang Mai. Thanks for reading.

SATURDAY

Hi-Ho! Hi-Ho! It’s off for a trek we go!

Two words say it: Thailand rocks.

As promised, my night train from Bangkok faithfully pulled in to Chiang Mai at 6:30 AM. The train ended up being fairly comfortable, but I am happy to say that I don’t remember most of it–I fell asleep soon after dinner and didn’t regain consciousness until the conductor delivered the cross-cultural wakeup call of slamming the bunk next to me shut.

At the station, I was picked up my trek guide and whisked off to a guest house where I was given an hour to repack before the adventure began. At the appointed time, the guide returned (and thankfully returned my passport that he had gone to copy) and led me out to the trek truck. The trek truck doesn’t exactly stop to pick you up–rather, it pauses at a designated point in traffic and zooms ahead when the other drivers get impatient, whether or not you’ve successfully thrown yourself and all your Earthly possessions into the back.

From there, we set off on the hour long ride (all piled in the back Afghani-warlord-style) to a local market where the guides purchased our food for the weekend. Our second stop was our first tour destination: the Mork-Fa waterfall. The waterfall was quite spectacular–really an up close and personal experience, particularly when we got a chance to hop in and swim under buckets of dihydrogen monoxide aqueous that had just plummeted from hundred of feet above. [Editorial note: I didn't discover until the train ride back to Bangkok that a little slip at the waterfall had actually, apparently, sprained my ankle. Everything turned out just fine, though.]

En route to our next destination, I had a chance to to talk to my fellow trekkers–all twentysomethings from France, Austria, and Ireland. My empirical evidence demonstrates that all language must be stored in the same spot in the brain, because ever since I started trying to “learn” Chinese, my high school French has been resurfacing en masse, despite the fact I haven’t touched the language in nearly three years. I did my best to get to know the guys from France in their mother tongue, though things got a bit linguistically rocky when they brought up the topic of President Bush and the election. I quickly realized that I don’t know a single political word in French–but apparently pantomimes of terrorist acts transcended the language barrier. When I was finally able to communicate my choice in the coming election, I quickly became the political minority on the truck–but thankfully the French moral relativism came to my rescue and they concluded, “Who are we to judge you?”

Upon arrival at our next stop, we prepared to set off for what we paid for, a “trek.” I must admit I was expecting more of a nature walk, given how overstated most tourist attractions have been to this point, but these trek folks weren’t screwing around. We did a six mile bushwhack through the Thai jungle and visited several scenic spots and multiple hill tribe villages. The trek was most enjoyable–peace, quiet, and ample oxygen. I did find a great deal of humor in watching the chainsmoking Frenchmen who would puff down a Marlboro or two at each water break and then wheeze and crawl up the next hill. Silly French. Needless to say, we made it safe ‘n sound to the the hilltribe village where we well spend the night and from where I am currently writing.

SUNDAY

I’d like to take this chance to correct yesterday’s thesis. Thailand not only rocks, it rocks my world.

After enduring a bit of a jungle typhoon last night, this morning turned into a beautiful day. We began day two of the trek with an elephant ride–yes an ELEPHANT RIDE! Perhaps this event isn’t too exciting for folks that grew up riding horses or other large mammals (or with your uncle in Alaska hunting wolverines), but for a guy whose mountin’ and trottin’ experience consists largely of childhood trips on the back of the family Golden Retriever, this was an incredible thrill. We hopped on the top of these massive creatures and enjoyed an hour long ride down and through the river. It was incredible just to feel the spectacular force echo through every step and sway of these pachyderms and see how steadfast they were in spite of rushing water up to their eyes. Really, really sweet.

Following the elephant ride, we continued our hike downstream (apparently the river gets too deep even for elephants) and soon came to the bamboo rafting camp. The bamboo rafting is quite an interesting process–each raft is single use and is therefore made to order for each group going down the river. And, by raft, I mean something a bit different than our American equivalent–basically, they just lash together a massive bamboo-billboard type structure and you’re told to stand on the darn thing while it floats down the river and through the rapids. It’s quite a thrill–kind of a very tame version of surfing. But, nonetheless, I think it’s something that we probably wouldn’t get away with down the Arkansas in Colorado…

After enjoying a few hours of this experiment in physics called rafting, our trek reached our final destination and we were rewarded with lunch and certificated proclaiming we were now “real trekkers.” We hopped back in the trekking truck and enjoyed three more hours of bonding that can only take place when 12 people from four countries are piled in to the back of a pickup truck.

As soon as I got back to Chiang Mai, I was met by the owner of the travel agency and two 19-year-old lady interns from the same agency who were to take me to the train station. The plan was to get a ticket for the night train back to Bangkok that was leaving in 30 min–unfortunately, that entire train was sold out, as were the next two trains. Luckily, I was able to get a third-class ticket (meaning no bunk, no air conditioning) for the last train of the night to Bangkok–and thankfully it would get me to my flight just in time.

However, I now happened to have a good 3 hours of free time before the train, and I felt I had inconvenienced the travel agency folks for rushing to get me on a train that was sold out. So, I did what seemed in my mind to be the right thing (and in hindsight probably looks awkwardly American) and offered to take the travel agency folks out for dinner. Long story short, it was a delightful time–excellent Thai food, some karoake to some Richard Marx classics, and I even got a shower before the train. Thai people are really, really cool.

After a great final evening in Chiang Mai, I got my train, and eventually my plane… but now I’ve to run to class!

Photos from the trip are now online… video coming soon!