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​Georgia (not the state)

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​Georgia (not the state)

A bit after midnight an old, yet seemingly sky worthy Wizz Air craft bounced onto the tarmac at Kutaisi international airport. The plane offloaded via a hand pushed rolling staircase. It was a short, unsupervised walk over to a small door reading ‘customs’ in English below a long string of unrecognizable characters. There were no formal lines so the mass of people piled into a tiny hall where two customs agents rapidly stamped passports with no regard for what kind of document was handed to them. Georgia’s government is all about tourism these days, and their eagerness to let outsiders in was obvious. Bags arrived promptly on the lone carousel. Before even checking if the airport had WiFi I was in and an armed police officer strapping well-worn soviet firepower was happy to watch Abi and I bobble around the unfamiliar language, eventually setting us up with a taxi. I had no idea, not even a preconceived notion, about what I would see outside the airport. The road was dark so first impressions included nothing more than a straight road ahead and the occasional dim, fluorescently lit, petrol station.

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Haggis and Highlands

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Haggis and Highlands

In stark contrast to U.S. customs, a kind, older Brit was quick to offer his two pence on the best way to get from Heathrow to King’s Cross and saved my mom and I a few pounds in the process. Stamp in passport, to the tube I went. I was on a mission with my four hours in London and Big Ben was ticking. By complete coincidence my lifelong friend Elliot happened to be in London for work and it would have been a shame to miss the small window during which we could meet up. A quick pizza lunch with my mom and his girlfriend was just like the old days back in New Jersey, unfortunately, our visit was short; business called and I had a train to catch.

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Intermission

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Intermission

Brisk air filled the jet way, the tropics were nowhere to be found. It seemed the northeast’s brutal spring was making its last stand. A two mile line awaited me as I entered the customs terminal, and what felt like an eternity elapsed as I listened to the less than compassionate line clerks squawk at cellphone usage like middle school teachers. Eventually, I was called to a booth, my internal self shamed for not having acquired Global Entry before my departure. An angsty customs agent grumbled at me as he scanned my passport and shooed me away as though my arrival was an unexpected inconvenience. Newark International hadn’t changed a bit.

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​Half-Way Home: A Surf Adventure

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​Half-Way Home: A Surf Adventure

It’s always striking how perspective can change and Lima has felt like the anchor point for these shifts throughout my trip. Landing in Lima for a third time, my journey from the airport was a wild one. It’s pretty rare for tourists to take the public bus from the airport, but it’s the perfect window into working class Lima and the price is right so I opt for this route. The bus stop is a lively, chaotic place. Small minibuses drift into the pickup zone from the highway at full speed. Fare collectors hang out the sliding doors hooting at other busses as they narrowly avoid collision. Yelling out in an undecipherable shorthand where the bus is going. Locals pile in and out. Before the dust settles from such an aggressive entrance the tires squeal, peeling out back onto the main road. As I waited for my bus, a rather comfortable public shuttle not dissimilar to what you would find in NYC or Paris, I marvel at this loosely organized system and how efficient it does appear to be, moving people rapidly with little fuss. It’s also a bit of a shock to the system. After three months in Chile, I had forgotten how much looser things tend to be in Peru and it was exhilarating to be tossed back into the frenzy.

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Valparaiso

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Valparaiso

It was close to three months since I last found myself in a proper city, and only minutes elapsed before I was entranced by Valparaiso. In route to an Airbnb the narrow winding roads zipped by my colectivo’s window, leaving long-exposure trails of brightly colored facades in its wake. One turn off the main drag and I was instantly lost in this city of hills. Hidden staircases, adorned in spray can acrylic, branch off in every direction creating a vast web of interconnection amongst the earths undulating surface. Dead ends cease to exist. I gazed out upon the city sitting above and below me from a small lookout at the edge of my street. Beyond the port, outside the harbor, the open ocean played horizon to the rising sun offering a personal welcome.