THE OUTPOSTVIEW
CANMORE HITTING THE TRAIL WITH
WORLD-RENOWNED ALPINIST
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F FROM ALPINE SCRAMBLING TO MOUNTAIN BIKING AND BEYOND! M
More Unpasteurized
Cheese, Please!
JEFF FUCHS in EXTREMADURA
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JULY AUGUST
OUTPOSTMAGAZINE.COM $4.50 CAN/US. DISPLAY UNTIL SEPTEMBER 30, 2016
T TRAVEL BY BOOK: VAGABOND DREAMS & IIT’S ONLY THE HIMALAYAS ADRIFT IN THE WILDS OF LIECHTENSTEIN A NEVER LEAVE YOUR CAMERA BEHIND N DON’T FORGET OUR 2016 PHOTO CONTEST D
By Simon
Vaughan
When Cheese-Loving Goes Bad How a Miami stopover almost turns our supersenior turophile into a jailbird It’s not something I am proud of or tell many people, but some years ago I spent two nights in a South African jail. While it might be an exaggeration to say that it was a lifechanging episode, I do believe I coped with the depravations quite well and emerged a stronger and better person for the experience. Actually, if I am completely honest—and at risk of sounding especially macho—it was no hardship at all. The 19th-century prison had been transformed into a very comfortable hotel located close to Cape Town’s beautiful V&A Waterfront. While having to share a bathroom with the adjoining room was a test of patience and character—and at least once of bladder control—the Breakwater Lodge was quite lovely and the views superb. The experience has since gotten me out of some sticky situations with tattooed heavies by forewarning them of the ease with which I did my time in a South African prison—before swiftly running away and hiding. Thankfully, that’s the closest I have ever come to being imprisoned. Although once in Miami I really did think I was going to be locked up, and it was considerably more frightening than a bathroom shared with an adjoining hotel room! www.o outp posstm mag gazin ne.co om
I had spent 10 fabulous days in the Amazonian jungles of 4VSJOBNF BOE XBT PO UIF mSTU MFH PG UIF KPVSOFZ IPNF nZJOH from the capital Paramaribo to the sunbaked Netherlands Antilles island of Curaçao, on to Miami and thence to Canada. As I gazed out of the aircraft window at the clear blue waters below, I vaguely heard the cabin service director make an announcement about our imminent arrival in Curaçao. When the cabin door opened, in swept a wave of hot, tropical air. i8IFSF T ZPVS DBNFSB CBH w POF PG UIF USBWFM NBUFT * E made in the jungle asked a few moments later, as I sniffed around the assortment of Dutch cheeses in the airport’s small Duty Free shop. i0O UIF QMBOF w * BOTXFSFE EJTUSBDUFE CZ B QBSUJDVMBSMZ mOF XIFFM PG FEBN i%JEO U ZPV IFBS UIFN TBZ OPU UP MFBWF BOZUIJOH PO CPBSE XIJMF JU T CFJOH DMFBOFE w People often talk about receiving certain news like a kick to the stomach. This was one of those, and the impact had come from the hooves of a particularly cantankerous mule. I hadn’t heard the announcement to which my colleague referred, likely because I was too busy staring out of the window at vistas new. Now, NZ DBNFSB CBH DPOUBJOJOH BMM NZ HFBS BOE UIF SPMMT PG mMN I had just shot were likely gone forever, hoovered up by the
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BQQBSFOUMZ NPTU OFGBSJPVTMZ MJHIU mOHFSFE DSFBUVSFT PG BMM the Curaçao International Airport aircraft cleaners syndicate! I’m not sure whether my face turned the same shade as the goat’s cheese I was fondling, but I certainly felt a week’s worth of tan drain into my boots. Leaving the cheeses behind, I sprinted across the small terminal and pressed my nose and hands against the departure lounge window, staring longingly at our aircraft a few hundred yards away. Once beckoned forward, I raced across the tarmac and leaped the stairs three at a time. I lunged for the overhead bin, wrenched it open and heaved a massive sigh PG SFMJFG UP mOE NZ DBNFSB CBH TUJMM UIFSF Collapsing into my seat with my arms wrapped around the bag, I vowed that from then on, I would intently listen UP FWFSZ TJOHMF XPSE TBJE PO FWFSZ TJOHMF nJHIU JO SFWFSFOUJBM silence. Even those in completely unintelligible languages. In Miami, I had a four-hour DPOOFDUJPO CFGPSF NZ mOBM flight home but there was BO FBSMJFS nJHIU 1FSDIFE BT I was in the second row, I concluded that if I dashed off the plane, promptly cleared U.S. customs, was blessed by the carousel gods with a quick luggage retrieval and then ran to the check-in desk, I might just make the earlier nJHIU I outlined my plan to my fellow jungle trekkers scattered about the cabin and we bid our fond farewells on board the aircraft. 5IF mSTU QBSU PG NZ QMBO succeeded perfectly when we landed in Miami ahead of schedule. We taxied to a TUPQ BOE CZ UIF UJNF UIF nJHIU attendant opened the cabin door, I was already standing in the aisle, third in the queue to leave. As I stood cooling my heels, an announcement was made asking us to have our documents in hand as U.S. authorities were going to do a pre-check. I stepped into the Skybridge to be confronted by three very TFSJPVT MPPLJOH PGmDJBMT XFBSJOH KFBOT BOE 5 TIJSUT CVMMFUQSPPG vests, badges and large guns. While two dealt with the two passengers ahead of me, the third waved me over. He took NZ QBTTQPSU BOE CFHBO UP nJDL UISPVHI JU XJUI HSFBU JOUFSFTU watching me intently. Eventually, tucking my passport inside the top of his Kevlar vest, he waved me to one side of the narrow tunnel. .Z mSTU UIPVHIU XBT UIBU NZ IPQFT PG UIF FBSMJFS nJHIU were now dead. My second thought made that notion the least of my worries, for as I watched the agents checking everyone I overheard one identify himself as DEA—the infamous Drug Enforcement Agency of the American government. It was then that most of my blood followed my tan into my boots and I got the second mule-kick of the day to my stomach. JULY/AUGUST • 2016
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Clearly, while I was surveying the cheese in Curaçao airport, TPNFPOF XBT CVTZ TUVGmOH ESVHT JOUP NZ DBNFSB CBH BOE I was about to do some very serious time in a very serious Florida jail, I surmised to myself. I knew I was far too pretty to go to jail, and though I’d never had trouble making friends, I wasn’t sure that that was a good thing in a federal penitentiary. I began to study the other passengers and the questions that the Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS), U.S. Customs Service and DEA—or whoever these guys were exactly—were asking, and it became clear that whoever they’d been tipped off to watch for was unaccompanied because everyone was CFJOH BTLFE i"SF ZPV USBWFMMJOH BMPOF w As soon as someone replied they were with their wife or HPMmOH CVEEJFT UIFZ XFSF XBWFE BMPOH "MBT * XBT OFWFS asked the question—or in fact any question. Instead, they’d taken one look at my shifty eyes, shuffled through my passport and condemned me to incarceration. By the time the last passenger had departed the aircraft, three of us were left in the Skybridge: a rotund 60-something woman of indeterminate nationality who didn’t speak a word of English; a tall 40-something brown-haired American who was threatening to call his congressman if he wasn’t quickly released; and a blonde 20-something Canadian—me, with my thenBritish passport. One by one we were further interrogated, the older woman being led away to find a USBOTMBUPS UIF "NFSJDBO mOBMMZ released after demanding his lawyer, and me, trying to keep my quivering lip in order. i8IFSF BSF ZPV DPNJOH GSPN w * XBT BTLFE UIF overhead light sparkling on the shiny badge attached to his belt and blinding me like the naked bulb in a movie interrogation scene. i4VSJOBNF w * FYDMBJNFE i8JUI '3*&/%4à w I virtually screamed, my bottled-up desire to explain this part of my story exploding to the surface. i4P XIFSF BSF ZPVS friends OPX w IF BTLFE XJUI BO a-ha tone to his Spanish Inquisition tone. i:PV MFU UIFN HP w * SFQMJFE FRVBMMZ BT a-ha, gaining DPOmEFODF BMUIPVHI * TVTQFDU OP BDUVBM GBDJBM DPMPVS i8IFO XFSF ZPV MBTU JO UIF 6OJUFE 4UBUFT w IF DPOUJOVFE BT IF nJDLFE CBDL BOE GPSUI UISPVHI NZ OFXMZ JTTVFE BOE previously-unused passport, looking for entry or exit stamps. i-BTU XFFL PO NZ XBZ EPXO XJUI NZ '3*&/%4 w * SFQMJFE trying to keep my newly-found courtroom-pacing Clarence Darrow persona under control. i)PX MPOH BSF ZPV TUBZJOH IFSF w IF QFSTJTUFE MPPLJOH BU me with his head tilted to one side, accentuating the ‘you’ by poking at me with the passport he still held. i* IBWF B nJHIU PVU JO GPVS IPVST 4PPOFS JG * DBO NBLF JU w ww ww.ou utpo ostm magaazin ne..com
riends and comrades! On that side [south] are toil, hunger, nakedness, the drenching storm, desertion, and death; on this side, ease and pleasure. There lies Peru with its riches; here, Panama and its poverty. Choose, each man, what best becomes a brave Castilian. For my part, I go to the south.
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5IFTF XPSET GSPN POF PG UIF NPTU CSVUBMMZ FGmDJFOU PG BMM the Spanish conquistadores, hints not simply of a national ambition or policy of the time. It speaks to a kind of man who craved personal risk and who feared little. While Francisco Pizarro’s exploits (circa 1525-40) would mSNMZ FTUBCMJTI 4QBJO T MPOH MBTUJOH DMBJN PWFS 4PVUI "NFSJDB he would die in ignominy in Peru, when assassinated after much skulduggery. 1J[BSSP T iGFBUTw PG DPORVFSJOH BOE EFTUSVDUJPO BOE IJT death, point to an era in history when an expansionist empire enlisted a generation of rugged and desperate mortals from a land that held little in the way of promise. A place of desolation and extreme seasonal variation, with its ensuing limited agricultural opportunities; a place that struggled to keep anyone who craved an elsewhere. In Spain still today, the region of Extremadura (meaning extreme hardship in English) is often referred to as La Gran Desconocida, or the Big Unknown. The impoverished inland region in southwestern Spain tempted and pushed many of its starved sons to leave and seek life—any life—elsewhere. According to many Spaniards, it does still. Other conquistadores, like Hernando de Soto and Vasco Nunez de Balboa, actually claimed Extremadura as their homeland. And while they brought home massive wealth all those centuries ago, the region remains one of the poorest and least known zones of not simply Spain but Europe. It is a Friday, and I stand munching a savory cheese in a market of unpasteurized dairy delights. The brutal and famed sun of Extremadura bludgeons, and BSPVOE NF QVOHFOU PGGFSJOHT PG USVGnF DIFFTF SFDLMFTT FYBNQMFT of local pepper cheese, and buttery sheep milk triangles of cheese, dot an entire square of Pizarro’s hometown of Trujillo. Above us, a tribute statue of Pizarro astride his mount looms, casting shade pockets to escape the heat. Even now, with the sun, things casually bustle; but just a short walk to the outskirts of the village and there’s an expanse of gorgeous nothingness. I’m reminded of what a Tibetan friend once said UP NF BCPVU TQBDFT i*O UIF NPVOUBJOT UIFSF JT BMXBZT MJGF but it isn’t always seen. It hides in valleys and tents, but it JT BMXBZT UIFSF w Perhaps in this big empty space life is here as well, but it certainly isn’t seen. It is through this space that I’ll walk, drive, and eat my way in the coming weeks. • • • To the south of Extremadura are the elegant and grand towns of festivals and culture, Seville and Cordoba. To its north, the third-oldest university in all of Europe, the University of Salamanca, founded in 1134, sits in sweeping lines across the far landscape. But Extremadura remains a wonderful little gap of quiet solitude, under-populated stillness. Names of its towns barely register, even with native Spaniards. A southwestern zone that sits as a kind of void abutting Portugal that is known for its coveted jamón IbÊrico de bellota (a cured ham made from acorn-fed Iberian pigs), stunning little cheeses and clean water. JULY/AUGUST • 2016
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Remote, unassuming and historically rich is a little laidback pocket in southwestern Spain that Jeff Fuchs hits the road to explore STORY AND PHOTOS BY JEFF FUCHS
THE VILLAGE OF TREVEJO, WITH A POPULATION OF JUST 20-30 PEOPLE, IN NORTHWEST EXTREMADURA www.o outp posstm mag gazin ne.co om
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BARRY BLANCHARD:
ALPINIST, MOUNTAIN GUIDE, GENTLEMAN He’s climbed everywhere from Alaska to South America, the Rockies to the Himalayas, and has a list to his name of mountaineering firsts that is almost as high as an alpine crag. Born in Calgary, Barry Blanchard found his head for heights at a young age and once bitten by the mountain-culture bug was hooked for life. An early foray saw him spend six months exploring the French Alps, while at age 24 he was part of the first successful ascent of the Andromeda Strain—one of the Rockies’ toughest and most revered routes—on Alberta’s 3,450-metre Mount Andromeda. It was just the first of many records, and today Blanchard is widely acknowledged as a respected and award-winning author, one of Canada’s greatest alpinists, and a world leader in highly technical, high-risk climbing. With Everest expeditions and a slew of new routes, first ascents and other accomplishments under his belt—from Nepal to Pakistan, France to Canada, including a first ascent of Infinite Patience on the Emperor Face of Mount Robson, the highest peak in
the Rockies, and solo first ascent of the North Face on Kusum Kanguru in the Himalayas—it wasn’t long before Hollywood came knocking for his experience and expertise. Those were his booted feet standing in for Sylvester Stallone’s in Cliffhanger, his body that doubled for Scott Glenn, Bill Paxton and Chris O’Donnell in Vertical Limit, and his comforting and calm demeanour that assisted Anthony Hopkins in The Edge. Today, the mountains beckon as loudly as ever for Blanchard. Living in Canmore with his family, he is an associate director with Yamnuska Mountain Adventures, and works as an internationally certified mountain guide on mountaineering, rock climbing, ice climbing, ski touring and various international expeditions. He also mentors junior guides, and generally seizes any opportunity to inspire anyone who wants to follow in his alpine toeholds. —Simon Vaughan
NEARING THE 2,240-METRE SUMMIT OF YAMNUSKA WITH BLANCHARD LEADING THE WAY
THE SUUNTO TRAVERSE NEAR THE SUMMIT OF MOUNT YAMNUSKA RECORDS THE ELEVATION
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!
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I noticed how Barry articulated every step. Sure, he’s hiked Yamnuska some 500 times; but the care he put into every step spoke to a lifetime of walking uphill slowly. It was hard not to imagine that same surefootedness pawing the Karakoram glaciers on K2’s savage face, or pointedly driving a crampon into an ice wall on Alberta’s Twin Peak. As we reached the prominence, the line where life ended and the barren rock face began, I asked Barry if he had any big upcoming climbs planned. As he moved through a crevasse, taking a large step up over a boulder aptly nicknamed Butt Polish Rock—after those who take the easy way and sit instead of walking over it—he mused: “Nothing over 7,500 metres—7,000 metres, sure. But not anything over 7,500 right now. Maybe later.” “Sure. Understandable,” I said, trying to fully comprehend the gravitas of that 500-metre gap in the very high-altitude death zone of an eightthousander. (There are only 14 peaks on the planet—and they’re the tallest of them all—that rise above 8,000 metres.) As the terrain changed, so did the weather. The wet snow cried out of nowhere, making the scramble of rock we were stepping on slick. Moving steadily up the back of Yamnuska, we climbed a natural staircase of sediment and traversed across a thin rock bridge, tethered to the mountain by a mere set of chains. Not far from the summit the temperature dropped further, and we layered up before making our final trudge through a thin sheet of snow to the top. As we reached the highest point Barry yodelled down into the Bow Valley, and for a few brief minutes the accumulation broke and the sun poked through the clouds. There we stood on Yamnuska’s summit, with Barry Blanchard, overlooking his backyard. At the top, we stopped to breathe in the view and to warm up with a cup of tea, before making the decision to begin our descent; this high the weather can be unpredictable, and in the distance the blue skies were turning grey. The micro-climate created by Yamnuska and the surrounding Rockies flexing their strength. From a scramble to the scree fields, we lowered through sedimentary rock flakes (also known as scree) that reminded me of a kid’s ballroom. “We’re taking the escalator down,” Barry joked, as we floated down the scree, making our way to the bottom in a quarter of the time it took to get up. The scree lifts and lowers you like a buoy bobbing in waves. Back at the clubhouse that night, I was collapsed on the couch journalling my day when I slipped into an easy conversation with a fellow traveller that clubhouses so often inspire. We talked about how Canmore was a hub for athletes and how here, access to mentors and heroes alike is possible. “Climbing is the only sport where you can get to know your heroes,” said my new friend. “It’s not like you’ll be playing basketball and Kobe Bryant will shoot hoops with you. But you could be climbing in Canmore and you know, Barry Blanchard might be sitting at the patio table next to you.”
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TRAVEL BY THE BOOK Outpost contributors Ryan Murdock and S. Bedford both have travel books on the market—here, they swap tomes and give you the lowdown on two potential summer reads
It’s Only the Himalayas
REVIEW BY RYAN MURDOCK
BOE 0UIFS 5BMFT PG .JTDBMDVMBUJPO GSPN BO 0WFSDPOmEFOU #BDLQBDLFS i4BSB T NPN XBT SJHIU‰XF XFSF HPJOH UP EJF w That’s what 23-year-old Sue thought when the two friends left on a yearlong round-the-world backpacking trip. Sara had always been exasperatingly perfect—responsible and capable, and newly graduated with a pre-planned future career—while Sue is the adventurous instigator, trapped in a dead-end waitressing job after dropping out of school. Throughout the journey, they trade one-liners like mismatched partners in an ’80s detective show, as they struggle UP mOE UIFJS QMBDF JO UIF XPSME BOE RVFTUJPO UIF DIPJDFT they’ve made so far. The characters are likeable, and I found myself cheering them on, hoping they make it but that it all goes wrong along the way, so they’ll experience the sort of minor disasters which make the best stories, at least in hindsight. And I was not disappointed. But don’t pick up Sue Bedford’s first book, It’s Only the Himalayas and Other Tales of Miscalculation from an 0WFSDPOmEFOU #BDLQBDLFS FYQFDUJOH ZFU BOPUIFS OBJWF iJTO U JU MPWFMZw HMPTT PO UIF CBDLQBDLJOH FYQFSJFODF Bedford never hides the miseries: the endless waiting, the culture clashes, the explosive diarrhea. And there’s a refreshing dose of skepticism to her writing that I strongly related to. I mean, how many backpackers go on an ashram retreat and don’t DPNF PVU USBOTGPSNFE QBDJmTU VUUFSMZ ZPHJD BOE XJUI B GVMM TFU PG *OEJBO DMPUIFT :PV MM mOE OP CBOEXBHPO KVNQJOH transformation stories here. And that is a refreshing change. 8IFUIFS EFTDSJCJOH EJTUBOU UIVOEFS UIBU iFDIPFE PWFS UIF QMBJOT MJLF BO FNQUZ XJOF CPUUMF SPMMJOH BDSPTT B IBSEXPPE nPPS w PS XBWFT JO UIF 1IJMJQQJOFT‰iHMJUUFSJOH MJLF UIF TFRVJOT PO B MBEZCPZ T NJOJTLJSUw‰#FEGPSE IBT B LFFO FZF GPS mOEJOH UIBU one perfect image which captures the surreality of a situation. At the start of the story, Sara—the practical, pre-planned one—seems to have the advantage, while Sue stumbles around, sometimes literally, in search of a direction for her trip and her life. But somehow we know it’ll all work out for Sue in the end. That the road will lead her in the right direction, BOE UIBU JU XJMM CF B SFXBSEJOH POF mMMFE XJUI BEWFOUVSF S. Bedford brings a fresh voice to travel writing, one that is funny, observant, and original. Give this book to anyone UIJOLJOH PG EPJOH UIFJS mSTU USJQ BOE UP BOZPOF XIP OFFET to get out there again. It’s Only the Himalayas and Other Tales of Miscalculation GSPN BO 0WFSDPOmEFOU #BDLQBDLFS (published by Brindle & Glass, April 2016) by S. Bedford is available at Chapters Indigo, Barnes & Noble and on Amazon.
FOR MORE INFORMATION GO TO SBEDFORD.CA JULY/AUGUST • 2016
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IT’S ONLY THE HIMALAYAS AND OTHER TALES OF MISCALCULATION FROM AN OVERCONFIDENT BACKPACKER BY S. BEDFORD The next day, we arrived at the roof of the world. If this fraction of Asia was a house and Kathmandu its kitchen—smoky, bustling, vibrant with scent and spice—then we had spent the evening creeping up rickety staircases and forgotten mezzanines before slipping through a trapdoor onto a mysterious plateau of bright desolation. We were far above the reaches of foliage. The landscape, parched and cold, was pale with steel mountaintops peeking over the horizon. There was an aura here—so isolated, so esoteric—that made me believe we could hide away forever without being discovered. i5IJT QMBDF JT USJQQJOH NF PVU w * TBJE i"DUVBMMZ JU T UIF BMUJUVEF UIBU T USJQQJOH ZPV PVU w TBJE 4BSB BOE * OPUJDFE IFS WPJDF IBE BDRVJSFE B ESJCCMZ ESBXM i5IBU last pass was over 16,000 feet. Our brains are a little oxygen EFQSJWFE SJHIU OPX w i*T UIBU XIBU UIBU JT w &WFS TJODF XF E MFGU /FQBM * IBE CFFO feeling increasingly mellow and fuzzy. But it wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, it made ten hours on a bus seem not so bad. Occasionally, our two-lane highway passed beneath an BSDIXBZ TUSVOH XJUI PWFS B UIPVTBOE 5JCFUBO QSBZFS nBHT UIBU nVUUFSFE OPJTJMZ MJLF B nPDL PG TUBSMJOHT :BLT QVMMFE BOUJRVBUFE QMPXT JO CBSSFO mFMET BOE XPPMMZ TIFFQ TLJUUFSFE BDSPTT UIF road. Farmers with faces burnt from sun and wind swung lassos while women fussed over children who looked like little Ewoks in yak-fur coats and hats. i*U T BNB[JOH JTO U JU w TBJE UIF HJSM XJUI UIF TIBWFE IFBE XIPTF OBNF XBT "NBZB i5IJT QMBDF JT TP TVSSFBM *U NBLFT NF GFFM MJLF * N JO B ESFBN w i* UIPVHIU UIF TBNF UIJOH CVU NZ GSJFOE TBZT JU T KVTU PYZHFO
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EFQSJWBUJPO w * SFQMJFE 4IF MBVHIFE i1FSIBQT 4P IPX MPOH BSF ZPV UXP JO "TJB GPS w i1SPCBCMZ GPS UIF SFTU PG UIF ZFBS w TBJE 4BSB 4IF FYQMBJOFE our trip. i$PPM 8IBU EP ZPV EP CBDL IPNF w i* N B OVSTF w i" OVSTFà w "NBZB XBT JNQSFTTFE i5IBU T BO JODSFEJCMF job. You get to really make a difference. Not to mention the fact that there are so many opportunities to travel with it. 4FSJPVTMZ HPPE GPS ZPV w i5IBOLTà w 4BSB CFBNFE "NBZB UVSOFE UP NF i"SF ZPV BMTP B OVSTF w i/P OP w * XBWFE UIF OPUJPO BXBZ XJUI NZ IBOE i* N B XBJUSFTT w i0I :PV NVTU TUJMM CF TUVEZJOH UIFO w i/PQF w i4P ZPV WF HSBEVBUFE w 5IF NVTDMFT JO NZ KBX UXJUDIFE i/PQF w i0I 8FMM w TIF QBVTFE UIJOLJOH PG TPNFUIJOH UP TBZ i"U MFBTU ZPV WF HPU MPUT PG GSFF UJNF UP USBWFM w It was a conversation I’d had a hundred times—rationally, I knew it wasn’t a big deal. Nobody ever treated me differently than Sara when they learned our occupations. And even if, in some condemnatory corner of their minds, they thumbed their noses at the fact that I spiced their Caesars and rescued their fallen spoons, so what? It didn’t matter because we were only crossing paths—ships in the night and all that. No, what bothered me was that every time I had that discussion it reminded me that eventually I would have to return home to … what? I had no idea. Sara was so lucky. She had it all carved out. I, on the other hand, felt like that one lost sock in the dryer—spinning in circles until I was faded and sick. This was so harshing my mellow.
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Spectacular Places, Fascinating Cultures, Thrilling Adventures… Fantastic Stories to Tell!
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