Brando's Rambles

Tag: adventure

  • Italy Wrap

    Aloha! It’s been a hot minute since I’ve been pushing out the ole travel stories. But I’m going to do my best to pick up where I left off and try to catch up as quickly as I can to present day (mis)adventures.

    C + I have wrapped up a fantastic wedding experience and a pretty damn idyllic week. Definitely a highlight of the trip so far. But it’s coming to a rushed close as we need to get back to Lamezia Terme for flights out (I’m headed back to Albania, and C is headed back to Paris).

    For the most part it’s relatively uneventful. Ice Cream man is a gem and finds us a friendly old Italian man to give us a lift back out to Tronca. Actually incredible that we survived the whole trip without renting a car. We have a final night in Tronca, and manage to catch out bus and train back to Lamazie Terme the next day without any issues.

    Our flights out are the following day, so we settle into a bed and breakfast for one last night. The bed and breakfast is about a 7 minute drive, or, a theoretical 20-30 minute walk, from the airport. Theoretical is the key word.

    I wake up at around 3am for my 6am flight. Sky is still pitch black. Uber doesn’t exist in Lamazie Terme, and taxi’s are more or less non-existent.

    But in my infinite wisdom, I figure that, with just my laptop bag, and small suitcase that I can wear as a backpack, there’s no need to navigate the transportation system; clearly I should have no issues walking to the airport and be able to catch my flight back to Albania with plenty of time to spare.

    I give a bleary-eyed C a goodbye hug and kiss, putting a wrapper on what’s been a wonderful week, and boldly strike out on my own into the darkness, armed with my sense of direction and a fully charged phone primed with Google Maps, airport bound.

    I’m so confident that I know which direction to go, that I don’t even bother to request walking directions; rather, I’m just using the map as general guidance to know I’m headed towards the airport.

    The city (if you can call it that) is completely dead at this hour, but everything is going smoothly as my little blue dot on the map chugs slowly towards the airport. Of course, nothing in life is ever that easy.

    What I’ve failed to notice is that in the direct walking path to the airport, the very last section between city and airport is a highway overpass. A long highway overpass, with no sidewalk. Oops.

    Now, with my flight departing in about 2 and a half or 3 hours, I’m faced with a critical decision. Walking 10 minutes along a highway in pitch black darkness seems like a good way to wind up as a splattered hood ornament for one of the many senior residents here, and I’m starting to worry that if I just go back to the hotel to try and figure out how to get a taxi, there may be no taxis in operation at this time of night.

    The highway overpass has been constructed to allow transportation across a narrow river (perhaps 40-50 feet wide) flowing through a gulch immediately below me. While the river doesn’t seem like the greatest obstacle, and I consider just plunging through and attempting to beeline it to the airport, it’s impossible to tell just how deep it gets in the darkness, and I don’t really feel like getting soaked for nothing if I’m forced to turn back.

    I finally cave and request walking directions from my phone… something I probably should have done from the very beginning. Maps spits out a walking path that runs along the ridge I’m on, parallel to the river for about 20-30 minutes, has me crossing the river across a bridge, and then trekking the last 15 or 20 minutes to the airport along a road on the other side of the river. Seems simple enough, right?

    I decide this is going to be the easiest way to get to the airport on time, and without too much hesitation, I start following the little dirt footpath on the ridge alongside the river.

    Five or ten minutes into my walk, any semblance of the dirt path abruptly ends, giving way to shoulder-high reeds still wet from the morning dew. Keep in mind, it’s still pitch-black; I’ve been navigating with my phone’s torch light, able to see only a few feet in front of me at any given time. The end of any definitive path is rather disturbing; as I slowly wake up, I’m starting to realize that Google Maps is out to get me. There’s no fucking path… who knows when Google last updated their maps for this off-the-grid sleepy Italian town.

    I’m acutely aware of the fact that if I double back, I’m going to have to sprint back to the hotel, annoy any staff (if they even exist at this hour), and pray that some sort of taxi is in service in order to make my flight on time.

    I’m also painfully aware that this Italian stint, while completely worth it, has eviscerated the paltry remains of my savings. If I miss the flight, and have to book new accommodations as well as a new last minute flight, I’m going to be up shit creek without a paddle.

    So steeling myself, I decide that the best option is to plunge onwards into the darkness. While there’s no path, there are sections of the ridge that are less reedy, and by navigating around the thicker clumps of shrubbery, I’m able to make decent progress towards the bridge.

    It does cross my mind that stumbling down the ridge into the gulch would be bad, as would getting jumped by a random serial killer in the pitch black, but I’m comforted by the thought that to my knowledge there are no bears or wolves in Italy waiting to hop out and chomp me. Thick spiderwebs would also be a dealbreaker for me, but I’m fortuitous enough not to run into any of those either.

    After another 20 minutes of making my way carefully forward, I can see on Maps that I should be getting quite close to the bridge. There’s just one problem; I can’t see a fucking bridge.

    That’s right, I’ve just walked 40 minutes through wet shrubbery and weeds in the pitch-black darkness, trusting Google Maps with my life, only to find out that the bridge doesn’t exist. I do, in fact, see evidence that a bridge once existed; a single strong, wooden pole rises out of the ground in front of me, about twenty feet high, at the ridgetop overlooking the river gulch, a thick set metal cable dangling loosely from the top of it.

    But that’s it. There’s no bridge. No fucking bridge, and no fucking time, there’s absolutely no way that I can retrace my steps and make my flight, and there’s no way to get into any part of the town proper on this side of the river, due to metal fencing and more highway. I can see a proper road with sidewalks on the other side of the ridge, but getting there could be a problem.

    So once more, it’s big boy decision time. The drop-off to the river from the ridge-top is only about twenty feet, and at this point, the river has thinned out to only be about fifteen or twenty feet wide. It’s impossible to gauge exactly how deep it is, and there’s no guarantee I would even be able to get back up the ridge if I head down to check it out, but I’m pretty much out of options at this point.

    Still carrying my luggage, I face backwards away from the river, and slowly start lowering myself down the ridge, which is steep, but not impossible to traverse, holding onto bundles of reeds as I lower myself down. Against all odds, I manage not to slip and fall, and clamber down til I’m next to the river.

    The river gurgles lazily, and doesn’t seem that deep. But everything is too deep when you’re wearing shoes and jeans. I take off my shoes and socks, stick them in my bag, roll my jeans up past my knees, and start slowly blundering my way across the river, bare-footed, in the darkness.

    For the first few feet, the water is only up to my ankles. As I continue to make my way forward, it starts to creep up my shins. By the time I get to the middle of the river, I’m standing knee-deep in slow moving water. The water isn’t super fast, but losing my balance and dropping my laptop into the drink would spell disaster and certainly result in the end of my trip.

    Halfway there, there’s only one option; I keep plunging forward, and fortuitously, the water never makes it higher than my knees. The rocks under my feet are a sharp and slippery, but with adrenalin pumping, they are nothing more than an inconvenience, and somehow, I make my way all the way across to the base of the ridge on the other side.

    I put my shoes back on, manage to drag myself up the muddy ridge using more reeds one step at a time, and finally find myself on the other side of the gorge, covered in dirt, water, sweat, and exhausted.

    But it’s all worth it, I see a roadway, and by the gods, a lamp-post with a lit street-light. CIVILIZATION! I’m not out of the woods yet; I still have a good twenty or thirty minute walk to the airport from this side of the river, needing to re-traverse all the steps I took away from the airport along the riverside. My plane takes off in less than 2 hours.

    So, crusted in mud, water, and sweat, with all of my luggage, I start jogging my way towards the airport. It crosses my mind as I near the airport that I must look like a dirty, homeless, crackhead, and as the airport comes into view, I slow my pace to a fast walk, trying to catch my breath.

    Luckily no one seems to care. I make it to the terminal with an hour and a half to spare, clean myself up as best as I can in the airport bathroom, and though I get a few odd looks from other sleepy passengers, there’s no security interrogation, and against all odds, I manage to board my flight.

    I’m Albania bound! Italian Wedding Survived!

  • Italy Pt.2 – Ghost Town Paradise

    So here C + I are in the renowned Italian “city” of Tronca. Journey’s been hectic, but we’ve arrived in one piece. AirBnB is nothing special, it’s clean, spacious, and the internet works as advertised. Chalk that one up in the win column.

    AirBnB host is quite responsive via What’s App, and recommends us a restaurant a few blocks away. Also mentions that he’ll call in ahead and inform them that we are coming, which is a little strange. But we’re famished from the journey, and I’m ready to try my first Italian pizza after the whole hamburger mishap this morning (which seems like a lifetime ago).

    Step out our front door near sunset and take in our surroundings properly. To our right, a hundred feet out, is the highway we came in on, followed by a slow gentle incline of rolling, grassy hills. Long stretches of clouds, illuminated a cotton candy pink by the suns remaining rays, drift lazily across a still bright-blue sky. Plus, a bunch of electrical towers, phone poles, and wires, beautiful stuff really.

    In front of us, there’s a chain fence separating us from tall grass and a bunch of stubborn little shrubs / trees that look like they came off the set of Gladiator. Maybe olive trees if I had to hazard a guess, but most likely some sort of random flora that’s been struggling to survive neglected in nature for decades. We also get a decent view of the buildings beyond, which are cookie cutter apartment blocks, each with the exact same color palette applied, white paint with a rustic red roofing.

    To our left is the main, double lane roadway that runs through the town, and just a few steps past that, the soft, sandy beach (well, mostly soft and sandy, complemented by patches of small rocks just big enough to hurt your feet if you step on one just the right way) against the deep blue of the Ionian sea.

    Don’t worry, no more lengthy environmental descriptions, because that pretty much describes the entire area we’ll be in for the next four days.

    We rip over to the restaurant, about a five minute walk, and roll in like we own the place. Turns out, we sort of do own the place; there are zero other customers in the entire restaurant.The four or five staff on hand look a little confused about us popping in, and speak little to no English, but we managed to gesture our way to an outdoor table on the beachside.

    The sea looks glorious in the sun’s dying rays, but as the sun goes, the sand flies emerge. For some fuckin’ reason, mosquitoes and flies just love me; I’m pretty sure I get bitten about forty times over dinner, while C escapes completely unscathed.

    Pizza and a seaside beerski is on the menu, and maybe my expectations are a bit high, because the pizza is decidedly average. The crust is light and fluffy where it’s cooked properly, but it’s burnt in a half dozen places, and the toppings don’t seem particularly fresh. Maybe that’s why the restaurant is empty. But hey, company is good, and the view is nice.

    It’s dark by the time we wrap up, and I’m too lazy to complain about the 2.50 extra we’re charged for “outdoor gazebo” seating. I will bitch about it to you though; the audacity of these motherfuckers. Literally zero customers also looking to sit outside, get the fuck outta here. Sorry your waiter had to walk an extra six steps. Might as well charge me per sandfly bite while you’re at it.

    But to be honest, I’m just happy to be here. I’m excited for the wedding, and ecstatic that C finally decided to come last minute even if she may be partiallllllly to blame for our botched travel plans. We enjoy the stroll back to our place and get cozy for the night.

    Wake up the next morning and lazily start planning our day. We decide to get errands out of the way first, and hit the beach afterwards. Almost like we’re responsible adults.

    We kick off with a short stroll down the town road, looking to pick up some groceries. C loves my cooking, and it’s a lot more fun cooking for two than it is for one. Google maps has a bunch of local markets a block or two away, but each and every single one of them is shuttered up. Windows are dusty, and it looks like they’ve been closed for years.

    Tronca is starting to look suspiciously like a ghost town. We haven’t seen a single person so far other than the restaurant staff and the guy who dropped us off; it’s more than a little bit unnerving. Reminiscent of Leo and his wife’s dream world in Inception, where they have an entire world all to themselves.

    We hear the crunch of rubber on dirt and gravel, and step off the road out of the way, but the silver truck pulls up to a stop right next to us, and a large man rolls the window down.

    His English isn’t great, but we manage to explain to him that we are trying to find a grocery store or a restaurant. He tells us that there’s only one in town right now, and that most of the village is empty until beach season starts and on weekends. Offers to give us a lift to the only open grocery store a kilometer or two down the road. Two hitch hikes in two days seems a little risky, but the man seems friendly enough and we hop in without much reservation.

    We’re dropped off without issues, grab our stuff, and make the trek back to our place. After throwing some lunch together (I kick us off with a greek salad and some carbonara), we grab our towels, and hit the beach.

    What a beach it is. Maybe it’s not the pearly white soft sand of Tulum, when you find the right spot, the grains are fine enough that you don’t really notice the difference. C’s rocking a turquoise bikini that looks pretty great on her, we have a couple of Corona’s in play, and to top it all off, there’s not a single soul within sight. Beach is entirely ours.

    I don’t think I’ll ever forget that first day. Just two people smiling and rekindling, stresses of the day before and the past years evaporating as we bask in the sun and each other’s presence. A hot day but not unbearably so, relaxing in the sand together, taking short dips in the cleansing salt water whenever we feel like cooling down a bit. Some conversation, some chess, and a deep sense of peace and calm that I haven’t felt in years. I think I needed this one; might have just been a perfect day.

    It’s still not a total vacation. I do end up putting in a few hours of streaming. But all responsibilities are tasks, that, for the most part, I enjoy. I work the hours I feel like working, cooking for someone I care about never been a chore, and it’s just excellent company in a zero stress environment.

    This routine carries us through the entire week. Stroll to the grocery store, marvel at all the options available, pick out whatever we feel like eating that night (although for lemons, we were having fun just picking them off the bountiful lemon trees kicking around literally everywhere), whip up some lunch, hit the beach, munch some dinner, hang out, and stream.

    I did propose a little hike up the big hill across the highway, but we ended up opting to stick to a lazy, peaceful routine. Not like it would have been an incredible view anyways. I’m sure eventually the routine and lack of other people to interact with could get boring, but for a lad raised in Calgary, beaches and the sea are something I haven’t seen nearly enough of, and with C, it really feels like sometimes happiness isn’t that hard to find; you just have to take a few risks, be open to new friendships, and actively seek it out.

  • Mexico Friendo Sendo Pt. 1 – Arrival (Jan. 8, 2021)

    Day 1:

    It’s fucking cold in Calgary. Solid minus 10, brother and I have shoveled the driveway 4 or 5 times, and all of a sudden I’m getting onto a Westjet plane coming from Calgary to Cancun. So of course I can’t wipe a shit-eating grin off of my face. We’ve been locked inside with a curfew back in Montreal for at least the last six months, and I’m chomping at the bit to taste some freedom, COVID be damned.

    I have an entire row to myself due to a combination of COVID protocol and an absence of travelers, so it’s a pretty uneventful flight that I sleep through most of.

    Touch down. First impression of the airport is that security is lax, and they are much more worried about drugs being smuggled out than in. Apparently, everyone loves Canadians, our passport is a fast pass to paradise. Then, as I’m waiting what seems like forever for my hefty grey Ricardo luggage bag, I see her; a Mexican Mamasita security guard, who has her light brown German Shepard that’s barely under her control, off leash and bouncing around between the other new arrivals.

    I’m assuming it’s sniffing for bombs or drugs, but maybe she’s just taking her for a walk. Dog comes right up to me, and it’s hard not to be a little bit nervous. I’m obviously clean, but there’s always a chance a dingus back in Montreal dropped a baggie back into my luggage as a joke. I give the Shep a pet and a “there there, baby girl”. My gentle touch and lack of illegal scents on my person are enough to mollify her, and soon enough the Shep and my first Latin love are off to searching the next person. Suitcase with the broken handle finally arrives on the turnstile, and I start walking my way through the busted concourse.

    The concourse is surprisingly low lit. I thought Cancun was supposed to be a major tourist destination, but it’s relatively quiet so far. The calm is shattered as I near the exit; I’m bombarded by proprietors from car rental and taxi companies shouting fares at me in Spanish and broken English. As a rookie traveler, I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing, other than that I’m supposed to get to The Mayan Monkey hostel. Like a total chump, I let myself get led to a booth where I’m convinced that my only chance of salvation is to take a cab with this one specific company… for the low price of 500 pesos. In all fairness I was pretty lost anyways, and it’s a 30 minute drive, so after hacking a quick dart I agree on the fare and hop into the cab.

    My first thoughts driving in from the airport into the hotel zone. Bright lights, glitzy glamour, and absolutely no one on any of the beautiful hotel balconies. It’s just an infinite strip of road, palm trees, and emptiness, probably like Hollywood without the actresses.

    We make good time and I’m already prepaid, so I hop out post ride with my suitcase and spark another dart underneath The Mayan Monkey’s green neon lights. Check in is quick. I pop up to my room and I’m pretty impressed, never been to a hostel but I imagined it to be much worse. It looks like a standard hotel room, bed is made, there’s a bathroom with a shower, and hey, if I peel open the white curtains there’s a view of the street, aka Skid Row, in front of me.

    I check in briefly on my phone with my friends Deanna, Jeff, and Ashley, that I’m supposed to meet tomorrow around 3pm… and then I say fuck it and make my way down the stairs to the bar to take it all in.

    The bar is an open concept, ground floor situated around the actual bar, a cafeteria table in the back, ping pong and a super broken foosball table up front, all laid in front of an impressive looking water slide that no one has used in ten years because it leads into a poorly fenced off section of the lagoon that’s apparently filled with crocodiles.

    It should be worth reiterating, I only heard about the freshwater crocs from my Mexican friend Nelda. There are no warning signs posted. The slide goes from the second floor, a fifteen foot, bright fluorescent yellow, sans water flow, trailing down all the way into a the water where absolutely no one dares to swim, even in the so called “fenced off section”.

    I’m take a seat beside the outdoor “pool”. It’s a little chilly for Mexico, maybe around 25 Celsius, but that’s tarps-off weather for most of us Canadians, and after ordering from the bar, I’m relaxing and having my first sip of a Corona all by myself, despite the hustle and bustle of other hostel patrons around the bar area.

    I’m fucking shy. Contrary to popular belief, I’m can have a bit of an introverted side in me, which often comes back into play whenever I’m back home in Calgary. After a few minutes without any social interaction, my instincts are just screaming at me to finish up the drink, bounce out of there and wait til tomorrow when the homies roll in.. and then it happens.

    I’m sitting at a table by myself, and some beautiful bastard named Ed comes up to me and asks me if he can borrow a light. He’s some semi balding dude from England probably in his early thirties, and not particularly interesting, but we swap war stories and that gets me into the social vibe a bit; it turns out everyone at a hostel is just dying to meet new people, and it’s like first year university residence all over again. We chat a bit and he doesn’t last much longer than his dart; buddy is on his way back home to England after a two week adventure in Cancun and Tulum. But he’s done me a big favor; now I’m socially acclimatized.

    After parting ways with Ed, and watching several people play that cornfield game involving chucking a bean bag at an inanimate ramp (cornhole, duh), and failing, I eventually introduce myself to a solid dude, Luca, a lanky 6’3” European bearded bastard, and a couple of girls he’s obviously met at the hostel. I’ll call the one “The Asian” cause I still to this day don’t know her name, FOB from Vietnam and just enjoying life, and then Angie, who has some south American blood in her but is living somewhere in Quebec. She gets a little excited that I’m in from Montreal, but the absolute zero work I’ve put into French over the last decade as part of a silent ‘Berta protest tempers that excitement a bit.

    Somehow I stumble my way into their crew, the crew merges into a bigger crew, and after some more liquid courage we head out for the night. Going out involves taking a left out the door of The Monkey, walking down the barren hotel strip about five minutes past all the “taxi drivers”, and then holy fuck, we’re in the middle of the club zone, and it’s pandemonium.

    Greasy fuckers are yelling at us from every direction for our patronage; we are rolling deep and have tourist written all over us. All clubs are created equal when you don’t know any of them; we plow into a random one where I end up saying fuck it and throw down for bottle service. Bottle service at this joint is a 26 of Don Julio with no chase, pretty shoddy, but the kids are happy and so am I.

    The Asian starts grinding on me to some Latin bop, and a combination of tiredness and drunkness takes over. At some point I’m back home, and so is she, most likely just to escape the 8 bed dorms, and its lights out on night one in Cancun.

    Day 2:

    There’s a burrito place across the street called “Surf Shop”. I can’t express how happy I am to run into Mexican cuisine, but that runs out in about a day. Four tables and standing room, Mexican style, right next to the cab drivers trying to sell you cocaine. Easy boys, it’s ten in the morning, we’ll get there later. Anyways, I mow a very average burrito down, pray that I won’t get the shits, and still have about five hours to kill before Deanna, Jeff, and Ashley are primed up to get in, and a few hours before Felix, a buddy from Chessbrah, is down to meet up for some blitz. So I roll back to the hostel, confer with Luca, The Asian, and Angie, and we decide to beach it up.

    Beach is super nice, about what you’d expect from a Mexican vacation. There’s a minor traversal over some hotel property and then it’s white sand and baby blue waves, crystal clear water… it’s phenomenal. Oh, and there’s this cute girl from our club squad involved too, Mar, but we’ll get to her later. So anyways, Asian, Luca, Angie, and I are just floating in the baby blue, Asian is in yellow bikini top and making moves on me, but I’m just not feeling it without the Julio goggles. Glance over at Luca and Angie who are doing the beach ocean things right, he’s floating around with her legs wrapped around his shoulders. Seems like a good time.

    I’ll be honest, didn’t see much of the new couple after that for the next couple of days, good on Luca for finding someone. After a little lie down on the beach, and a short wait for the Viet lass to get back from her long solo walk on the beach, we all roll back to the hostel where my Chessbrah buddy Felix (Ubitzya) is waiting for me with a board set up.

    I get a handful of speed chess games in with Felix (Ubitzya). Apparently he’s a 1900 over the board and not someone you can totally sleep on… but I slept on him anyways. I had my eye on the barmaid and not the chessboard, and definitely lost a few more games than I was supposed to, which made him super happy. I guess I do my best to please.

    The full crew for the trip finally arrives; Deanna, Ashley and Jeff roll in at about 5pm, drop their bags, and we all start getting trashed after some high fives and “fuck yeah’s!”. We grab dinner at Surf Shop and continue getting lit, fire off a pleasant goodbye to Ubi, and then as we rally a crew of hostel degenerates to go out with disaster strikes; Deanna’s missing from the group.

    I go back to her room to scoop her, but she ain’t there, and when I get back everyone is gone, lost deep into the club zone. I briefly think about running them all down, but then realized I’m sauced as fuck and it’s my second day in Mexico. Completely bagged after a day in the sun, I pull a soft one and retire to my room.

    Ash and D end up in some sort of scuffle that Jeff avoided cause he hit the rippers, and that’s the end of night two for Brando.

    Day 3:

    Luca and Angie are a couple now. Deanna Ashley Jeff and I booked a boat tour the previous night, so we pack day bags and head out down to the rally point, where we quickly realize we don’t have tickets. Sorry, this is after Ashley does her best… Ashley impression, twerking like a coked out stripper next to the “pool” at Mayan Monkey. Honestly impressive stuff, she can really make that ass move.

    Anyways, we negotiate our way onto the boat, and after getting upsold, we’re on an adult boat with free drink service to Isla Mujeres, with a snorkel stop halfway. Jeff and I dive into the baby blue, it’s my first time in the ocean since my mom forced me to watch Jaws when I was six years old, and we’re in the middle of buttfuck nowhere. But I’m reasonably lubed up alcohol wise, and its pretty sick as long as I make sure I’m surrounded by juicier targets.

    Meanwhile the girls are blasting gangster beats on a portable speaker, and everyone thinks we’re American, but one of the reasons we love Deezy and Ash is that they bring the energy unapologetically.

    I see some cool fish and nothing else, which is fine by me. We escape the snorkel unscathed, and get onto the first of a couple islands where we rip around on golf karts. Karts cause they are about 150CC with no working breaks and we go past tit goddess island, which is what I call the island with the statue of the tit goddess (groped. didn’t bring me luck), and snap a couple pictures. Honestly best tour of the trip, we got a boat ride, all you can eat meal, all you can drink on the boat, and a little spin in golf karts, tough to beat.

    After the second island where we buy additional darts and Deanna gets a salamander man to lure his lizard onto my arm (no euphemisms, a fucking iguana) we make it back, where the girls promptly KO, having gone way too hard that day.

    I end up slamming drinks at the hostel bar and make friends with a German dude (big, punk rocker style that I name rammstein) and an Ohio farm boy who looks suspiciously like my friend Devon (Jaq, fake Dev). It ends up being them, Jeff, myself, and some hippie ass Brits for club night number two, where we can’t get in fucking anywhere cause its late, without a bottle.

    I end up caving and picking up another bottle, we dance and swing unsuccessfully at the terrible ratio, and that’s a wrap on night number 3.