Happy New Year! From a crotchety and grateful old man.

Holiday decorations in Portland

I don’t automatically care all that much about New Year’s Eve. I’m not much of a drinker, and I get queasy if I’m not in bed by about 3:00 AM, so not a “proper” partier either. But this crotchety old man does respect the notion and beauty of marking the end of one year and beginning of another, even if the calendar is basically arbitrary (the solstice is a much more significant turning point, but I can handle two).

Also, NYE’s have an odd way of coming to represent the year, or at least mark the stage. There was the one way-back-when in Santa Cruz that I spent tortured by jealousy, followed a solar loop later by a party in Switzerland where the sense of freedom and possibilities was as tall as the Matterhorn. (But much warmer.) Then there was the year K and I spent in a beautiful place, and tried our fledgling best to talk about the problems we feared and felt...but failed. A calendar later came a New Year’s of loss, confusion, guilt and pain.

New Year's Day in Strasbourg

Last year I went to a club with friends. I’m as happy in a club as a leech in the desert, and I spent the evening wrestling dickish temptations to shout-talk to someone “How about we go someplace where impressions and experiences are more than single-dimensional celebrations of snap judgments and superficiality?” Or “This is to proper socializing as twitter is to a book.” Or the most succinct, the gutteral growl of the cranky. “Grrrrrrumble!” But I was there for my friends, and appreciated the chance to be near them, even if I could only hear their smiles.

This year I’ll miss those friends, unable to hug and/or high-five them (ever tried to do both at once?) but in a much more satisfying environment: the world. The one that feels real, and comes with more dimensions than I can perceive.

Haven't been to Cambodia yet, but Myanmar's close, right?

New Year’s Eve 2014 will find me somewhere in Cambodia. Not sure where, yet. Maybe I’ll have new road-friends, I hope so. But I’ll have my lady by my side, audible and tangible, and though I won’t be able to touch the loves and friendships I cherish in other countries, they will be there too, audible and tangible in my heart.

That feels like a pretty good way to start 2015.

My Day In Court, Practicing Nonviolence

Too many names, outside the Alameda County Courthouse

“Appear in court on December 26,” they said. So I cut my family’s Christmas short to be back in Oakland, security-screened by 9:00 this morning. I try not to predict the future, but I was eager to hear the consequence of my peaceful protest. Dismissed? Fined? Charged?

The grumpus behind the glass pushed the words through her frown: “We haven’t received your paperwork yet. Go to the DA’s office to be rescheduled.” No resolution. My three guesses were all wrong. Instead, I have to call in every week for a year, to find out if they’ve charged me. I told the clerk I was going to be out of the country for the next couple weeks. “If we charge you and you do not appear, a warrant may be issued for your arrest,” and she went back to her desk.

Not an ideal arrangement for a traveler, especially one who plans to work abroad for weeks at a time. But also, I find myself reluctant to participate in any more demonstrations. They are pushing me away from the exercise of my Constitutional rights, and into...let’s call it trepidation. My government is engaging in Trepidationism against me.

Trepidationism for me, but make no mistake, the system engages in Terrorism against black people. Or perhaps people of color. Or perhaps the not-rich. When the police, George Zimmerman, and who knows who else, are allowed to kill black people with impunity? It’s time travel.

Because this is what Martin Luther King achieved. He took away the terror of being black in America, in a time when they could be charged with assault just for looking “recklessly” at a white person, or not taking off their hat. (Read this.) I’m reluctant to cite MLK, since I have lived with white privilege my whole life, and despite my best attempts at empathy, have never felt for myself the terror of living in a society that oppresses you this way, but when I see our country sinking backwards into a time of systemic terrorism, I am willing to reach for any heroes I can find.

The list of heroes includes all the civil rights leaders, from Dorothy Height to Claudette Colvin. Does it include Malcolm X? The man whose legacy is clear in our civil religion, the violent alternative to King’s nonviolence? Absolutely.

Some say King’s message only got as far as it did because the establishment looked at Malcolm X and saw the very real possibility of rage released in violence, so took the offered path of peace. I don’t know if that’s true (and though it’s inherently flawed to compare wildly different circumstances, I can’t help but notice that Gandhi had no violent counterpart...or did he? And Mandela?), but either way, the frustration and anger of those who have been too-long abused by this system are very real, and very strong. Undeniable.

The danger is that this possibility of violence, for all its rational origins, ends up being another face of the Terrorism that I denounce. When the system, through police or vigilantes, threatens violence, it’s Terrorism. But when they force those opposed to present the same threat..? That feels like a loss, understandable as it may be.

And then there’s the bloodsoaked example of the French Revolution punching us in the face. Violence to end oppression, that betrayed itself, consumed itself, and only led to another form of oppression.

So, I’ll spend the next year in trepidation, with the looming threat of a misdemeanor (oh my!) and people of color will live under the constant menace of assault, humiliation, exploitation, and outright murder. I don’t need any help with my vague discomfort, but the racial Terrorism in our system has to change. We just have to figure out how.

Finding gold in memory

We were looking for trees, and Columbia State Park had a positive feeling in my mind. We parked and went looking for the trailhead, but instead found old mining equipment, troughs of water, and the last departing crowds of running kids and smiling parents. This was not the forested park we were looking for, but something else unexpected slowly formed in the silted memory trough of my mind.

“My grandpa took me to a place like this...when I was a kid…” I told my lady, a bit distracted. I couldn’t stop looking at those twin troughs of descending water and mud, remembering dipping my pan into one just like those with my brother to one side and smiling grandfather nearby.

It wasn’t until we left, and were watching the birds that nest inside the bridge over an immense and empty canyon that I realized, or perhaps admitted, that that was the place my grandfather had taken us.

My grandfather was the most important man in the youngest years of my life, and that trip is a much more than a fleck of precious metal in my memory. The three of us drove up in his little Mazda truck, squeezed against the gear shift and stopping for hamburgers. We went to Calaveras Big Trees State Park, and couldn’t believe the size of the trees, leaving a nascent awareness of them as gods in my mind.

And we went to Columbia. We panned for gold, drank sarsaparilla in the general store, and my grandpa let us each buy a leather bull whip, which my mother never would have let us do. I remember the store owner said we couldn’t take them out of the bags while in town, since they would spook the horses, so we sat on a bench as the horse carts trotted past, peeking in at their coiled forms.

That was something like 25 years ago. And yesterday morning we went back, my third visit to Columbia, and walked on the streets where my grandfather had. The quaint facades were slashed with morning sun, and the chill in the air coexisted with fresh-cooked pancakes and maple syrup outside the restaurant, which was not quite open yet.

We couldn’t stay, no time to pan for gold, but here in this season of family and gifts, that unexpected remembrance of that essential piece of my family was a gift I hold dear.

Puppy's Barbershop, Cuba

“Puppy's Barbershop:You're ugly when you arrive, but you're handsome when you leave.”

My eyes wandered from the handmade sign, past photos of a younger Puppy, along the fuchsia bicycle with a handmade child seat on the crossbar, to the 1950s barber's chair where a young macho was having his coif maintained by the patient Puppy of signage fame.

Their conversation was relaxed, familiar, and so lightning-fast that much of it went right over my head, which was covered with an amount of hair that had felt fine in San Francisco, but in Cuba felt like one of those big Russian fur caps, which just don’t do well in the tropics. There’s a reason it was the Cuban Missile Crisis, and not the Cuban Giant Hair-Hat Crisis.

Next to me sat a sinewy older man in no particular hurry, occasionally chipping a word or three into the conversation, but other than that, just relaxing like thin Buddha in a guayabera. I felt at home among these men, and asked them a question that had been on my mind.

“Would you guys like a McDonald’s here in Trinidad?” I was half-expecting, or perhaps hoping, for a revolutionary rebuttal against capitalist corporations, perhaps a discourse on neo-liberalism’s inherrent destruction of the principles of solidarity, which are so crucial in Cuba. But their answer was far more beautiful than that. Beautiful, and terrifying.

“McDonald's? What is that?”

How does one explain McDonald’s? “It's a hamburger restaurant chain...” was weak, but it's what came out while I tried to translate what else I wanted to say about it.

“Of course! We love hamburgers! And they're really good with pork.” Cubans love their pork, and do it better than any nation I've yet tasted, though I’m not sure Ronald would approve. The conversation moved on to various pork recipes, leaving my mind to wonder how I could have explained the golden arches better.

Because someone needs to.

Cubans, protected for fifty years by an embargo they love to hate, are shockingly innocent of the dangers of globalized commerce. They are not aware that GDP does not equal wealth and prosperity for the people, and if there's one thing Cubans are remarkably good at (in addition to baseball, cooking, music, art, dancing, laughing, storytelling, relaxing, and looking cool) it's caring about The People.

There is a sense of solidarity on the island that is unlike anything I have ever seen. So of course, Cubans hear that these giant multinational companies want to come in, and they think “It will bring in a lot of money, and therefore be good for Cuba.”

I fear for the day Ronald starts selling his burgers alongside the paladares of Havana, and can only trust that the Cuban people, or at least their leaders, will know the danger before it is too late. Or, failing that, that they’ll remember what good food tastes like.

Maybe it was the steps already taken to protect this island sanctuary, or their impressive adaptability and resilience, or maybe it was just the languorous pleasure of an afternoon in the barbershop, but as Puppy finished removing my sweltering hairstack, I felt a calm optimism.

In fact, maybe Cuba will teach Ronald a thing or two. Maybe he'll arrive looking ugly...

Protest Part Five: Weary, Wary, and Working Together

I was guilty of the thing I loathe: letting the misbehavior of a few drown out the positive actions of the many, but when I got home from another night of protest last week, with memories of fighting and looting in my head and anxiety in my bloodstream, I was close to giving up. Not giving up in my belief that America can do better, nor in my desire to see that happen, but giving up on getting off my ass and into the street to show it.

That night, when someone would throw a rock at a store window, a dozen voices would respond “This is a peaceful demonstration!” “Stay nonviolent!” “Keep it political!” But the scenes lodged in my mind’s eye were the three fights, the blood, and the police, riot gear out from the beginning, well worn now, barking orders and aggression. The “less lethal” guns in their hands that have been sending peaceful protesters to the hospital lately. And always, the helicopters thudding around overhead; as far as I can tell, it’s usually one police and three or four news agencies. Both focus only on the kernels of chaos. And despite my best efforts, so was I.

Then Saturday happened. The MillionsMarch demonstration downtown, 2:00 PM, the daylight bringing out the peaceful masses and burning away the murky chaos. Souls from every demographic particular came out to walk together, talk together, say together that something is wrong. It was among the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

The news helicopters were up there again, orbiting, and I wanted to shout “Are you filming now? Are you seeing this? Are you witnessing the desire, of all of us, for justice? For safety? For accountability and trust? For progress? Are you reporting? Are you doing your part to show the world that the responsible, admirable voices of the many outnumber the rash violence of the few? Are you helping us make change?”

Unity all around me, I felt uplifted, reassured, and restored to my belief that we do care, and that we can speak. None of this is to say that it was perfect. These were still just people. Humans. With this much passion, this much anger and history, one cannot expect perfect calm.

On Saturday I saw words, love, mutual support, and cooperation. And patience wearing thin. I believe humans are peaceful. I am peaceful. But how many candlelit protests can one attend that are met with no response from the politicians but silence, from the media but misrepresentation, and from the police but rubber bullets, before one looks to other, more overt means of being heard?

Richmond's police chief is into something

Is it possible that the system will wake up and take sufficient steps, before the fires spread? Start with the no-brainers: end the militarization and impunity of police. Get back to a level where residents and officers see each other as humans, not potential (inevitable?) adversaries. THIS! This is what we need to see! Richmond is proving the obvious here, that when officers know they will be held accountable for their actions, and are placed in an environment of mutual respect with the community, these shootings will decrease.

Start there, then we can address the deeper issues. Obama is taking a first step. How are you going to help? How should I? Two thirds of you said everyone should protest, nobody said to smash shit, and no one said there was no need to do anything. If two-thirds of any town got out and marched? That would make the news. (And your participation will inject fresh hope and patience into a movement that is running a little low on both.)

I’m daydreaming again, but peaceful demonstrations like the one on Saturday have that effect on a person. Go out and feel that optimism, touch that participation, and hear your voice asking for a better world. And let me know how it feels.

Buckets of vodka and breasts like weapons

Shopping in Ko Phi Phi

I was young until I went to Ko Phi Phi. With cups of čai on Turkish wharves, I was young, and a youth, I danced in Lithuanian discotheques. But with buckets of vodka and subsequent twerking on Phi Phi's shores, I felt too old. I wanted to go to bed, if only those darn kids would turn their music down. You kids need condoms, I need ear plugs.

Once it was late enough not to feel like a complete loser, I went back to my room, where a book waited for me, thinking again “I should have started traveling 10 years earlier.” And “As long as I didn't get spiderwebs tattooed on my elbows.”

But Thai blue water is Thai blue water and karst cliffs are undeniable, so I stayed another grandfatherly day to hike around the island. The first few minutes sounded like “Dude, bro...” and “OMG, I was like, so shitfaced last night!” but before long I heard only leaves and patient wind, birds and insects. Jungles have a way of filling the world, barricading you from everything outside, capable of blocking even the most insidious house music.

In the green alleys I felt removed from that party-soaked island, which itself felt distant from SE Asia. I wanted to escape the former, and return to the latter. I'd catch a boat tomorrow, but for now, was I still even in Thailand? As far as I could tell, this island was about as Asian as Cancun is Mexican.

The verdancy relaxed in something like a clearing, where a woman was waiting for me. She had excellent posture, and the dark red cloth of her top was pushed into a shelf by mythic breasts with nipples like missiles. Realization that it was a statue came with a side order of relief, followed by a pause. Recalled from my whining dissatisfaction with the beach party scene, with its excess, superficiality, and inaccessibility, I stood and looked at her, as raindrops started to fall on my warm shoulders, her cold ones, and the gifts and offerings spread around her.

Incense drifted among the orchids, a candle burned safely under glass, and a pair of luscious apples stood close at her hand, beside a glass of clear water and a can of ubiquitous coke. Not exactly Shwedagon Pagoda, she was still a moment of calm, a gesture towards the supernatural/spiritual, and I decided with a smile that I was still in Asia after all, as the monsoon began in earnest.

Ko Phi Phi remains in my mind as a great destination...for youngsters. But even in that place of mechanical bulls and automatic bullshit, beautiful moments popped up: like the open-sided hut of hammocks where I waited out the rain, and the abandoned beach at morning tide that showed no ill will towards the past and future festivities. If I came away fond of Ko Phi Phi, I can't wait to see what happens in Cambodia in eighteen days.

Cambodia was the winner of my last poll and my lady and I will be there in less than three weeks. We don’t have as much time as I’d like (shocking), but if y’all have any Cambodian recommendations, I’d love to hear them.

Oakland Protest, Night Four: What now?

I had my perception of the Oakland protests.

Night One: people upset over the state of race relations in our country, and police impunity in reflecting it, demonstrated in the streets with signs, chants, compassion and anger. It was the purest form of democracy left in our plutocracy.

By the end of the night, things got out of hand, understandable with that much emotion and the way crowds work. The police showed admirable restraint at first, and I thanked them for it. People were wrong to throw bottles, and the police didn’t need to respond with tear gas, rubber bullets, and flash grenades against a civilian demonstration. I was disappointed to see the night end that way.

Night Two: perhaps a result of the prior mayhem, the crowd was smaller, and more militant, the message diluted in petty vandalism and burning garbage, faces hidden behind masks to enable counterproductive hooliganism. I’d seen enough, left the contested street and was waiting until I could reach my bike when one cop, maybe looking to make an example, maybe filling a quota, or scariest of all: having lost control and lashing out, had me arrested. I spent the next few hours with my hands zip-tied behind my back, seeing a side of the law that I thought was reserved for those who deserved it.

Night Three? I stayed home, angry at those I felt were damaging our desire for change. I felt I had my understanding.

But last Thursday the rhythms of a protest drifted in my window. I’ll go look, real quick, real careful, to see how things are going. I found a march, resolute and disciplined in the statement of their message, no mayhem, no excuse for police action, demonstrators I’m proud to have as countrymen. It felt good to see.

Then I looked left to a line of face-shielded police blocking a street, ready to arrest us...if we blocked a street? A cold feeling took root in my core, with cracks of anger and flecks of fear. Instead of cops doing their best, they seemed like ominous soldiers of suppression.

And every nauseous cell of my skin felt my white privilege. I had been inconvenienced for a few hours, my shoulders stiff and achy from being pinned behind me, and have to show up in court, once, for what I feel are unjust reasons. So many deal with so much worse, yet there I was, disturbed by the sight of the police.

What is it like for those who live under constant threat of police abuse? How the hell do we expect people to remain calm who have watched their brothers beaten, their fathers humiliated, their whole demographic thrown in prison (while the real criminals go marching on)?

A friend told me of his police ride-alongs where procedure is to stop (black) men on the sidewalk, handcuff them and sit them on the curb, THEN start to talk to them, ask what’s going on today. That has never happened to me, not in my white skin, in my relatively affluent neighborhood, where, despite being racially mixed, every driver I’ve seen pulled over since moving here was black or latino. Every single one. A few hours being treated like a dangerous criminal when I hadn’t done anything wrong and I was sickened; what’s it like when that’s your everyday reality?

So what do we do about it? Politicians are clearly not going to lead, and the police aren’t going to break the cycle of aggression by themselves. And the courts? In 2010, out of 162,000 grand juries, 11 did not result in indictments. 11 out of 162,000. Yet now we have two out of two deciding there’s no need to even have a trial. I see that as the courts declaring that it is not a crime for a cop to kill a black man. This cannot go on.

So again, what do we do about it? Smash Starbucks? Shake our heads and go back to watching Jersey Shore? Or maybe we, those of us with hearts and souls and self control, should spend some time in the street. Do you think it’s a crime to kill a black person? Do you want some punk smashing a window to speak for you?

So how do we affect change? Protest responsibly? Burn shit? Run for office? Do nothing? Vote on the vagabondurges.com version, here.

There are worse things than having been racist

The contractor was measuring the ceiling in my lady’s house when he noticed he’d tracked dog poo all over the kitchen floor. It was awkward, but he helped clean it up, cleaned his shoe, and we all went on with our day. He did not go deliberately step in more and lay fresh prints.

What if his coworker had left the smudges before he arrived? Should he say “Well, I didn’t start it” then go find a steaming fresh pile of Rover’s Revenge to spread around? It’s easy when we’re talking about puppy poop, but what if it’s something worse?

In episode 349 of The Savage Lovecast, Dan Savage talks about the early days of the AIDS epidemic, when asserting the virus was an STI could get you in a fight, as people resisted the guilt of having inadvertently caused harm. But eventually they accepted the facts and evolved. He compares this to those who still deny climate change. There comes a time when you have to accept that what you've been doing isn't right anymore, and update.

He doesn’t advocate convictions for past mistakes, or tortured guilt for things done when we didn’t know any better, but to double down and willfully continue them once you do? That’s a problem.

Scaling back from lethal disease and global catastrophe, how about being accidentally offensive? Tonight in the Netherlands, and tomorrow in Belgium and Luxembourg, Zwarte Piet will help Sinterklaas deliver presents to all the little boys and girls. Zwarte Piet (Black Peter) is basically one of Santa’s elves, with one glaring difference: he’s in blackface, big red lips, afro wig and everything.

Controversy over the figure has been growing for decades. The (white) majority says “But it's our tradition!” (True.) “We don't mean anything racist by it!” (Good, thank you.) And sometimes “If I meet you you’ll get a bullet through your head.” Charming.

I know people resist changing traditions, but just a couple sentences for perspective:

-Halloween was long based on vandalism, not changing to its current emphasis on costumes and treats until World War II

-Thanksgiving is increasingly about family, and less about genocidal religious extremists, or is that just me?

-Even Zwarte Piet himself didn’t show up until 1850, his name not standardized until the early 20th century, around the same time Sinterklaas stopped kidnapping naughty kids into slavery. And did anyone grow up believing Saint Nick came from Turkey? Well he did, but we changed it to the North Pole (and Sinterklass moved to Spain) without undue rage. So why cling so fiercely to an outdated racist icon?

(Zwarte Piet briefly took over the child slavery racket, though that’s been phased out too. We’ll talk about the function of a black character selling white children into slavery another time.)

This is all very easy for me to say; I didn't grow up with Zwarte Piet. Also, I don't really give an enraged caboodle about changing holiday details (no, I don't watch Fox News' preposterous War on Christmas either). My lady, on the other hand, grew up in The Netherlands in the days before people saw Piet as racist. She had those happy childhood mornings, when the friendly character threw candies and handed out gifts. She loved that character, but when age and perspective showed her its racist overtones, she adjusted. In her words: “A short moment of nostalgic pain is MORE than worth it for doing the right thing.”

Now want to hear something cool? The Netherlands is showing its impressive character yet again. Not waiting for everyone to find their empathy, they are changing, slowly but steadily. In previous years they’ve toned down the blackface by removing the big red lips (and earrings), consciously avoiding portrayals of him as inferior to the white Sinterklaas, and this year they’re adding other colors of Piet, including cheese yellow and (gasp!) white.

I can only imagine it’s a matter of time until people look back and say “Remember back when we had that awful racist character? Nutty!” (Though I expect the overtly racist and anti-immigration parties like the PVV and Vlaams Belang will cling to their crusty obstinacy far into the future.)

So as America roils, burns, and shatters under the weight of our own racism and malfeasance, the sickness in our system that seems unwilling to change, and I figure out my own minuscule part in it, I’m going to look at the waffle-striped Piet this year with a smile, and hope that the arc of history might speed itself up a bit here too...

Campeche nights, snakes and ebola

August afternoons in southern Mexico are punishing, but when the sun goes down off the coast of Campeche, the air takes on an apologetic softness to reward you for surviving the broiler hours. As the sky cools down and the streetlamps warm up, the colors shift from baking browns to glowing reds, under a healing blue that lays low above the Plaza de la Independencia, where people have gathered since 1541.

For a few nights I joined that gathering. Food vendors lined the periphery, selling the various corn meal permutations, fresh-caught seafood, and meat marinated in bitter orange and cooked with achiote and habanero peppers, campeche style.

I’d usually start with a tamale, test myself on something spicy, then make sure there was no shark meat in tonight’s brazo de reina (I’ll eat most animals, but those persecuted lords of the deep: no way) before buying a piece, which I’d eat under one of the large and lovely trees.

The cathedral watched over the plaza like a king at his own coronation, fundamental but removed, essential yet somewhat awkward. The stone steps were warm, almost loving, when I sat until ready for buñuelos de aire, the fritters covered with honey that made my fingers stick to my pen, or Muéganos, another fried dough delight, this one covered in piloncillo (cane sugar) syrup. Or there’s always the marzipan made from dried pumpkin seeds...

While I decided which of those best fit the night, I’d watch the locals taking their slow paseos around the park. In the center, a band thumped out traditional music from the spotless gazebo, gazed at by a small flock of kids too old to chase the balloon man, but not quite ready for the nightly soccer tournament.

Young parents pushed toddlers in three-wheelers, chubby little heads turning to follow the progress of the toy vendors, infinite infant attention fixed on the toy horses pulled on thread leashes, and I was impressed to never see a single temper tantrum or hear one wisp of whine. Eventually a flock of bubbles would drift by, and distracted delight would sweep across the wee one’s faces.

Sitting on the outer edge, I was often among the grandparents, abuelitos remembering their own days pushing strollers and cleaning scraped knees. We’d all smile at each other, no need for words. Around us, the summer’s last crop of crickets would crawl and hop across the warm stone, their song mingling with the trumpets and tuba on stage.

When I’d had enough, lids and limbs grown heavy, I’d return to the hostel, a colonial residence both dignified and personable, located incredibly right on the corner of the plaza opposite the cathedral. I’d sit in the open balcony door with a cup of tea and watch with the cathedral as the families went home, and the stars took over the music.

It was among my favorite accommodations of all time, inexpensive, clean, replete with character and right in among the authentic local living. It closed two days after I left.

It was 2009, and the Swine Flu craze had already killed most of the competition, this was among the last. I would sit on that balcony, stunned at all the people who had fled from this experience because of a disease they had a sliver’s chance of contracting. Humans are awful at risk assessment, and the news media makes the smoke of a match somehow cloud out the sun.

Memories of those Campeche nights, and all the people’s memories that didn’t have a chance to happen because of overblown fear, come back to me now as I gear up for a new career in European tourism, hearing with dismay that Americans are traveling less this year due to fear of ebola.

Ebola?!? We’re talking about Amsterdam, Paris, and Rome, not Makeni, Moyamba, and Monrovia. I understand that disease is scary, and I believe we should be supporting the areas with outbreaks and the search for a cure more than we are, but we are a long way from needing to hide in our basements.

(The other fear that is keeping Americans home, ISIS, is overblown beyond belief. Unless you’re planning a trip to Syria, ISIS will never be a factor in your vacation. I believe you’re safer traveling in Europe than you are staying home and commuting with the berserkers who hate their jobs and drive like it.)

The name Campeche comes from Yucatec Mayan Ah-Kin-Pech, which means “Place of snakes and ticks.” Sure, those both exist, just as do ISIS and ebola, but in all my time there I saw neither, and neither will you.