Yoga in Buenos Aires

Ten minutes from home was my yoga studio; Buena Onda Yoga. Run in English, it’s founded and frequented by American ex-pats, has three studios across the city and the one in San Telmo is above a vegetarian restaurant. I practiced around four times a week for five weeks until I got a job with conflicting hours. The instructors played nice music and were happy to tailor classes to people’s needs or wants.

The street my yoga studio is on: the middle white building.

At $88 for an unlimited monthly membership, it was a great deal and I really missed it when I started working, and still do! The restaurant does cheap and delicious weekday lunches and your membership also gets you discounts on boot camp classes, cooking workshops and I think their retreats.

Steps to the yoga studio.

Lunch entree: mini pumpkin soup, toasts with dip and home made lemonade.

It was so nice to have a regular place to be and see familiar faces. Especially welcoming were the hugs and kisses, which is pretty common in Argentina anyway. I find it unique and almost astounding that these days you can be almost anywhere in the world, but once you step onto any yoga mat in any yoga studio, it’s pretty much the same. You hear the same words, feel the same stretches, tensions and reliefs and see the same shapes made by the yogis around you. It’s a terrifically assessable home away from home.

Suspecting that the yoga community would be a good way to connect to my new home, I started yoga two days after arriving. My suspicions were correct! After the first class I had the details for some Spanish schools and teachers, advice for getting work and an invitation to lunch. I made friends! Michelle sadly left three weeks later but not before we went to a party at her apartment, stayed out til 5am at a club and were introduced to other people.

There were plenty of other yoga studios around Buenos Aires and at least one other that spoke English but I didn’t get around to visiting them. Buena Onda in San Telmo was more than fine. While the public transport was easy, it was usually muggy and crowded!

Our temporary home: San Telmo, Buenos Aires, Argentina

After our overnight bus, we arrived in Buenos Aires at 9am on Sunday 1 April and for the first of many times to come I sang in my head “What’s new, Buenos Aires? I’m new!” (from the Evita musical). We rented an apartment on AirBnB in the heart of San Telmo; the city’s oldest neighbourhood or barrio. We chose San Telmo because a friend had lived there years ago and described it as similar to Melbourne’s Fitzroy, whereas the other popular place; Palermo, is more like Chapel St and home to lots of American ex-pats. It was a very quiet, drizzly morning and getting to our new home was an easy subway ride.

There’s so much to say about our two months in Buenos Aires and as I’m clearly not posting in the moment, it’ll be easier to write it in topics.

San Telmo

As the oldest barrio in Buenos Aires, San Telmo is full of character, history, grit, rejuvenation and hipsters. The bus and subway service is great and it’s pretty central to the rest of Buenos Aires. Many streets are lined in cobblestone and some seriously good and colourful graffiti art adorns its walls; a juxtaposition right there. Even its subway station is covered in creative mosaics and Arabic text.




I’ve always thought it curious how different a place seems to be when you remember how it looked and felt upon first arrival. Thinking back to the first afternoon at the crowded market and my first slightly on edge walk to yoga, it seemed different, surreal and not at all like the neighbourhood that is now up there with my ‘homes away from home’ around the world. San Telmo is where I practiced Spanish, first lived with (only) Tristan, did my weekly shopping, practiced at Buena Onda Yoga and worked as a cleaner and babysitter.

Defensa is the main street in San Telmo and on Sundays it’s closed off for a market. We only found it on Easter Sunday and thought it was a one-off, but it’s there every week in all its glory; roaming musicians and food sellers, bands on the corner, singers, puppeteers, dancers, hundreds of stalls and of course lots of tourists. By the end I felt like a real local as I’d get annoyed pushing through on my way to yoga or work! But then that’d make me happy and I remembered how lucky I am.

We lived near the corner of Independencia and Chacabuco streets and on Saturday’s until around 2pm there’s a fresh food market a couple of blocks away on Mexico St. We went every week and it was a good way for me to practice my Spanish. Even at the supermarkets, you don’t take what you want and have it weighed at the check out, but tell the staff what you’d like and they select it.

Dorrego Plaza is home to the Sunday antiques market, which at around 5pm transforms into an outdoor milonga (tango practice). The same antiques can be bought for around half the price at the indoor antiques market, which is open most days. Around the plaza and San Telmo in general, there are lots of old cafes and bars, full of wood and photos and looking like they’d been there for a hundred years (and in fact may have been).

We decided to eat out once a week and it was often to one of the many and diverse options in San Telmo. We definitely chose a good place to live! We also liked going to a cafe for either coffee and medialunas (small croissants) or to a bar for Martini Rosso with soda from one of those old spritzer jugs and free peanuts or popcorn.





One afternoon we visited El Zanjon. Originally a mansion, when yellow fever spread through the neighbourhood in the early 1870s it was abandoned and became an tenancy building, mainly for poor migrants. Tunnels were constructed to stop flooding and provide water to residents, but it was abandoned again in 1985. The current custodians revealed old tiles on the walls and discovered the tunnels after unclogging decades of rubbish. Its history identified, they decided against their plans for a restaurant and developed the building into a museum. It is definitely worth a visit. El Zanjon is privately run, has won awards and is partially funded by hiring out sections for events; it’d be a fantastic venue!

Eco Trancoso, Part 5: Deciding to leave.

Until mid-way through our second week, life at Eco Trancoso was pretty good. Frustrating organisation and bugs aside, we were enjoying ourselves. The house we were staying in turned out to belong to Petra; a German woman who turned out to be Stefan’s ex-wife (or partner) and lived in the attached house next door. Word got around that she was returning; like most other things news seemed to travel via gossip, even though there were only seven of us!

Dayton had heard negative things about Petra from a past volunteer, but when we met her it was a little like mum coming home – she made sure we had clean cloths and tea-towels, put an end to Tristan and I paying for toilet paper and even made porridge for us. Petra also showed me the citronella, clove and alcohol bug tonic. She played guitar and we had a nice evening sitting around the kitchen with Tristan playing Bob Dylan songs.

Moving house.

The day after Petra arrived, Stefan advised us that our house needed to be exterminated for termites. We had to move out. Hiring a tent wasn’t an option as he’d promised it to a new volunteer (who never arrived), so we reluctantly accepted his offer to stay in the half-finished adobe house. After asking if we could pay slightly less, he agreed. Our only other option was finding a room in town, but we liked the farm and didn’t want to hike to work everyday.

Thankfully, and maybe after talking to Petra, Stefan let us move into his place beside the kitchen. He moved into the half-finished adobe house, and we felt a little guilty. After cleaning the house and retrieving some items Petra had taken from our fridge, we moved into our new room.

Stefan’s place was fine, but we missed the outdoor shower and balcony and had little privacy. You could look into the kitchen area from the bed, and closing the door created a stifling heat inside, so we mostly just kept the fly screen shut. I’m sure someone saw me near naked at least once. It was hot! We were also 99% sure someone had gone in when we were out, although we thought we had the only key…

The small gossip train I was embarrassed to be part of told us that we’d had to leave Petra’s house not because of termites, but because she’d rented it on AirBnB (guests never arrived). Out of curiousity, I’ve looked up Petra on AirBnB and found a few properties, including unrealistic listings of the rooms at Eco Trancoso. Unsurprisingly, I also found some bad reviews and crazy sounding responses.

Tides change…

Petra and Stefan fought often, and loudly! We could hear them across the farm and I swear the ducks and chickens would run away. I felt sorry for Stefan. Petra seemed to own some of the land and while Stefan made it clear that she wasn’t involved in Eco Trancoso, she ate our food and seemed very micro-managy. While Gilbert also shared our food, it was explained to us that this was part of his deal in selling (or loaning?) Stefan his land. Afterall, he was old and had no one to cook or shop for him (we wondered what he did on weekends). Keep in mind that we paid for the food in the kitchen and were the only ones who cooked (other than one or two meals).

To her credit, Petra actually did something to restore internet access, but after the first afternoon the modem disappeared and there was talk of us paying for internet. She also yelled that Gilbert was not to use it; I’d only seen him use it once to Skype with his daughter.

As volunteers weren’t on duty on weekends, it wasn’t until about 1pm one Saturday or Sunday that we realised that the chickens hadn’t been let out of their pen. They’re normally out by 7am so that they could peck around, eat scraps and importantly, have access to water. After I’d released them, Petra laughingly said that she’d thought of it earlier but that as she didn’t really like them anyway, she’d ignored them. Right…..

At this stage we had another week and a half to go, but with Chloe leaving in a few days we were beginning to think we should join her, especially as we’d be taking the same overnight bus to Sao Paulo. Dayton had another few weeks and Sage was leaving in a month.

Finding a way out.

An annoying fact about most regional buses in Brazil is that without a national ID number, you have to book and pay in person and in advance at the main bus station. Ours was a half an hour drive or two local buses and a ferry away, so when Petra offered to get our tickets when she was driving past, we accepted. She said it would cost us $5 for petrol, and the next day it was $5 per person. Given that going there ourselves meant transport costs and taking a day off work (which added cost to the accommodation), her’s was the best option.

Petra was going to town Friday afternoon (I think), so needed our bus details by then. Tristan and I were still undecided when during a class with Stefan, Petra said she was leaving early and needed the details in half an hour. Until class finished, Tristan and I surreptitiously wrote notes to each other and had a quick chat afterwards. Weighing up the pros and cons, we decided that we’d probably gotten as much as we would out of Eco Trancoso and that anything more wasn’t worth the hassle.

It was pretty nerve-wracking to tell Stefan, but he understood and we paid him what we owed. That’s when things got ugly. Apparently when we first arrived and he agreed we could begin paying three days later, he thought it was just for food, not also accommodation. Given that our request was due to the $115 we’d had to spend when we couldn’t contact him and that food would only make up $15, it was odd that he’d remembered it that way. Even with accommodation, it would have stopped short of covering half our costs.

We got into a huge argument about whose fault it was that we’d to pay for a hotel and taxi and whether he had a duty of care to volunteers (he denied this, stating he didn’t invite them). In the end, and after calling Tristan a fascist (hilarious!), Stefan saw we weren’t giving him any more money and we’d all had enough of arguing. Petra tried to calm the situation. She knows how disorganised Stefan can be, but I don’t think she knew about the financial aspect of our argument.

Our farewell at Gilbert’s house.

The farewell we’d planned for Chloe on Saturday evening turned out to be one for us too. We decided to have it at Gilbert’s house as he had a BBQ and the environment was much nicer; we’d already spent a few evenings there. Gilbert’s house is crazy. He built it himself expecting his children to come and live with him but they never did. It’s four or five storeys of adobe and wood flooring, sparse kitchen, coloured walls, ornaments from around the world, books in different languages, a shower and toilet separated by sheets, a few mattresses and hammocks and resident bats in the stairwell. It was a photographer’s dream and if I get my shit together I’d love to do a little exhibition one day; ‘Gilbert’s House’.

Now, Gilbert, Stefan and Petra didn’t get along. According to Gilbert (who’s more than a little eccentric), when he was away one time Stefan took apart his kitchen to use the wood on the farm. He also thought Stefan and Petra were alcoholics who had fried their brains in the sun (this may be; we did have an awful lot of wine bottles to use in future adobe houses). True or not, Gilbert wouldn’t have either of them in his house and when asked, said that no volunteers had ever had a smooth time at the farm.

So while we were all off at Gilbert’s, Stefan and Petra were not. Oddly, Petra had made a salad for us to take to Gilbert’s with us – maybe she wanted an invite we weren’t able to give. It might explain why that night was our last at the farm. It was a fun night though; we barbecued a big fish we’d bought fresh from the market and indulged in caipirinhas (delicious lime and vodka drink). We all did a little yoga in his near unfurnished house and I sat in the lush green grass overlooking the forest he’d grown. The grass turned out to be a hive of sand flies, but I didn’t notice at the time!

Moving house (take two).

Through Chloe, we’d heard of Petra’s offer to drive us to town to catch our bus, so that we didn’t have to hike there with our luggage (it was worth the $5 each she was charging). On Sunday morning, I was making breakfast and we were all chatting nicely. Since I hadn’t actually spoken to Petra about the lift or thanked her, I wanted to ask what time she’d be able to drive us to town. Before I could finishing saying “Petra, so our bus leaves at 1pm tomorrow…” she began laying into me about how she wasn’t our tour guide.

For about three minutes and in front of everyone but Stefan, Petra shouted at me about how we were just tourists and if we need so much babysitting we should have stayed home. She said we left her house filthy, called us liars for not paying Stefan and complained that what we paid for her house wasn’t enough as she charged X on AirBnb (forgetting, I suppose, that we worked on the farm for at least 5 hours a day and that Stefan had set the price).

Petra then switched to shouting in German (somehow always more scary), to tell me that Tristan was an arsehole and she had no problems saying that to his face (she didn’t). With some more accusations and slurs, she went off to yell at Stefan, who sulked passed us a bit later looking apologetic. So we didn’t regret our decision to leave!

It was pretty upsetting so we left immediately to spend the night at Gilbert’s (he’d previously offered his place to others). We cleaned Stefan’s place, grabbed our luggage and found Stefan to say farewell. It was brief; Tristan gave him his key, said we were going and received a ‘humpf’ in response. We didn’t bother asking for our money back for that day’s food and accommodation.

We had a peaceful night sleeping on a mattress under a mosquito net at Gilbert’s. However, he did warn us that if we heard people in the night not to answer as it could be ‘bandits’ who’d previously robbed him. I suppose that if they heard people (and a female), they couldn’t be taken by surprise, or may do more than thieving.

We woke happily in the morning, met Chloe for our taxi to town and said our goodbyes to Gilbert, Sage and Dayton. The bus arrived and the three of us headed to Sao Paulo, arriving the next morning; Tuesday 25 March.

All I can think about Eco Trancoso is that Petra has something over Stefan, who must have been truly screwed over by volunteers in the past; that they drank heavily, damaged property and took more than their fair share of food. Given the disorganisation and lack of duty of care, I honestly felt like we were the first volunteers there. From what I can gather, the farm has been hosting volunteers for at least two years.

After we left I heard from Sage that while she was still volunteering at the farm, she was staying at Gilbert’s. Petra had rented Stefan’s place on AirBnB and chastised Sage for spending time in the kitchen. She was told to leave the kitchen immediately, as she couldn’t be there while the guests were because they needed privacy. Sage needed to prepare and eat meals, had a right to use the internet and being a camper, she had no where else to go. Pure craziness.

Next stop, Sao Paulo!

Eco Trancoso, Part 3: Experiencing Trancoso’s delights.

Being at Eco Trancoso wasn’t all nasty bugs and sad animals. My next post will be about the permaculture and eco construction work we did, but first I want to write about Trancoso itself. Note: I still haven’t found a cable to enable me to post the better photos from my camera, so iPhone pics it is.

Bahia’s Beautiful Beach.

After lunch on our first day Sage showed us the walk to the beach. It’s a pretty walk and ends going through a small jungle, but due to another hill it’s not the easy stroll described on the website. The farm is on the top of a hill so getting anywhere is a bit of a hike, but we got used to it and the views are wide and stunning.


The beach is what Bahia is famous for and it’s truly one of the best I’ve seen. The sand is clean and there’s no rocks, seaweed or (mostly) people. Even so, a few times we were lucky enough to be approached by guys selling melty cheese on a stick, sprinkled with oregano. They melt it right in front of you on coals in a little portable BBQ. I could have easily eaten ten each sitting.

We spent every other afternoon at the beach, happily using the wooden shelters, body surfing (the waves could be huge!) and being bug free. It was fun to spot the near translucent crabs and one day some of the others helped a big turtle get back into the sea. If we wanted to use the boogie board though, we had to find Stefan and ask him to get it as he kept it in his house…


There were some hotels 10 minutes down the beach and occasionally we walked over for a beer and to swim in the river. After the isolation of the farm and our beach spot, it felt like returning to civilisation. The beach here flows into a river, so at low tide a pool is formed and when the tide changes you can stand on the crest and be buffeted from the waves in one direction and from the fast-moving river in the other. The tides really do change the shape of the beach. In the morning, it’s lovely to lie in the channels that form about 30 metres from the water.

In the afternoon, people play volleyball and practice yoga on the hard, sandy beach facing out to sea. People watching the people watchers was interesting too. One time a woman was happily yogaing to a small group of men confidently standing around her, some taking photos. If I was more prepared to look like a pervert I would have joined them; the photos would have been great. When the river becomes deeper at high tide, kids and teenagers take running jumps into its brown waters, just metres from the blue of the ocean.

Trancoso Town.

When we hiked into town it was mainly to use free wifi in one of the cafes. Other than our first few days, the internet wasn’t working at the farm. It doesn’t sound like much, but I’d intended to use some of my free time to write this blog and research and plan the rest of our trip. It was especially annoying when organising our next adventure, as we had to walk to town and back just to spend a couple of minutes checking travel confirmations. Initially we were only allowed online from 4-6pm; we’re not sure why. When we explained that this meant having to come back early from the beach or town, or between the two, and that neither were a quick walk, Stefan agreed to change the time to straight after lunch.

Anyway, going to town was cool and allowed us to enjoy meat, dairy, cheap beer and other goodies (the farm is vegetarian, mostly vegan – I am not). A market stall sold the most mouth-watering, home-made chocolate I’ve ever had and the acai was delicious and refreshing. Acai is made from frozen native berries and while I’d seen it at music festivals in Australia it was really pricey, so I never bothered. Of course, there was also delicious street meat.

There’s almost two defined parts of town; the one where locals live, eat and shop and the tourist part. We probably spent more time in the former. The horses meander unawares.


A lot of Brazilian tourists come to Trancoso, especially rich people from São Paulo and it seemed many came for weddings in the church. This meant envying posh restaurants and resorts and browsing boutique shops an art galleries. The town’s landmark is an old, small church near the cliff and looking over the quadrant.


At night the area is lit up beautifully with lanterns and interesting, recycled light fittings. For example, one was made of coffee cups and another from the bottom of soft drink bottles. We took a moto taxi (motorbike) home a couple of times when it was dark and we couldn’t be bothered with the hill. At $3 each and lots of fun in and of itself, it was definitely worth it.

Happy Horse riding.

Four of us volunteers had expressed interest in horse riding, so Stefan introduced us to Fernando who runs treks from a ranch. It’s been owned by the same family for generations, and the 90-year-old patriarch still goes there everyday and watches his great-grandchildren learn the ropes. We arranged to meet at the ranch entrance and Stefan explained the way; the directions were really simple.

When we got to where we were meant to be, we couldn’t see Fernando. For the next 40 minutes we asked locals for help and were grateful that Chloe spoke Portuguese (her dad’s Brazilian and she’s in the process of getting her citizenship). You’d think a ranch would be easy to find, but no one seemed to know. Eventually, Fernando found us in the plaza – where he’d arrange with Stefan to meet us….

With Fernando and horses found and my grumpiness laid aside, we were soon trotting through the streets and towards the beach. First, we trailed through jungly areas and out onto a cliff to view the expanse of perfect beaches down below. When we got there, we had the option of cantering and galloping. I’d been riding about six times before but had never worked up the courage to canter, even though I heard it was more comfortable than trotting.

As soon as my horse began to canter I wished I’d done it years ago! No more painfully bouncy boobs (or balls I’ve been told!) and a lot more fun. As long as I made sure I wasn’t directly behind another horse (where I’d get a face full of sand), it felt amazing to race along the beach. At one point I even swung my hat in the air, holding the reins with one hand. Yee hah! It was great going into the waves a bit and we took the horses into the nearby river for a drink.

When we passed through the quadrant, we tied the horses to some trees and shared a beer. It’s very common to order a litre of beer and share it in small glasses, it’s cute and keeps the beer colder for longer. Afterwards, it felt easy and familiar to get back on my horse and ride to the ranch. If and when I have my dream house in the hills one day, I’d love to have a horse to ride into town (as well as for treks).

Ojai, California – now included, oops!

Ojai, Ventura County, California, USA.

I thought I had posted this one but seems I didn’t, sorry Ojai! We were there after Santa Cruz and before Rio – the last weekend of February.

Ok, I love Ojai as well. What can I say; Tristan’s family live in some pretty cool places. It is a bit touristy though, in the sense that wealthy hipsters drive up from L.A on the weekends and some shops are too posh for their own good. No one does breakfast like Melbourne though; even here there was no obvious signs of a brunch culture (maybe a good thing).

It’s in the truest type of valley I’ve ever been in. Every where you turn you look up to find yourself encircled by reddy brown mountains contrasted against what for us was a perpetually blue sky. It was unseasonably warm, hooray! Ojai gives you a protected, small town feeling with all the benefits of a larger town.

There’s a good choice of bars; seedy pool hall, live band venue with weathered couches, dark fancy small bar, edge of town former bikie haunt and Ojai Beverage Company, which we at least visited almost every night. To be fair, it is a two minute walk from Tristan’s mum’s house where we were staying. It’s also one of the best stocked bottle shops I’ve seen; we spent a good hour all up just browsing. The staff are friendly, the food is hearty and there’s an ever changing list of micobrewery beers (the 15 beer tasting platter is worth it, despite a couple that resembled yeasty syrup).

The annual Ojai Tennis Tournament wasn’t on, but I enjoyed relaxing on the bleachers surrounding the four outdoor courts in the local park (and a maybe pretending I was in Grease). Lots of people and their dogs use the park, its gazebo and small amphitheatre that hosts school concerts. I always love seeing people use their public spaces (like the good public servant I was).

Apparently there are hot springs but we never found them. The river is pretty enough though, and we had it almost to ourselves. On Sunday’s there’s an artist’s and farmer’s market; the strawberries were huge and the pumpkin pie was yum. I was excited to try it having only seen it in the movies and all; it was ok. I also went to Lulu Bandha’s Yoga which was sunny, laid back and welcoming.

Just out of town, we drove down an orange orchard lined road to Tristan’s very cute primary school and one morning we visited the one in Santa Paula where his mum works. Her grade two class was really sweet and a good insight. With only one or two whities, it reminded me of my primary school in Melbourne’s Springvale South, but instead of the majority having a bunch of different backgrounds these kids seemed mainly Latin American. It’s multiculturalism, kinda.

It had recently been President’s and Valentines Day, so there were signs of that, and I thought the map looked weird; centred as it was of course on America. Tristan and I gave a show and tell about Australia, which we only just kept from being completely hijacked by tales and questions about giant snakes. I managed to talk about Indigenous Australians, our varied landscapes and that we don’t ride kangaroos to school. Other than having a brain fart while explaining time zones and telling them that the sun moves around the earth, I think that I instilled some interest in Australia. Or at least a fear of our animals. Ho hum.

On February 27, via Charlotte, Carolina, we took off for Rio de Janeiro. Carnival here we come!

America … well, California.

Flying into San Francisco on Superbowl day, the soundtrack for the seven hour drive north to Arcata was mostly over excited game commentators, charismatic evangelicals or patriotic country music. All equally disarming. We kept up our energy with burgers and large take away percolated coffees with ‘cream’. Yup, we were in America.

Arcata, Humboldt County (hehe, County. Like in the movies!).

I love Arcata. I’m a hippie at heart and Arcata may just be hippie headquarters. Apparently, a bunch of hippies were following a Grateful Dead tour in the 70s and never went home after one of the band members died somewhere nearby. That doesn’t explain all the young hippies though… the force must be strong.

Arriving at night Arcata greets you with giant illuminated peace symbols in house windows. Dream catchers hang from porches and there’s op shops, record stores and organic bakeries. Of course, there’s the obligatory gaggle of dirty hippies singing and playing guitar in the town square. Supermarkets are filled with probiotic, antioxidant blah blah blah drinks and food. It’s all a bit too hipppyish for me but they don’t hurt anyone and I even tried kombucha (not bad as long as you keep reminding yourself it’s meant to be good for you).

The whole place smells faintly of weed, helped along by the skunks. Skunks do smell bad if their spray’s too close, but it’s easy to see why skunk is another word for marijuana in America.

We were there for a week and I’d alread decided which of the many yoga studios, and even what class, I would go to months ago. Om Shala didn’t disappoint. Even the short drive there and back on my own, in the dark, on the ‘wrong’ side of the road didn’t faze me.

Om Shala shares an entrance with HumBrews; a cool bar any night of the week. If I lived here I suspect I’d be using that door a lot. Most bars have pool tables and are down to earth with good microbrewery beers and fried pickles. The old cinema has weekly, not-necessarily-quality-but-that’s-the-fun sci-fi night where entry’s free if you buy food (we saw ‘Eegah!’).

Arcata reminds me of the Dandenong Ranges outside of Melbourne, if you replaced the trees with giant redwood trees and added a butt load of moss. It was pretty cold and rained on a couple of days, which was welcomed as California’s going through a drought.

We took a day trip through the Avenue of Giants, where the redwoods are truly enormous and the forest out of a fairytale. It was pretty quiet and in the down season, but a few places were open to buy touristy wood carvings, be amazed by big foot sculptures and be challenged to find him (or is it her?).

We visited a light house in Trinidad and walked to the beach through sand dunes in Samoa (haha, wishful thinking on the place names). Samoa is an old pulp mill town and we had breakfast at the cookhouse where the lumberjacks and mill workers used to eat.

I found it hillarious; Califorrnian Tristan didn’t get it. The cookhouse is a large dining hall made and full of wood, with red and white checkered table cloths and a weathered, slightly bossy but friendly blonde waitress. They only serve one meal and it’s eggs, sausage, toast, biscuit (like a scone), gravy (delicious peppery white sauce), a pot of coffee and a jug of juice. Yum.

We stayed at Tristan’s brother’s place in a gorgeous little wood tiled cottage in the forest and one night at an airbnb place only because I was allergic to his cat. It was our first of many airbnb stays to come and was great. We stayed in the spare room of a group of uni students. For $45 we got a room, breakfast, use of the house and garden, nice towels and bedding.