My blogs have been long overdue and trickle out at inconsistent rates, but better late than never, right? The reason it has taken me so long to write about my three weeks in Costa Rica is because of my mom’s accident. I returned to Atlanta for five weeks to help my mother recover and sort out the deluge of paperwork, appointments, and general chaos that always follows these tragic events. The entire experience, although not entirely over, was incredibly humbling and entirely worth it. My mom recovered quicker than anyone ever expected. Within three weeks of her surgeries, she was walking and—dare I say—cleaning! Credit must be awarded to my dad most of all because his is the arm my mom leaned on when she took her daily walks, the hand that washed her legs when her back could not bend, and the body that held her at night when she could not sleep.

I often think of my aging parents like antique glass so brittle that picking them up would shatter their form. But moments like these bring to life the couple who secretly fled a war-torn country, traversed oceans and rivers, and survived refugee camps, so the children on their backs could one day look up and see their futures as an endless cascade of possibilities not shackled down by a country in shambles. Like nothing akin to glass, my parents are made of iron, and their determination can cut through steel.

This is shorter than my usual blogs, but I think its length is just enough for me to start writing again. I hope you have all been well and that your lives have not been as tragically eventful as mine has been!

When frantic messages of my mother‘s car accident buzzed from my phone, I thought I was dreaming. Confirmed pictures and calls with my dad tore my spirit in two and shredded the remains. How could this happen? I tried to make sense of it all, but that would not change the fact that my mother was in the ICU with a broken collarbone, broken ribs, and internal intestinal bleeding. She would need several immediate surgeries before she could wake.

My mother, a small, sweet woman who prides herself on her perfect attendance at work, felt the metal frame of her familiar car nearly crush her on her way to work on Monday. My mother, who loves Vietnamese soap operas, mangos, singing karaoke, tending to her garden, fretting over her children, and doting on our dog, was now lying motionless on a hospital bed with tubes and machines sticking out from her sides. My mother, who just celebrated her 64th birthday a few days prior, was now at the epicenter of my entire family’s concerns and worries. My sisters, brother, and father rushed to her side, and I remained several thousand miles away. Guilt gnawed at me as I hungrily waited for any crumb of information that trickled into our family group chat.

Feeling helpless, I ran along Playa Cocles in the hopes that each burning step would exorcise the ache in my heart. When I approached the end of the beach and could run no further, I stumbled to a stop with my back to the jungle. I began sobbing. My shoulders heaved with cries as I recalled the last phone call with my mother four days prior when we last said “I love you” to one another. There was no one around me who could witness my anguish. The beach was nearly empty of swimmers and surfers who took the red flags posted along the beachfront as fair warning signs against the swollen strength of the ocean. With no one to watch me, I screamed at the waves. At first my screams were more nonsensical sobs, but soon they became the same words over and over. Will she be okay? Will she be okay? Will she be okay?

I felt how big, how immensely and confoundedly big, the ocean was. Her many faces broke against the shore in foamy, inscrutable expressions, which only frustrated me more. I threw upon her the responsibility of my mother’s accident, of all the indiscriminate pain suffered by everyone on earth ever. It wasn’t fair, but I didn’t care. The potentiality of loss made me unreasonable and savage, and I savored the rage that was preferable to my grief.

The foamy water lapped at my feet, assuaging some of my anger. I found my breath again and slowly opened my eyes, which were blurry and stung with tears. Walls of water formed long tunnels along the coast before curling and crashing back into itself. I watched the ocean for some time and thought about jogging back to my bike again when I heard soft panting behind me. Two dogs emerged from the river coursing from the jungle into the ocean. Their heads peeked happily from the river revealing more of their bodies as they made it on shore. One threw himself on the ground and began wriggling his body on the sand to scratch his back. The other sniffed closer to me and stood by my side. I couldn’t help but laugh and wonder about what this all meant, these dogs appearing from nowhere now asking to be pet. I scratched both of their soft heads and began my walk back towards the other end of the beach where tanned bodies peppered the yellow sand. I was heady with emotion and almost did not notice the dogs walking beside me when their faces occasionally ran into my calf. Halfway down the beach, a third dog pawing at the sand joined our pack. Now with three dogs accompanying my walk, I had my answer. Nature always found a way to respond, even when being unfairly accused by a lone, sobbing figure on the shore. I smiled knowing that whatever came after my mom’s multiple surgeries, she would recover and my family would be alright. Together we would face the complications that followed and would make the best of the situation.

The next day, my brother told me my mom was out of surgery and stable. She would be fitted for a back brace the following morning. Two days after that, I received a video from my dad of my mom being walked around the hospital floor with the aid of two nurses and my sister. When I watched her sway from side-to-side on her walker, then turn around to look at the camera, I cried again, this time with pure elation and joy.

The first week of our journey abroad was spent in Panama City, Panama, a sprawling city much like Miami. Glittering high rises and construction cranes can be seen from every street we passed from our Uber into the heart of the city. We stayed for one week in a trendy neighborhood off Via Argentina with an eclectic couple we found on AirBnB. I will be honest and brief about my stay in Panama City. Our time passed without much fanfare and was a tad unmemorable. Aside from our visit to the Panama Canal and going out to Casco Viejo (the historic and former capital of Panama), the city itself felt too similar to a city in the United States.

A timelapse of a carrier ship pulling into the Panama Canal.

Interestingly enough, Pat and I arrived in the country while it was in full swing of its presidential elections. Election buzz followed us everywhere in Panama. Signs, billboards, and smear campaigns were ubiquitous on every street corner or plastered on balconies alongside air-dried clothes. Even when we left Panama City and entered Bocas del Toro (Bocas), a cluster of islands off the Caribbean side of Panama, the election was present, if only scaled back to a local level. Left behind were the giant billboards and politician-led parties in parks. On Colón Island, political campaigns consisted of handing out t-shirts with political leaders’ name emblazoned on the front with a reminder of voting dates on the back, megaphones announcing support for a candidate blaring from trucks, and the occasional parade down the main street for an opposing candidate.

We arrived to Bocas via a ten-hour bus ride from Panama City followed by another 30-minute boat ride until we reached the shores of Isla Colón. We passed two pleasant weeks with slow jogs on the golden sands of Playa Bluff, giddy swims in the warm waters of the Gulf, and lazy strolls through streets of Colón Island. We soon realized restaurants were more expensive than advertised on this beautiful island, but the ingredients at supermarkets were fairly cheap. Keeping to our budget of $40 a day for housing, bike rentals, food, we started cooking more meals in our small outdoor kitchen, which we shared with other guests passing through the hostel. Water was not safe to drink on the island, so our budget now included buying large jugs of water too. Gone were the days when I could simply fill a glass of water from the faucet or be instantly cooled by the air conditioning of a chilly room.

Perhaps one of the greatest joys of traveling is to gain a deeper appreciation for one’s home country. By no means is the U.S. perfect, but each discomfort is a reminder of how nice life is back home. However, I still do relish the challenges for they not only are lessons in adaptability, they can also strengthen one’s self-efficacy and can also bring people together.

One night during our second week in Bocas (third week in Panama), Pat and I noticed some odd electrical buzzing while we walked around the town center. Thinking little of it, we enjoyed our Nutella crepe freshly made at a street stand and returned to our hostel. As we sat chatting with a few guests from the hostel, we heard a loud bang and then pop; the power went out. The streetlight right outside our hostel had burned with a great flash and then snuffed out leaving us in total darkness. The hostel owner rushed down with candles and lit them at our tables. Before we could thank him, he had already rushed past us to inspect the street and talk with neighbors. He returned with news that the entire island lost power, not just our neighborhood. I was grateful Pat and I did not linger in the city. We would have had to bike home in complete darkness.

Other guests from the hostel started to stream out of their rooms and join us in the main dining area. Although tired, a musician couple from Costa Rica began performing classic Spanish songs in the dark silence. We all settled into a cozy evening surrounded by strangers joined in unlikely circumstances, city workers arrived in white utility trucks to fix the power outage. We talked about our travels and where everyone was headed to after Bocas; we giggled at nursery rhymes from our home countries; and sometimes we sat in comfortable silence save for the strings of the guitar. Three hours and several cans of Balboas later, the power returned snapping us out of the balmy magic of the night. It is a memory like this that I will return to in old age, chewing on the hazy details as they grow sweeter with time.

Patrick and I set off to eat our way through the cities and countries we planned to visit, so naturally, New Orleans was high on our list. Not only did we stay with friends who lived off Magazine Street, we were also treated to incredible local food. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed the boisterous energy and romantic architecture of the French Quarter, but the best Vietnamese food, crawfish, and Cajun dishes could only be found in spots far away from the famous Bourbon Street area. Obvious pro tip: don’t spend your money on overpriced meals in the French Quarter. With the exception of beignets and coffee at Café du Monde, eating in that area is mostly for convenience.

The best local eateries in the city excelled at keeping a short, tight menu with dishes overflowing with flavor. From Jamaican oxtails to duck noodle soup, I was never disappointed by a single meal. However, the highlight foodie moment of my trip was, without a doubt, the crawfish boil we held in the backyard of our friend’s house. Two sacks (about 70 lbs) of fresh crawfish mingled happily with corn, mushrooms, and potatoes in a boiling pot of seasoned, salty goodness. Once finished, the crawfish and its accompaniments were dumped onto a long newspaper-covered table with hungry hands hastily picking through the red “mud bugs”. We drank crisp and cold beer from NOLA Brewing, while dancing and laughing our way to sundown.

New Orleans was equal parts phenomenal food and equal parts bad roads. There was a pothole outside of our friend’s home large enough to fit a healthy 12-year-old child. One lazy Wednesday morning, while I read on the front porch, I witnessed the pothole claim two vehicles and almost devour two more before noon. Bicyclists whizzing by always exclaimed aloud to no one, “This shitty-ass road,” as if this street was any different than any other street in New Orleans. In fact, it seemed the nicest neighborhoods had the worst roads, like an odd tax on the wealthy. The people of New Orleans have taken the pothole problem in stride, sometimes creating art out of the potholes or filling them with beads.

I soon learned that this sprawling, lively city with its charming street cars and rows of southern live oak trees was built on a swamp. A mere 10-12 inches beneath the asphalt and concrete is water. Yes, you read that correctly. Nearly 50 percent of New Orleans is below sea level, and the city has made several attempts to successfully pump water out since the early 1800s. At some point, 100 percent of the city was above sea level, but under-engineering and lack of funding has led to the current road conditions. While some methods have proven more effective than others, the soil subsidence problem is highlighted with every passing hurricane. However, crumbling roads did not diminish my love for this city. In fact, I believe it adds to the charm and laid-back attitude prevalent in almost every Orleanian I met.

Needless to say, I will definitely be returning to NOLA. The beautiful Louisiana city was a great way to wet my traveling toes as the first stop on a seven-month sabbatical. Next stop: Houston!

When I am stuck in the living nightmare that is Atlanta traffic, I usually listen to podcasts to assuage my road rage. Last month, while listening to one of my favorite podcasts, Radiolab, I found myself increasingly absorbed by an interview with a charming and spritely English doctor for his 80^th birthday. This was unusual for a podcast that focused singularly on science and philosophy. The doctor’s name was Oliver Sacks. In fact, a simple search for his name on Radiolab resulted in nearly ten pages of references, features, and interviews.

By the end of that month, Dr. Sacks and I had several, similar serendipitous encounters. In addition to the podcast, I stumbled upon a number of articles he authored for The New Yorker and found out my roommate had his autobiography on his bookshelf.

Dr. Sacks was a neurologist, researcher, best-selling author, subject of a film starring Robin Williams and Robert De Niro, weightlifting record holder, and someone who has since grown to become a beloved figure in my life. I hope to share some lessons I learned from him here.

Lesson One: Keep a journal and pen on hand.

I don’t mean just lugging a notebook around from meeting to meeting. Instead, carry a personal journal with you in a backpack, laptop bag, or seat of your car. Dr. Sacks always kept a journal to document notes and observations throughout his day – from neurological breakthroughs to notable encounters with strangers to self-experimentation with hallucinogens. We don’t all live expansive lives like the Doctor, but making a habit of keeping notes can help us reference ideas or make connections we might not have noticed otherwise. You can even number your pages and create a table of contents in the back for quick reference!

“My journals are not written for others, nor do I usually look at them myself, but they are a special, indispensable form of talking to myself.”

Lesson Two: An honest life is a healthy one.

Dr. Sacks lived in England during a time when being homosexual was against the law. Regardless, Dr. Sacks never renounced his sexuality even though it distanced him from his mother and a few of his friends. Dr. Sacks applied this philosophy to other areas of his life – his research, his shyness, his face blindness, and his faith.

“I cannot pretend I am without fear. But my predominant feeling is one of gratitude. I have loved and been loved; I have been given much and I have given something in return; I have read and traveled and thought and written. I have had an intercourse with the world, the special intercourse of writers and readers.”

Lesson Three: Live an unexpected life led by curiosity and wonder.

In August 2015, Dr. Sacks passed away after cancer in his eye mestasized throughout his body. Ironically, news of his death prompted me to read an autobiography of his life titled On the Move, which illuminated his illustrious life. Dr. Sacks did not live his life based on the expectations of others. He moved across the world, he studied and consumed all things that piqued his curiosity (even those outside his field), and he acquainted himself with people from every walk of life. Although Dr. Sacks did not beat death, he lived a full, vibrant existence. I cannot even begin to encompass everything this wonderful human being has accomplished, so I can only urge you to read his books.

Now that I near the end of this blog, I hope we all share the same conclusion: Dr. Sacks was not merely a man of science, he was also a man of the world. He was not bound to country lines and tough terrain, by lineage and religion, or social rules and expectations. He has taught me to live a life of honesty, healthy obsession, and gratitude.

Dr. Sacks ended his essay, where he revealed he was dying, with the following quote:

“Above all, I have been a sentient being, a thinking animal, on this beautiful planet, and that in itself has been an enormous privilege and adventure.”