But then, there’s this terrifying possibility, in which a plucky woman’s cord snaps, dropping her 60 feet into the alligator-infested Zambezi River 365′ below the sketchy-looking leap-off point. Watch to see the aftermath; forget bungee jumping ever again. (Via Adventure Journal)

Ho ho ho, all aboard the S.S. Disastro!

Being the selfless, caring person that I am, I generously give up my seat to an elderly man. My behavior is encouraged by the fact that it’s Christmas Eve and I’m waiting for a ferry that will take me to my home island of Martinique after a holiday in Dominica. After two hours and six minutes of standing, my Mother Teresa-like demeanor is lost. My feet ache, the nonstop Caribbean sun is painful on my already sunburned skin and sweat begins to drip off my chin, bringing my sunscreen with it. Any feelings of merriment and goodwill are gone. I shoot an envious glare at the rather smug man relishing the shade of my seat.

I should mention that this two hour, six minute wait for our ferry occurs after we’ve been hustled through a frenzied ticketing, customs and security check, which entail long, disorderly lines and a man who seems to get a nasty enjoyment from completely unpacking your bag…The entire process takes an hour and a half itself and occurs in a ferry terminal the size of most people’s living room. After making it through the three, separate lines we find ourselves in a partially outdoor, non-air conditioned room that brings out the worst in everyone, especially the locals who notoriously forego deodorant.

In short, the waiting area is a crowded, smelly mess. The lucky ones, like me, are able to claim a seat. The stupid ones, like me, also thoughtlessly give them up, assuming that the boat will be on time.

As we wait we enjoy the afternoon’s entertainment: boatloads of happy (albeit sunburned) Germans being transported to the ferry dock from the vast, luxurious cruise ship they arrived on. The sea is rough and each boat struggles to tie up and safely unload another group of activity hungry Germans. We all allow ourselves a laugh as they’re forced to awkwardly hop from the rocking boat onto land. Of course, it may sound a bit mean, but I have a hard time feeling bad for someone who gets to spend Christmas Eve hiking to one of the island’s 365 waterfalls, biking or visiting the natural sulfur springs – with a native tour guide in tow. We on the other hand, are waiting in the heat for a boat that doesn’t seem to be coming.

As our overdue ferry appears we let out a cheer, a late boat is much better than no boat at all. The choppy water is making it difficult to secure the ferry to the port, but after several tries, the boat is tied up and the boarding ramp is carried over. With the ramp attached and the ferry secured, we watch the first few passengers descend off the boat. All progress is halted as a big wave pushes the boat higher bringing the connected ramp with it. One passenger is caught on the ramp and flung onto the concrete as the boat rears back. He’s rushed away from the rocking boat and an ambulance arrives shortly after.

Shock lingers in the air and now it’s the Germans’ turn to stare as each remaining passenger is forced to run down the constantly moving ramp. Somehow even the high heel clad women manage.
Needless to say, the ferry company doesn’t want to risk re-boarding the boat, so we all turn around and wait in yet another line for an “official stamped ticket” that granted us the “chance” to board the Christmas day ferry. The thought of living through the day’s events again was terrifying. Our Christmas Eve had included five hours of standing in lines and waiting (without a seat). Upon receiving our “official stamped ticket” we were told to find a nearby hotel (on our dollar, of course) and come back tomorrow to do it all again. This time, I tell you, I won’t give up my seat to anyone. —Eve Donegan

The Accidental Extremist loves beer — much of the time it’s the only safe thing to drink! In fact we love it so much that we teamed up with Beer West magazine for a contest you can really drink to. Send them a story for a chance to win. How? Read this piece by Beer West Editor Emily Hutto for inspiration… and then get cracking.

FOOT LOOSE

I step off a cruise ship, disoriented and mildly nauseous from a week of rocky seas. I venture onto the cobblestone pavement of the port in Brazil, where round women in rounder costume skirts serenade the town. I walk to the side of the dock, scoping out the surrounding boats and ships. It’s refreshing to see so much color after a week of blue-waves and sky and ship tablecloths-all blue.

Another ship is pulling in next to mine and a rowboat of fisherman is anchored nearby. I sit on the dock and stretch my foot out to sit cross-legged when off flies my flip-flop into the ocean. Great. My first step into a new country is going to a barefooted one.

Before I even have a chance to react, one of the fishermen anchored for lunch dives into the ocean to rescue my floating flop! His strapping shoulders hoist him back onto his boat. Immediately he turns back to me, waving with a wide smile and flip-flop in hand.—Emily Hutto

Now, it’s your turn: Beer West is calling for submissions of your best 700-word travel narrative and photos. Please email your story to emhutto@beerwestmag.com by December 31st, 2011 to win prizes featured in Beer West’s Spring Issue Road trip Gear Guide. Your story will also be featured in the “Confessions” section of the Spring 2012 Travel issue of the magazine. Please email all submissions and put TRAVEL STORY in the subject line. One story and photo entry per person. The winner will be notified via email.

With full ferocity of the engine we were cutting the fall wedge with the first chainsaw. It ran 6 inches into the burning tree, dulled and became bound. The second chainsaw was slashed in to cut it out. In the frenzy it too jammed, soon slack, dull, smoking and useless. The tree continued to burn, and with only a small wedge just begun, it continued to stand.

As we toiled over the technology that was letting us down a wild idea was thrown out. “What about the cross-cut saw?” someone asked. It sat decoratively above the doorway in the dining hall. It was a bygone hand tool from a bygone time and was now our only option. A counselor took off running to grab this, our only hope. His leather fringe disco vest and afro wig of a bygone fashion bounced and waved as he ran.

We took shifts heaving the cross-cut saw in turn as one would tire out. The swaying hips and bobbing heads of those on the saw in their disco outfits looked similar to the dance moves that were being practiced during the day to prepare for the Saturday Night Fever Dance later that night. It is hilarious to imagine now, only nobody was laughing then. The tree was still standing and still burning. Suddenly a “pop” and then another, and in unison shouts of caution turned to cheers as the tree began to fall safely, thunderously and magnificently toward the meadow. In a fiery swhoosh it landed and a line of campers holding pots of water stretch from the tree to the kitchen sink in the dining hall providing an endless flow of water.

When it was over we stood staring in amazement. The forest was saved. We worked together flawlessly and efficiently without a single designated leader but rather a collective intelligence that made decisions in an instant and, most importantly, in impeccable disco fashion. The dance could go on.

John Cameron writes from coffee places and green spaces around Philadelphia. His art is inspired by travel and all things wild and his bag is never unpacked. Find more online here.

Stevens Point, Wisc. – (August 4, 2011) With only weeks left to enter the World’s Unluckiest Traveler 2: The Rescue contest, Travel Guard North America (www.travelguard.com), a leader in travel insurance and assistance services, is urging the public to recognize the unsung heroes of travel by sharing tales of random acts of kindness.  Whether a concierge went above and beyond, an airline employee provided special assistance or a fellow traveler helped save a trip, Travel Guard wants to hear about it. With a $10,000 Hero’s Vacation and airfare for two at stake, stories of random acts of kindness witnessed while traveling have been streaming in throughout the summer.

Submissions to date include “Baboon Rescue in Kenya,” the story of an American visitor who saved the lives, and lunches, of his tour group thanks to some quick thinking. The group was exploring African wildlife areas when they stopped for a lunch break and unwittingly encountered a troop of baboons. Spotting some cookies the group had packed for lunch, the baboons raced toward them, pouncing on the cookies and nearly landing on a small child. The brave member of the group took charge, distracting the baboons, causing them to retreat while his fellow tour members escaped to safety.

“Attack of the Gallbladder” is the story of a couple who met their driver, Martin, in Germany after disembarking from a European river cruise. The trio made a pit stop in a small town on their way to Prague, when the wife began suffering a gallbladder attack.  Martin drove the couple to the local hospital, served as a translator and waited for hours while the doctors ran a series of tests.  Afterward, he helped them pick up prescriptions and took them to their hotel in Prague, only to make another trip to a different hospital at 7 a.m. the next morning.  The wife was admitted and treated until she could return home for surgery with Martin there every step of the way!

The entry “Trip to Visit Mom” tells of a mother traveling alone with her two young children to visit their grandmother in Florida. Her hands were full with the kids and their belongings during a layover at a busy airport, when a pilot saved the day by offering his help and carrying the one-year-old to the gate.

“From unlikely rescues to medical emergencies, I am encouraged by the random acts of kindness that shine through the hectic nature of travel,” said Carol Mueller, vice president, Travel Guard North America.  “Whether it’s one traveler helping another or a travel industry employee who saved the day, we believe the travel tales of kindness we continue to receive will inspire individuals to take a minute and help someone in need.”

Entries will be accepted on www.travelguard.com through Labor Day, September 5. On September 27, World Tourism Day, Travel Guard will announce the 10 best stories, as chosen by a panel of travel experts including:

• Spud Hilton – Travel Editor, San Francisco Chronicle
• Rick Seaney – Co-Founder, FareCompare.com
• George Hobica – Founder, Airfare Watchdog
• Harvey Chipkin – Freelance Travel Writer
• Christian DeBenedetti – Freelance Correspondent, Outside
• Eileen Ogintz – Syndicated columnist, Creator of TakingTheKids.com
• Everett Potter – Founder, Everett Potter’s Travel Report
• Kim Orlando – Founder, TravelingMom.com

Throughout the month of October, the public will vote for the ultimate act of kindness from 10 finalists. The winning hero, as voted by North America, will be awarded a $10,000 Hero’s Vacation. The person who nominated the winning story will win airfare for two anywhere in the U.S.

Travel Guard’s “World’s Unluckiest Traveler” app, available for Android and iPhone, makes it easy to stay up-to-date with the contest while on the run. The public is also encouraged to spread the love by sharing their favorite stories of travel good deeds via Facebook, Twitter and other social networks. For more information on the contest and a full set of rules and regulations, visit www.travelguard.com.

About Travel Guard

Travel Guard, a Chartis company and worldwide leader in travel insurance and assistance, provides products and services to millions of travelers around the globe, including a wide range of emergency services through its wholly-owned assistance centers located in Asia, Europe and the Americas. Travel Guard helps leisure and business travelers alike solve problems and manage risks. Travel Guard’s global reach, unparalleled service quality and proven operational capabilities allow clients to receive best-in-class care. Travel Guard’s suite of technology platforms enables seamless integration with all major travel distribution systems and supplier channels. The travel insurance products marketed by Travel Guard are underwritten by insurance company subsidiaries and affiliates of Chartis Inc. For additional information, please visit our websites at www.travelguard.com and www.travelguardworldwide.com.

NO PURCHASE OR PAYMENT OF ANY KIND OR SALES PRESENTATION IS NECESSARY TO ENTER OR WIN THIS CONTEST AND SWEEPSTAKES. A PURCHASE WILL NOT INCREASE YOUR CHANCES OF WINNING.  The Travel Guard “Random Act of Kindness” Promotion starts May 30, 2011 at 9:00:00 AM EST and ends October 31, 2011 at 11:59:59 PM EST. Open to legal residents of the United States (excluding U.S. Territories), age 21 and over, and residents of Canada (excluding Quebec) over the age of majority in their province/territory, at the time of entry. The Promotion consists of a Video/Photo Contest (“Contest”) component and a Voter Sweepstakes (“Sweepstakes”) Component. To Enter the Contest: Beginning May 30, 2011 at 9:00:00 AM EST and ending September 5, 2011 at 11:59:59 PM EST go to www.TravelGuard.com and submit either a video or a photo along with an accompanying story describing your submission (between 10 and 200 words), about a random act of kindness by someone who has helped you or someone else when away from home, along with your full name, email address, phone number, country and state/province/territory of residence and a username and password, and the full name, email address, phone number, country and state/province/territory of residence of the Nominee. Contest Entries must be submitted by September 5, 2011 at 11:59:59 PM EST. Limit one Unique Contest Entry per person/household per day. To Enter the Sweepstakes: Beginning October 1, 2011 at 9:00 AM EST and ending October 31, 2011 at 11:59:59 PM EST, go to www.TravelGuard.com, and vote for one of the eligible Contest Entries, enter your full name, email address, phone number, country and state/province/territory of residence and a username and password. You will receive one (1) entry into the Sweepstakes (“Entry”) for your Vote if you voted for the eventual Contest Grand Prize Winner. Limit one (1) Vote/Entry per person/email address per day. Odds of winning the Sweepstakes Prize depends on the number of Votes received for the Contest Grand Prize Winner during the Voting Period. Sponsor: Travel Guard Group, Inc., 3300 Business Park Drive, Stevens Point, Wisconsin 54482.  Void in Puerto Rico and all other U.S. territories, Quebec and where prohibited by law. Subject to full official rules, available at www.TravelGuard.com/Unlucky.

Travel Guard’s sponsorship of the World’s Unluckiest Traveler Contest is not intended to represent in any respect that Travel Guard’s insurance plans cover any of the events depicted in any single entry. For full and complete insurance coverage details, please contact Travel Guard directly.

Something about that country was making me want to go under the knife.

Here, a yarn by Wayward Betty writer Kate Clark, via Hairpin and Gawker.com, which picked it up. The moral? Go big, then go home.

One of the reasons plastic surgery is cheaper in Thailand is that the entire process is streamlined. Same-day consultations and surgery make the process more efficient, so instead of making an appointment, you basically sit in a line and wait until the doctor can see you.

The waiting room is packed and feels like that afterlife scene from Beetlejuice: we’re all kind of messed up, looking around wondering what happened to whom and what needs fixing. With some of the patients it’s clear: a child with a harelip, a burn victim, and a row of lady-boys waiting for sex change operations. Then there are the rest of us: Europeans, Australians, and Americans who are either seeking nose jobs, facelifts, liposuction, or implants (me).

The hospital is colorful and bright, and — this is my favorite part — the nurses are on roller skates, wearing tight suits like flight attendants in the ’60s, gliding by with documents, medication, syringes. There’s also techno music playing in the background as if the whole experience should say, “Plastic surgery is fun! Let’s do it again!” Similarly, throughout the hospital advertisements encourage you to “Be happy. Be beautiful” and include a running list of procedures you can undergo to make this happen…

I find myself holding my breath at several points: first when I hear my mispronounced name and stand, weighing the implants in my palms; again standing nude in front of the doctor while he takes pictures and makes incomprehensible comments in Thai; and again lying down on the operating table, arms spread wide, a split second before I inhale the anesthesia.

The good thing about general anesthesia is that you’re fully aware that in what seems like seconds you’ll wake up and it’ll all be over. The bad thing is that when you wake up, you’ll have been sliced open, prodded, stuffed, and sewn back together. (I don’t remember much from the procedure except yelling at one of the roller-skating nurses to rub my arms because I couldn’t feel them, although she reassured me in broken English that everything would be fine soon.)

So, in less than 48 hours after landing in Bangkok I wake up with breasts. Big, swollen, tightly wrapped fake breasts. It’s like coming out of The Matrix, only with new body parts. And I don’t mean this in a positive or negative way — just that laying there, knowing that the seemingly 50 pounds pressing down on my chest is now part of my own body is definitely a WTF moment.

I stay in the hospital overnight and within a few hours of waking up am trying to prepare for departure. I know I have to go back to my creepy old Bangkokian hotel alone to take care of myself for a week before the stitches come out, so I do my best to get there with minimal anguish. Everything hurts: sitting up, bending over, lifting, reaching, picking up the phone… reading. I feel like a good primate when I use my feet to pick up my purse. I also have to relearn sitting up on my own. Not to keep referencing movies, but I had just watched Kill Bill and was channeling Uma Thurman in the backseat of the Pussy Wagon, but instead of “Wiggle your big toe,” it’s “Sit up. Sit up. Sit up. Sit up.”

After packing up my things, I throw some cash for my new tee-tas at the check-out, then hail a cab (unable to lift my arm, I give a low-five wave). Up in the room I’m prepared: Pirated DVDs cost less than a dollar in Thailand, and at least one guy in the kitchen takes room service orders in English.

In a few days, I’m out and about. Another great thing about Thai health care is that you can pretty much get whatever you want from the pharmacy — they even have a walk-up Botox counter. (Be wary, though: the guy behind the counter is so tight and shiny, he looks like robotic Jude Law inAI.) So when I show the pharmacist my painkiller prescription, she says, “That’s for kindergarten pain! You need this!” and gives me what I suspect to be some concoction of Oxycodone, Percocet, and Vicodin. She also throws in a pack of Valium, saying, “You just take easy and relaaaaaa-AX” (winks and smiles).

The million dollar questions: How are they and how do I feel? My friend warned me about body dysmorphic disorder and the psychological dangers of plastic surgery, but for me, there is no dysmorphia because (well, maybe this is dysmorphic), I believed they were supposed to be there the whole time. My only complaint is that they might not be big enough, but the doctor laughed at me today when I asked if he could make them bigger. Since he doesn’t speak English very well, he made a series of gestures and sound effects, which I interpreted to mean that the implants would overflow from the side, implode (or explode?) beneath the muscle and potentially collapse and come out my mouth. Really, I have no idea other than something terrible would happen if I tried bigger implants.

And so he takes out my stitches, and it’s time to get the F— out of Bangkok.

A longer version of this story can be found on Wayward Betty, where Kate Clark, a freelance writer, is chronicling her life as she travels the world.

The Brooding Woman. Paul Gaugin, 1891.

What does it feel like, that first night abroad and alone? Here, in a taut, vivid meditation on the nature of recomposing the self in a new, thrillingly different—and more than a little dangerous—environment, frequent contributor Kate Erickson explains the sensation with a searching, poetic eye. —Christian

I lied when I told Liz, a math teacher on the Portuguese Azores, that I could drive her manual transmission Toyota. Liz needed someone to feed her two dogs and two cats while she visited her family in the States. By the transportation email, we had already covered accommodations; her hundred-year old farmhouse sat in the brambles of a retired, tiered vineyard. Geography: the Azores are halfway between New York and Lisbon, a volcanic archipelago softened by purple hydrangeas. And timeframe: a month, July, the most glorious of the Azores year. I was just out of college, and I was emailing from my parents’ basement in Kentucky.

On June thirtieth my connecting flight from Newark hit a luggage rack, and Air Portugal dismissed all passengers to a crusty Ramada Inn. For one, two, then three days, I was stranded poolside with a dozen woebegone Portuguese grandmothers. They sunbathed and cried; I walked laps in stale jeans and a t-shirt, because Air Portugal had sent my checked bag on without me.

When I finally arrived to Terceira, Liz had been gone for forty-eight hours. Her wild-haired friend, also a teacher at the Air Force base high school, collected and debriefed me. House keys are in the car, unlocked; car keys in a bowl on the kitchen counter. Front door is triple-locked, deadbolt sticks, because Liz only just started using it again.

“These break-ins! Only in the off-base homes, of course, but elaborate as heists. It’s sleeping gas through an open window, then robbery as loud as they please.” She picked at mud on her dashboard. “I recommend locking the windows and shutters, both. Stuffy beats no DVD player.” The friend careened us around a blind turn and slammed to a stop for the cattle jogging downhill, into an open field. “Be careful of this,” she said, wagging a finger at the cows. “They stampede willy-nilly. My God!” She slammed her palm into the steering wheel. “I almost forgot. The cat died. Not your fault, of course.”

“What?” I said.

“One of the cats. It jumped the retaining wall yesterday, down into the street. Flattened immediately.” The woman sighed and continued driving. “Neighbor left a note, which is like, really? These people, they just don’t care about their animals. But anyway, I called Liz, so it’s not your fault.”

“Thank you,” I said.

The car slammed to a stop again. We were at a forty-five degree angle, headed downhill, facing a field of young corn, then tan-orange cliffs, then a forever of Atlantic Ocean.

“Here you are,” Liz’s friend said. She presented the house built into the hill on our right. “Call me if you need anything, though I’m usually scuba diving.”

“Okay,” I said.

The retaining wall, some twelve feet high from street level, opened to the driveway by an arched green door. Inside, returning the latch, I followed the cobblestones uphill again (M.C. Escher had planned the island’s roads), to the Toyota, which would have two inches leeway when rolling through the greet gate. On the street, Wild Hair putzed away.

I heard the silence settle, then each sound come through it. The unfamiliar birds, the ocean across the long slope, the dogs begging for freedom through the thick house. Only those gratefully out of love hear so distilled, those undistracted by the idea of someone else—interpretations and heartbeat—at their side. I had been waiting months to be exactly that alone.

As promised, the house keys were under the driver’s seat. After I muscled the deadbolt, a Dalmatian and a mutt catapulted outside and then back in. On the kitchen table lounged the remaining cat and Liz’s note of welcome. Feeding times, reminders, introductions. The Dalmatian was Bella, the island mutt Rambo, the larger cat Kitty, the smaller one Mouse.

“No, no, no,” I said out loud, flipping the paper. I looked at the calico on the table. “Are you larger?” She head-butted me. By the window, Bella was bouncing from all fours to hind legs, down again, then back up. Rambo was sitting six inches from my ankle, erect and humping. He would continue to be six inches from me in this way anytime I stood in one place for more than ten seconds, at any point for the next month.

Well, Kitty was a stupid name, and jumping the retaining wall was a stupid move. The surviving cat became Mouse.

The next morning I unlocked the shutters, windows, and French doors. The dogs bounded into the yard. Mouse jumped from countertop to table as I investigated the kitchen. Messy floors, a half-woven basket, too many empty wine bottles saved for, what, desperately youthful vases? Like many recent college graduates, I had learned to carve space for myself in a refrigerator. I swung Liz’s open and began dumping the molded. Grouped like items, wiped the shelves, faced the labels out. Mouse turned figure eights around me.

“Howdaya like that?” I asked her, straightening.

With my claim marked, I moved through other rooms. They were similarly cluttered by bits of the outdoors coming in, a love and impatience for crafts, and the backlogged chores of single, working motherhood. In my room—Liz’s teenage son’s room—I made the bed and nosed through the books. In the bottom drawer of his nightstand, with the force of my yank, a handgun slid forward. It bumped the drawer’s front panel and waited.

In Kentucky, I had attended dozens of birthday parties chaperoned by taxidermy. My mom, though, was the sort of pacifist who banned camouflage (even in hand-me-downs, which she otherwise stockpiled) because it connoted violence. We played cooperative wooden board games.

“Holy crap,” I whispered. This was about more than missing DVD players.

I understood why my parents had hugged me tightly when I left. I was smack in the middle of the ocean, a thousand miles from any English-speaker who did not work for the United States Armed Forces. I was sleeping alone in a neighborhood known for gassed robberies, and by water and danger and ignorance of manual transmissions, I was trapped exactly there.

“Fuck it,” I said to the gun and slammed the bedside drawer. I left the bedroom. Mouse padded ahead of me. “Hey, Mouse,” I called, revving. “Let’s go for a drive.”

Technically, before I swiped Liz’s keys from the kitchen and marched down the concrete stairs, I had driven stick. When I was sixteen, I had interned for a photographer. He insisted I wear shorts, accept bites from his fork, and learn the thrust of his five-speed Jeep. Three years later, to prepare for a college road trip, I had asked a sleepy-eyed senior to teach me the gearshifts of her red convertible. In the moment she coached me to second, I simultaneously fell for her and realized why the photographer turned my stomach. Both situations boiled to embarrassments, and I chose to erase them as much as possible, instead of take any brand of lesson.

Standing on Liz’s cobblestones, I remembered neither the placement nor the function of a clutch. Bella and Rambo cursed a blue streak from the living room.

“I hate learning new things,” I said. “Hate, hate, hate.” My lungs seized. I felt a hint of migraine.

I unlocked the green gate. In the Toyota, I stomped the break, released the emergency, turned the engine. I jostled the car into reverse and let her roll, so gradually, through the wall’s narrow opening and into the street. I went downhill first, coasting around half a dozen switchbacks to a dead end of cow pies. My first acceleration and gearshift was an uphill U-turn: a flailing combination of guesswork, very nearly a collision, flat tire, transmission burn out, and heart attack. I peeled into second gear, begged the cows to stay home. Hyperventilating, I plowed up Escher’s map, past the house, through a stop sign.

Portugal was playing in the World Cup consolation round, and in one of our early emails, Liz had waxed about a bar east of her house, on the last hilltop before the village called Praia. I drove away from the setting sun. Suddenly I was a soccer fan, out on the town.

Like many revelations, the bar appeared after a hairpin turn. On the mountain’s gusty crest, it spilled gold and blue from the base of a towering statue of the Virgin Mary. A hundred feet of tarnished copper, she nodded to Praia, sparkling below us. I careened into the lot and leaned forward for a better view through the windshield. My awe stalled the Toyota, so I parked. Underneath the stars, the draped figure was even more beautiful.

Inside, the bar was tiny – and completely empty. The television showed Portugal down by two. The bartender sized me.

“Hi,” I said solemnly, trying to look bored instead of flushed, all at once, with loneliness. At the counter, I fumbled for an acceptable drink order, remembered I was my own designated driver, panicked, then blurted, “One of these.” I dove into the freezer for a Creamsicle.

The old man mumbled something and poked at his register.

I whapped one Euro-fifty, my best guess, on the counter.

“Obrigado,” I said, like the miserable grandmothers at the Ramada Inn. I climbed onto a stool.

The orange juice layer suffered freezer burn, and vanilla streamed down the wooden stick. I slurped and gnashed my way until the end, when I plunged my thumb against the roof of my mouth to ease the burn. The bartender watched me. I withdrew my hand and cleaned my palms with a thin paper napkin.

“Brain freeze,” I said. “No good.” I jutted my chin to the TV, because my assessment also applied to the score.

Sliding off my stool, I pressed my lip together and nodded, the goodbye between strangers. I was leaving. I must have said something to the man, an excuse, but I remember only what I didn’t: how his bar looks at dusk, when you discover it on a triumphant bluff, spilling light from a holy woman.

Through the return trip, I calculated the driveway. The gate offered mere inches for error. Any adjustments would mean restarting on a hill. Alongside the retaining wall, in a last-minute decision, I swung wide, closed my eyes, and gunned it. The Toyota bounced across the cobblestones. I slammed the breaks. The car stalled, I cranked the emergency, and we bucked to a stop. Miraculously intact, I had returned.

As if I could see Praia’s guardian from my driveway well, I leaned to the windshield again. Before me, the vineyard rose in quick stair steps. On the second tier, solidly within Liz’s fenced property, someone had staked a haltered cow to graze. The cow was appropriately massive, inappropriately ripping Liz’s grass. Someone had led the cow there, staked it. Someone could be waiting close— a dozen feet from the cow, fewer from my pounding heart. The weeds would camouflage him, and in a few minutes, he would see me, not yet sunburned, trot up the steps, struggle with the deadbolt.

I locked the car doors but cracked open the driver’s window. I released the seatbelt and begged my adrenaline to slow. Outside, the house moaned in the downdraft. Bella distinguished her yap from Rambo’s, and an uphill neighbor planned her future into a cordless phone. I waited for the steadfast prowling of my comrade Mouse who, I learned upon Liz’s return, was really Kitty. As night obscured the mid-Atlantic, I hoped when I finally stepped out into the darkest dark, I might understand the difference between the sounds of comfort and those of danger.—Kate Erickson grew up in Kentucky and now lives in Brooklyn. She is a frequent storyteller at The Moth storytelling series in Manhattan.