At the time of writing, i.e. August 2011, I’ve been in China four months now. According to Lindsay Clandfield and Duncan Ford, in their short treatise ‘The Language Teacher’s Survival Handbook’ (ITS, 2008), there are four stages of culture shock. I’m not sure if I’m at any particular stage.

Right so, four stars because even though I have nothing to complain about, like the sea, I’m a harsh, unforgiving mistress.

If you happen to be in Dublin – visiting or living.

If you happen to be one of the many with a Tea habit that needs continual porcelain rattling fixing.

If you happen to be one of my brothers and sisters that can barely move let alone speak without a steaming black cup of ambition.

Then you will need to know about Moynihan and Dent Coffee and Tea (M&D Coffee and Tea.)

Imagine if you will for a moment a TV scene á la National Geographic, set in the Chinese countryside. Wizened, sun burnt old faces, cigarettes hanging from lips, an array of army smocks and wellington boots dressed on their wearer haphazardly, tractors from the 1930s only a small child could fit into – but are the norm here, and vast, unending fields edged off by steep hills come mountains on the horizon. That’s what northern China looks like, and any National Geographic documentary you’ve seen is not some wishful stereotype.

The road between Medellin and Turbo has one of the nastiest reputations in the country. In fact, the last time I tried to travel between these two cities, coming from the opposite direction, the road had been closed due to heavy mudslides. So, instead of taking the direct route from Turbo to Medellin, I had to detour via Monteria — a city that is positioned farther west, adding nearly eight hours to the trip.

It is a new day in Medellin. With vast investments from the government, a first rate metro has been built along with modern neighborhoods, which remind me of cities in the States. The police and military are now better equipped and trained, and dot the city streets. Strangely, the abundant presence of Colombian soldiers holding assault rifles in public places puts me at ease.

Fleeting moments. Smells. Nostalgia. Words overheard. Many elements make up our glimpses of a city, and the feel we get from it

Community is wherever you make it. This will stay with me always.

And as we entered the lower part of town, the bus station where we had left from not even a day before was now completely buried. Absolutely devastated. Completely missing. The silence was overwhelming as we drove through town, with every shop shut and locked; with most of the town working frantically to rescue and recover the people struck by this tragedy. Others wandered the streets aimlessly, not really comprehending what had happened, searching for something unknown.

The last few months have been unequivocally intense. As my experiences pile up, I feel more and more the weight upon me — the stories screaming to be written, much like the feeling of waking up to your cat staring you in the face, politely demanding to be fed. There is simply so much to write, so I’m going to break this one up into three parts. It’s a little intense and at times negative, so bear with me until the end for the big picture.

The rain drains off of the overhang at the Lublin bus station, forming streams of water that feed into a giant puddle in front of a small café. I watch people clumsily dance together around the small pond, trying to protect their business clothes and gain entrance to the warm and dry confines of the coffee shop. One man misjudges the distance between dry land and the front step of the café, ending up in a splash of muddy water, soaking his black dress shoes and slacks.

Names have been changed to protect persons concerned

I could not sleep.

I had fallen asleep fast and hard when I arrived home that night, as I woke up at 4am. Now it was 3:20am and I was wide awake. I decided to get up and get dressed and go see if places were opened for pre-Ramadan fasting breakfast, and what that would entail. As I headed out the door I decided against taking a book.

I buy a ticket on the six a.m. train tomorrow heading to Cluj-Napoca. Due to the early departure, I decide not to pay for a hotel or hostel. There is a twenty-four hour café across from the train station, with a pool hall that remains open until two a.m. I figure I can kill most of my night at this accommodating establishment

My fourteen hour overnight bus ride from Odessa finally arrives in the Southwestern Ukrainian border city of Chernivtsi. Due to its colorful past, formerly the principal city of Bukovyna (now Moldova), then apart of the Hapsburg Empire, and finally a brief stint in Romania after WWII, Chernivtsi has an unquestionably unique populace. This inimitable history, and youthful vibrancy drawn from the numerous Universities dispersed across the cityscape, creates an unavoidable charm.

I set the alarm on my phone for eight thirty to get an early start on our first day in Zagreb.

At seven forty I wake up to highly accented, belligerent arguing in English downstairs.