Author - Jeff Grace

Turkey, Bulgaria, Serbia, Hungary, Croatia, Slovenia, Austria, Slovakia, and Romania

A boyhood in rural Vermont wasn’t bad preparation for family vacation road trips through countries with questionable driving records. My training as a future Turkish driver began on our family’s farm at ten years old-old enough to reach the foot throttle on the logging winch, to be precise. From this early training, I experienced quite a few not-so tame accidents moving the John Deere tractor down our woods roads. Little wonder that Mom would bundle up my little brother into our Buick station wagon late at night and go looking for us when we weren’t home on time. On those occasions, we’d always meet her somewhere along the way with one last load of logs or firewood.

Dad is an expert on the roadway, his conduct guided by a career trucking propane and over fifty years volunteering for the local fire department. He collected war stories of his adventures and heroics along the way: the one where he spun backwards down Hillcrest Terrace with 2500 gallons of fuel in his bulk tank (the road has been closed every winter since); or the one where he wrecked a brand new fire truck trying to rescue folks during a snow storm (days after the department had deemed the engine “Robert Grace Engine Company” in tribute to his long tenure).

Dad taught me how to drive in every conceivable weather and road condition. Having the wit and courage to steer into the slide on an icy road when every bit of you wants to steer the other way, is a requirement in Vermont after all. Later I graduated into skidding logs up long hills in the pouring rain, because with my Pops, we always had time for one more load.

While posted to Ankara, I quickly experienced the relentless and unforgiving roads of the region. In such terrain there’s not a road or traffic “laws” in the ordinary sense such as lanes or right of way. Whoever gets there first cuts the track so to say. “If you can drive in Turkey, you can drive anywhere in the world,” folks would say at the Embassy. I used to laugh when I heard that phrase, but once I learned how to drive, I knew exactly what they meant. If you have ever dreamed of being a race car driver, loved playing bumper cars at the fun parks and enjoyed playing tag as a kid, driving in Turkey is the three games rolled in to one crazy experience. It’s common to see cars driving the wrong way, running red lights, and zigzagging across wide roads without the slightest regard to lane markings.

Properly prepared, road trips quickly become our preferred holiday. There’s something cool about driving a car in a different country and exploring places off the beaten track. Then when a family and friends reunion at a castle in Tét, Hungary materialized, the car became our only logical choice for the adventure. However, while a Turkey to Hungary road trip along single cliff-top roads, highways without any barriers, and the steepest turns you could imagine can be incredibly beautiful and exciting to drive on, soon after everyone had piled into the car we were harshly reminded of the dangers as well.

From around the road’s bend: a shriek of metal, a cloud of smoke, a bus came careening at our car head on. We swerve madly for a near miss. Then I see the accident: a jacked up truck in pieces. Jennilou must have sensed my silent tantrum because she turned around to look at me. “Is everything OK,” she murmured before drifting back to sleep. Awaken by the veer; I searched the girls’ eyes for any indication of fear or pain. I only see a kind confusion, which turned my exasperation to compassion at their naivety.

“Hi Mom.”

“Hi honey! We’re so glad you called – we’ve been worried sick about you guys,” she cooed from the other end of the scratchy connection. Scrunched into a tiny pizza joint in Belfast, I didn’t forget for a moment that we were speaking from opposite edges of the earth.

“We board our flight to Budapest in a few minutes. Will you guys be there to greet us?” came an enthusiastic query.

“You bet Mom” It took me a second to get used to thinking in US time, “when do you arrive again?”

“When was it again Jonny? Right…10:30pm.”

I pictured the terminal in Burlington, Vermont and thought about the two employees working there: one who sat at the counter stacking tickets into elaborate structures while avoiding eye contact with anyone resembling a customer, the other marching in and out of the solo jet way door as if it would disappear if left unattended for two minutes. “Of course, Mom, we will be there”

There was a long pause. I struggled between a million stories, tried to grasp something that she could picture: toothless street vendors selling buckets of oranges, mountains of flowers and home-baked bread in the town squares, boys kicking old soccer balls in abandoned basketball courts at the foot of mountains.

“How are you guys doing?” she asked.

“Right on schedule”, I reported. “Just one more border crossing and we are finally to Hungary.”

“That’s wonderful!” she sounded positively delighted, “I don’t know why you do such crazy things sometimes.”

“Kath! He saved $500 bucks!” retorted my father aggravated.

“You guys have any trouble along the way?” she probed as if to prove this hadn’t been the greatest idea my Dad and I seemed to make it out as.

“No. Actually …” I shouldn’t tell her.

“Really? That’s fantastic Jeffrey.”

Don’t tell her.

Pause. “Well this truck….”

Idiot.

“Actually, Mom, don’t worry about it.”

“No, I want to know.”

“It’s okay. I’ve actually got to go. I’ll see you soon ma …”

Click.

We ended our journey at a crescent-shaped lip parking lot outside our AirBnb in a quiet Budapest neighborhood. I rested my right foot on the gloriously still ground, and peeled my reluctant fingers from their desperate steering wheel clench. My eyes wandered off the jutted edge, and a wave of beauty pummeled my unprepared eyes as the girls sprang from the car excited to see their grandparents for the first time in over a year. That wasn’t so bad, I thought. The physical toll of long hours driving in strange territory is terrific: In the course of two weeks and nine countries, thirty five new hairs turned gray forever. Driving those long hours left me with tightness in my back that lingered long after I returned home. When it finally cleared, though, I was a bit sad to feel it go. The psychological effects of completing our trip have lasted even longer. Navigating those unfamiliar roads has left me restless for unusual territory, and gave me the fortitude to give it go. We have driven many places in the region since. But on that day, on a winding mountain road in rural Bulgaria, a blue truck was crushed and a driver was killed instantly. Every now and then, I still see that smoking truck hurtling at me in dreams, but after our trip, the accident has became less of a nightmare and more of an inspiration and reminder to cherish the time we do have. After all, a pack of Graces had lived another day to reunite together half way around the world.

Dads First Time Swimming

August 28, 2017

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Kalkan, Kas, Fetiyhe, Dalyan, Marmaris, and Pamukkale Family Vacation

My family is made up of working-class Vermonters; almost all of us live in the same town, and many of us are afraid of driving on highways with more than one lane. On the rare occasion that we traveled out of state, it was in caravans on our way to summer vacation in Maine; we also took a trip to Disney World when I was a child. As a bit of an outlier, my father had seen the world in ways I could only imagine during the Vietnam War. However, at nearly 70 years old he’d never swam in the ocean. He had been to the ocean before, had even put his feet in the water, but had never worked up the nerve to dive in and swim.

Much to my astonishment, my father had agreed to stuff his backpack borrowed from my brother and set out with us for holiday along the Turkish Riviera. It was a blistering sunny day in Dalyan, which meant from my vantage point, I could only see his slouching silhouette shining as I looked up from the Aegean Sea. The body was so familiar, that frame which looks forward to a hard day’s work, his bare head, and the points of his forty year old mustache. I grabbed a Styrofoam noodle to steady myself and watched my father in silence as he prepared to descend into the ocean.

For me, it was one those experiences where you’re filled with some extravagant feeling you might never have had, because you live in a world that doesn’t allow you to compute so naturally, a world filled with walls and wood and constructions to close you in, to hide your imperfections, your calluses, your anxiety. It doesn’t matter that you’re also feeling guilty because he doesn’t see you watching him face his fear.

Slowly feeling his way across the deck of the boat, taking off his cloths, placing each one carefully on the bench beside him, waiting until the stairs had been lowered, with three noodles in his hand, he began his descent. Finally, he squeezed his eyes shut, slipped his hands from the rungs and dove into a wave, letting it buoy his body forward. He flapped his arms, kicked his legs, and, before I knew it, he opened his eyes right in front of him. He wrapped his arms around me and smiled. He licked his salty lips and asked why his eyes didn’t hurt. “Well, it’s not chlorine,” I said. I ducked under his arms before another wave hit. Before long, every bit of insecurity seemed to float away. He was swimming in the ocean for the first time, beside his son and granddaughters.

I’d like to think my parents deliberately raised a man who prioritizes adventure; and for them the moment wasn’t extravagant, but their plan all along. After all, think of all the things we’d got to do together for the first time.

Kalkan, Kas, Fetiyhe, Dalyan, Marmaris, and Pamukkale Family Vacation

Israel Long Weekend

May 4, 2017

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Israel Long Weekend

I sat on a stone bench outside old city Jerusalem with my 76-year father in law. A small man of 5’5,” hair peppered with silver and hands refined by decades of machining industrial equipment, picking palm nuts and tapping rubber trees.

This was the tail end of our Israel long weekend through the land of the great monotheistic religions. The first night in Tel Aviv, my father-in-law left our apartment to purchase some milk and came back with a story of how he was stopped by a man who wanted to provide him with “many beautiful ladies.” My father in-law responded that he already had all the ladies he needed in his room…not bothering to mention they were his wife, daughter and two granddaughters.

At the Dead Sea, Grandpa pocketed salt rocks that he carefully wrapped in the flyer he had picked up at the airport. These quickly joined a Jaffa magnet for the fridge, a stone from Bethlehem, and the rosary laid on the Stone of Anointing. Bracelets for each female grandchild were also added.

Trip planning proved to be a bumpy ride for me. Multi-generational coordination of disparate schedules and an unexpected Israel Independence Day holiday left Grandpa with at least one of his girls in tow at all times. Many a night we arrived back at the apartment sleepless and disoriented, into what I had imagined as a way to mend breaking my in-laws hearts for undertaking this Foreign Service adventure. Across the room was grandpa packing the Tupperware with snacks for tomorrow’s journey.

And then, we landed at the Mount of Olives, with Grandpa and me sitting on that stone bench resting after a long sightseeing day. A twenty-something woman sat across from us. Her hair was so naturally blonde it was almost white. A local man in brown pants and a white shirt began talking to her in broken English. The blonde responded, heavily tinged with a American southern accent. She became more and more uncomfortable, especially when the man insisted she join him for some food.

Soon Grandpa, still sitting, shook his index finger at the man and exclaimed “no you don’t.” The man, startled a bit basically said: “I don’t have to listen to you. You’re not her Grandfather.” Grandpa replied: “How do you know!” The man considered this coming from an Asian man sitting next to a younger Caucasian for a few seconds, and then just walked away.

The blonde’s relief and the gratitude in her eyes were thanks enough. I am still in awe of how he helped that young girl so instinctively.

Then it was time for our trip home and Grandpa had a treat for us that we will never forget. Two sleeping babies, one in his lap, and one leaning against his arm in the seat behind us. Flipping through a magazine, I showed Grandpa a beautiful Cyprus beach. “All expense paid trip to Cyprus,” if you stay for a couple more weeks I joked (he knew I was serious though).

Moms Perfect Trip to Spain

November 28, 2016

Moms Perfect Trip to Spain

My goal was to deliver moms perfect trip to Spain. I’d looked forward to this day since peering through the window of my taxi at Jennilou and the girls waving me good bye from our apartment lobby. Now it was finally Thanksgiving, and I found myself at the Ankara Airport about to board a Pegasus Airlines flight for a four-day trip through southern Spain. With Esmei deciding to stay back with her cousins, our group would be my mother, Louisa, Jennilou, and I.

In my favorite photograph from our visit, my mom and I appear as if on the stoop of a castle. Behind us is a cinematic backdrop: the Alhambra towers amid clusters of trees. We’re standing on a wide open garden terrace, wearing our sweaters. Mom clutches her map in her right hand and leans into my shoulder. In the corner, over our heads, there are slivers of blue sky.

I recall arriving at this place, to the staggering sight of the snow-capped mountains opening up beyond the valley and then, my mother’s voice. “I’m just out of words,” she said as she sat on an open park bench. “Isn’t it something?”

My mother was famous for documenting our family trips as she did most everything in her life. “Mom, please. All you do is take pictures,” I likely said to her. “Don’t you have enough? However, there are no photos of my mother from most of our outings. This is the fate of many mothers, I guess, who are so busy capturing memories for the family archives that their existence is obscured behind the camera. This is the version of my mother that I remember most.

Thirty years have passed since our first family getaways. After too many surgeries and years of chasing her three boys around, she struggles a bit with her mobility. She is shaky in the sense that the ordinary world has become a hazardous place, full of precipitous traffic, careening action, and unpredictable weather. However, living each day safely at home was never her style. During this trip, I was determined to widen the breadth of her constricted routine. Together, we would try new foods and saunter the old towns.

We drove my trusting mother out of the Madrid airport rental car parking lot Thanksgiving morning. Headed for Granada, we broke into a world of rolling hills, olive groves, and blue sky. Our pace was rapid. We moved hotels each night, staying in Madrid, Granada, Seville, and Cordoba. With limited rest, we visited the iconic sights of Capilla Real de Granada, Catedral de Granada, Alhambra, Plaza de Espana, Real Alcazar, Catedral de Sevilla, and Mezquita Cathedral de Cordoba. We ate tapas and she even drank red wine. She seemed delighted.

From the start, I hesitated a bit. “Mom, is this ok?” I imagined her asking for a rest.

“I’m great” My normally hesitant mother waved us onward. “I want to see it all.”

It was her grand journey, rolling down the sidewalk forever, block after block, and never getting tired. She crossed streets, stopped at cafes, art galleries, shops, and museums. Fields, towns, and miles moved underneath us. She would not live in the past, she lived in the now. She met new people and talked to everyone.

“I don’t feel well,” my mother complained, snapping me back to reality: it was 2:00pm on our last day in Spain. “Let’s go a little further,” I urged, “We are almost back to the car.”

But in truth, to my mother, the 100-yard path cutting across the park looked never-ending. “Look at that long, uphill stretch,” she droned. “Almost there. We can make it. Yes we can.” The path rejoined the sidewalk and we continued on down to our rental car. My mom grew concerned. “My bags are gone,” she fretted. For now, since I could not save her, I would just do what I could: pack up her belongings strewn around the car and try to console her.

We’d only gone a few miles towards Madrid, when I heard the dry heaving in the back seat. I tried to pull over, but it was too late. Jennilou did her best to clean the back seat, while I rubbed her back on the side of the highway. “I think I have food poisoning,” explained me Mom. “I think you do too.”

Like anyone’s idea of a good journey, I had tried to strike the perfect balance between effort and payoff, and to contain just the right interval between departure and return. From where I now sat, it was clear that the perimeters of this wide world were drawing close and the horizon had receded. As the reality set in, I was forced to acknowledge that my fantasy trip would end far less glamorous. It’d entail her heading back to Vermont and living on her limited terms. Any future visits would require us heading home.

As I left for the airport early the next morning, I looked at my mom and honestly felt like crying. I was blown away that my mother appeared content. “Let’s put this one on the good memory page,” she said aloud. I can only surmise she was imagining her photo albums stuffed with snapshots of Maine and Disney World and how this time she would actually be in them. I squeezed her shoulders, grateful to have shared this foray with her, and then started for the door.

“A perfect trip to Spain,” she shouted as the door closed.

Our Foreign Service Handshake Story

November 15, 2016

Career

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Foreign Service Handshake – The Process

As a Foreign Service Construction Engineer, every couple of years or so you get to pour your eyes over a list of places where you (and your family) could potentially spend the next 2, 3 or 4 years of your lives. The end goal is a Foreign Service handshake or assignment offer. It’s not altogether different from a roller coaster ride at times. Exuberance jerks as you see your dream destination. Then, immediately you reconcile yourself to going to a few of the hardship posts. You order rank them with a brief explanation of your overall goals.

The process is fluid as positions fill and new ones come online. It’s very demanding. After all, how do you compare a new embassy project in a city where crime is widespread, but has a great preschool, to a renovation project at a post with few families, but the tourism opportunities are plentiful?

Construction Engineers have a second layer of complexity. “All areas become part of the process,” a colleague describes. Because we are not simply taking over a permanent position at post, “everything merges with project status.” Our projects have billions of dollars and the itineraries of hundreds of people at stake. Difficulties for us in the assignment process start when a project schedule wobbles.

Foreign Service Handshake – Our Story

Jennilou and I had some long conversations throughout our journey. Early in the process we received an offer for our last choice of six. We excitedly and unreservedly accepted, even though “there were issues that needed sorting out.” With construction, one tiny pebble can trigger an avalanche. So long before we help quarterback construction efforts on-site, it’s important someone makes preparations. Waiting line theory and congestion logic become a part of our actual lives. We quickly found out that changes in assignments are necessary for a successful organization.

In the end, my decision was to quit my job and travel the world. I have always wanted to say that. I guess to be more precise, in an odd twist of fate, our second choice was the end result. A vacant position and delay to my current assignment, has our Foreign Service Handshake sending us to Turkey. I am officially the Construction Manager on the Ankara New Embassy Compound project!

It’s hard to think of anything comparing to what we are doing. I love being in a role where every minute of my day is spent moving projects forward, solving problems, and helping people out. We have so much experience and expertise within our organization that there’s no problem you can’t solve if you talk to enough people. I have made some great friends and met incredible people so far here in Washington and abroad. I couldn’t be happier to be part of the team that delivers a facility like this to all the folks I’m lucky enough to work alongside.

My Petra Hiking Adventure

November 14, 2016

Career, Travel

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My Petra Hiking Adventure

I didn’t have a map for my Petra hiking adventure — my guidebook was lacking in any details—and Google Maps was out of the question. With only a memory of a scene looking down on Petra’s Treasury, I had just figured I’d arrive and hike my way to this notorious vantage point.

“I guess this is the start of the trail,” I murmured to myself, looking up the dusty, undulating path that gradually climbed out of the valley. With an apple and a liter of water in my pack, I began my hike with a spirit of adventure and a confident sense of direction.

The first hour or so trekking the path was fairly straight forward. I spotted a few goats along the way, but nobody seemed to be attending to them. Perhaps people were hiding from the stranger passing through? Eventually though the path became less “defined”. I kept finding myself having to backtrack.

On one of these detours I heard footsteps reverberating in the canyon. I couldn’t tell which direction it was coming from, so I decided to hold tight and have a sip of water. In the distance, a small figure along the pathway came into focus.

“Uh, hello,” I called out.

“I never thought I’d catch you,” said the girl gasping with exhaustion. “I’m scared, can we walk together”

So just like that, Yuen became my latest travel companion in my wanderings. Chinese and thirty or so, she was touring the country as part of her solo adventure around the world. Like myself, she too had seen pictures from former hikers and was keen on finding the famous setting.

“Well, it’s got to be that way,” I said.

Full of optimism that we might not actually die alone in the desert heat, we took the risk and trekked on. Conscious of our near-empty water supply, we alternated leading the way.

“Oh my God, there it is!” Yuan exclaimed.

It was not a mirage. However, it was not the vantage point we were after; no Treasury to be found. We followed a stone path and stairway that led us to the base of the cliff—only for it to bring us to a mysterious figure.

“I am Adnan,” he greeted us. The Bedouin spoke English in an Arabic accent, with a loud voice. “This is William Shakespeare,” he continued, referring to the darling mule at his side.

“Is this your house?” Yuan asked the mysterious man.

“Yes, I am Bedouin. I live in the desert,” he answered.

Yuan continued the conversation with him. I on the other hand, was still on guard. But before I could assess the peculiar Bedouin’s demeanor or possible motives, she was already on the back of his Mr. Shakespeare. She was hitching a ride and saving us the trouble of having to wander the desert like Moses in the meantime. However, I was a little annoyed that I was still on foot while Yuan got to ride the beast of burden.

“Where are you from?” Adnan asked the two of us.

“America and China,” we answered.

“America!” he said with recognition. “I know America. Land of the M and M’s.” And then he started mentioning all the other American brands he knew. Just as soon as I thought his English was good enough to give us a lecture on American politics, we had arrived. Adnan held out his hand with a smile, and spoke another American phrase I knew.

“No money, no honey,” he joked. We gladly paid him the five dinar for his assistance, and scurried down to the cliffs edge.

“We did it!” raved Yuan. “I can’t believe it! We made it!”

Aside from grinding out our Petra hiking adventure, the sight was truly breathtaking. One can only imagine Johann Burckhardt, or Indian Jones for that matter, making their way across the desert and riding up to the wonder for the first time. It was a special moment and certainly the highlight of my Veterans Day weekend trip to Jordan.

Oktoberfest Rest Stop

September 22, 2016

Career, Travel

Oktoberfest Rest Stop – Munich 2016

Somehow with two babies back at home still in diapers, I’m spending an evening in an Oktoberfest beer hall. Cheers to travel regulations laid out in 14 FAM 584.4, my temporary duty yonder (TDY) has afforded me an evening in Munich on my way to Ankara.

The Oktoberfest has its origins in the year 1810. However, it looked a bit different then, as the first Oktoberfest was a horse-race, held as a part of the wedding festivities of Bavarian King Ludwig I. This year, much press has been afforded to a ring of steel thrown up around the site at a previously open entrance. Ultimately I think either way we would be doomed, but sometimes I wonder whether it would be more fun to travel to the past or to the future. As I dazedly checked into my hotel, I decided to ponder it further with a quick jet lag induced nap.

Recharged, I hit the town in search of oompah, lederhosen, dirndl and lager. Despite this year’s beer being mixed with security concerns, I easily followed the hordes to the world’s largest folk fest. The beer tents can be summed up as a classic Munich scene. Despite being a mega party, the pavilions themselves create a special Bavarian coziness and knack for savoring the moment.

After surveying the scene in a few of the tents, I finally found an empty sliver at the end of one of the Paulaner festival hall tables. Knowing I had to wake up early for my flight to Ankara, I leaned over to my table mate and politely questioned whether they sold half-liters. “This is a Biergarten, not a kindergarten!!” he yelled over the polka music. Instantly, I was spending an evening in a frothy beer hall, clinking mugs with new friends, immersed in a boisterous and belching Bavarian atmosphere.

As I sat fuzzily in the terminal waiting for my morning flight, I returned to my hypothetical time travel dilemma. Although seeing Ludwig hitched in the year 1810 would be on any one’s bucket list, I concluded going back to the past was out. If I went back in time I would probably end up wanting to do something to change my present. On the flip side, seeing a future Octoberfest might seem equally depressing. After all, it means your future will always be such that you have to muddle through it and absent of pleasures such as finding yourself unexpectedly in Munich. Stephen Hawking sums it up in an interesting way:

…the best evidence we have that time travel is not possible, and never will be, is that we have not been invaded by hordes of tourists from the future.

In all honesty, after thousands of miles and weeks without a good night’s rest, I had thought very hard about staying in and making it a real rest stop. In the end though, life is surely to deal us the hard things, and when it deals unexpected ones, this is just a excellent reminder to seize them. I guess even it means an Oktoberfest “Rest Stop”…haha.

North Caicos Babymoon Vacation

March 11, 2016

Lifestyle, Travel

North Caicos Babymoon Vacation

Beaches, Seafood, and Caves

Five Days (March 7th – March 11th, 2016)

I didn’t really know what to expect on the flight down to our North Caicos babymoon vacation. (For those of you who aren’t familiar, a “babymoon” is exactly what it sounds like: one last excuse for a getaway to relax before the birth of a new baby.) I think it had been a particularly busy stretch at work, Esmei was growing so fast, and it seemed we were facing new challenges every day. I was looking forward to a true getaway with basically nothing to do but reconnect with my parents and get to know my brothers new girlfriend. But like all magical places, there’s no easy way to get there.

After touchdown in Providenciales, we took a cab to the grocery store to stock up on supplies for the week, before making our way to the port. This was, without a question, the most stressful part of the trip for me as I had been silent to the group about our passage to North Caicos. As it turned out, the last commercial boat trip of the day had not correlated kindly to our arrival in Turks and Caicos, so I had laid my faith in a muffled Skype call to My Girl Ferry Service a couple weeks earlier. Eventually, after 30 minutes or so of sweating it, we met up with the crew of the boat right on time, scooped up the rest of the locals heading our way and set off. As fortune would have it, waiting at the “local” dock was a taxi arranged by our Airbnb hosts. (I wondered how that was going to work out as well. )

I am not going to lie: It had been stressful anticipating each leg of our journey, but at the end of the day, there was something magical about celebrating our arrival at Whitby Bay, feet half-buried under warm sand, staring across the blank expanse of the ocean.

How would I describe the place? Lush. Colonial plantation feel. Wind beaten, but well-kept. Paradise. The weather—as one would expect from a Caribbean locale—was gorgeous, and for the most part, consistent from the time we arrived. Warm, but not too hot and not very humid, with gentle breezes, and quick little rainstorms that seemed to last only about the duration of a long traffic light.

With Esmei in tow, we woke up relatively early, only to find my Dad already up drinking some coffee. We decided a venture to a local vegetable and fruit farm was in the cards and took what would become the first of many short trips exploring the island. For the most part though, we spent the next couple days cruising along the beach, taking turns making meals, and chillaxing.

That being said, for those that know me, one may question if I really know how to relax at all. For me I don’t know what that truly means. I’m so used to ‘doing things’ keeping busy. On the next to last day, we decided to rent a 4×4 rig and venture over to Middle Caicos to see Mudjin Harbor. This was my favorite part of the trip. For me, it was perfect maneuvering down the narrow “roads”, with each local stopping as we passed by extending a friendly hello or good morning.

Eventually, we made it through the sparsely populated island to the spectacularly beautiful area that is Mudjin Harbour. Time travel belongs not to any realistic possibility but rather to fiction, but something about Mudjin and Middle Caicos has managed to avoid package tourism and such hapless ends. The beach was perfect for swimming and snorkeling. My folks enjoyed walking the beach, exploring caves, and reminiscing on how it reminded them of a Caribbean Ireland. “Who would have ever imagined two poor kids like us ever being in a place like this”, I overheard my Dad whisper to my Mom.

If you are considering going to Turks and Caicos, I recommend taking a look at North Caicos over Grace Bay and Providenciales. I don’t say this because we spent our babymoon vacation there, but because it’s a bit enchanting. I came out a rejuvenated man.

Budget = $850 / Adult (Traveling with Six People + 1 Toddler)

Flight - Washington DC to Providenciales$850

Taxi, Car Rental & Boats$850

Lodging - Airbnb$850

Food - Groceries + Eating Out x 2$850

Activities - Relax$850

Lithuanian Užgavėnės Celebration

February 7, 2016

Career, Travel