Put most simply, I am by no means a daredevil. I shudder at the thought of a roller coaster. Skydiving is not on my bucket list. Despite being a Colorado native, I don’t enjoy skiing. Before you assume I’m simply no fun, I can explain. I was born with a predisposition to worry. While I try to not borrow trouble before trouble borrows me, I can’t help myself. As I gripped the armrest of my Sienna minivan with fervor, I shrieked at my husband behind the wheel, yelling, “Careful!” With no guardrails to keep us, no shoulders to lean on, we made our way on what is frequently hailed as one of America’s most dangerous yet scenic roads, southern Colorado’s Million Dollar Highway.

Technically part of U.S. Route 550 which runs from Bernalillo, New Mexico to Montrose, Colorado, the Million Dollar Highway generally refers to a stretch of road from the two candy-colored old mining towns of Ouray and Silverton. Built in 1883 by  the “Pathfinder of the San Juan Mountains” Otto Mears to act as a tollway from Ouray to the now abandoned town of Ironton, the road was cut out directly into the sides of the surrounding San Juan Mountains. It climbs ever so dramatically over three mountain passes, Red Mountain Pass, Molas Pass and Coal Blank Pass. Lined with ghost mining towns, its narrow lanes and hairpin turns are not for the faint of heart. While the old adage of don’t look down seems appropriate here, I couldn’t help myself. Again, I put a death grip on my armrest and hollered, “MAAAAATTTT!” My husband responded with a calm, “What?”

Let me start from the beginning. We left Denver on a much different note for the Million Dollar Highway. Amused by my brightly colored C-HR, I wasn’t really concerned about the road ahead. Car after car pulled up to see who was behind the wheel of this turquoise beauty, far from the stagecoaches of old. We took two hours longer to reach our first stop of Durango for fall had arrived to this part of Colorado and frequent stops became necessary. Instead of the green of Denver, we were welcomed to Bob Ross canvases come to life with fluffy trees glistening in gold. We arrived to our hotel already impressed by this corner of Colorado that in many ways, I think I let down my worrywart guard.

The next morning began innocently enough. We got up early to have some time to explore Durango. We most literally ran into the Durango and Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad. Running since 1883, this coal-fired steam powered locomotive runs right out of its original 1882 depot. The train whistle shrieked, just as I would later that day. Passengers scurried aboard to begin the journey through the San Juan National Forest as miners, cowboys and settlers had before them. With the sound of that whistle, I realized it was time to face the inevitable, that most dangerous of roads, the Million Dollar Highway.

Behind the wheel this time of an Avalon, we comfortably began the drive to Silverton. And while all that glitters isn’t necessarily gold, in this case, those leaves dotting the mountains along the road were genuine to be sure. We raced through settings you could spend several hours with but we had to strike gold. Just past the town of Silverton, it only seemed appropriate to tour an old mine. In fact, the Million Dollar Highway probably wouldn’t be what it is today without this part of Colorado’s mining history. With snow, rain and even lightning present, we hopped on an electric mine train at the Old Hundred Gold Mine.

With a bit more than a hope and a prayer, lightning luckily didn’t strike our group sitting in the equivalent of a metal bucket. After a third of a mile trip down into Galena Mountain, we arrived to darkness. A retired miner walked us through the conditions of the mine back in the day, demonstrating the different mining equipment used which I can still hear ringing in my ears. We emerged from our tour to Colorado weather at its finest, the warmest of sunshine and the bluest skies. I felt a tinge of how those miners must have felt, going into such darkness and emerging with the light.

There was no stalling now. We had to be on our way on the Million Dollar Highway’s most nail-biting stretch. Why this section of road gets its lucrative name is a bit hazy. Some point to an early traveler’s account, contending that she got vertigo due to its steep nature. She said she wouldn’t travel the road again even if paid $1 million. I hear you sister. Another origin story points to the construction of the road costing one million dollars per mile or the land cost totaling one million. And perhaps my favorite theory is that the Million Dollar Highway takes it name from builders using gravel from the nearby silver and gold mines to create it, a road quite beautifully paved in silver and gold and thus worth a million.

With Ouray in the distance, we saddled up the minivan to cruise the steepest of roads. Falling rock loomed as we cut right through the Uncompahgre Gorge. The steep narrow canyon wasn’t where I envisioned my last trip on earth. While I pictured a nursing home some 60 years down the road, the bends of the road suggested otherwise. Much to my husband’s delight, my worrying finally took a backseat at the sight of Ouray. We had made it out with all four wheels still on the minivan, two hands on the wheel and two clutching the armrests. One sudden movement and it could all be over on the Million Dollar Highway, but instead I lived to tell the tale of traveling on a road paved in silver and gold.

Have you traveled the Million Dollar Highway?

Scattered in between the islands of Sardinia and Corsica, just off the Costa Smeralda, La Maddalena Archipelago carries 7 large islands and roughly 55 tiny islets in its arsenal. Declared a national park in 1996, the archipelago boasts some of Sardinia’s best beaches, the cleanest and clearest water you ever did see and a wild, desolate nature. Many of the islands are deserted, only reachable by boat.

We waited to board the car ferry to this described paradise, but it wouldn’t come without a little fear. “Are you sure this the right line for our ferry? Maybe it’s that one? I don’t want to wind up in Croatia. What if we get in trouble?” A gruff looking Sardinian man decked out in a puffy jacket only those working ports seem to own took one look at our paperwork and pointed to another line. We drove on to the boat and I nervously stayed in my seat. You see, I’m afraid of car ferries, both getting on them, being on them and disembarking from them. After a quick 20 minutes, we drove on to the main island in the archipelago, La Maddalena. The busy port community gave off a dizzying air of transit. We grabbed a drink at a craft beer bar and toasted to getting to La Maddalena, car ferry fears, husband eye rolls and all.

The next morning we woke up to clear skies and the strong probability of swimming. I read about an idyllic cove, Cala Coticcio on the island of Caprera, connected to La Maddalena by way of a bridge. It was this island Italian hero Giuseppe Garibaldi chose for his retirement spot, above castles, major titles and a large pension offered by the King for his help in unifying Italy. He didn’t so much as have more than a year’s supply of pasta, and yet it was on Caprera he wanted to stay and eventually die. Clearly fears of authority, the idea of escaping a chaotic world, can fade away on this island. There’s hope for me yet.

Finding Cala Cotticio required a moderate hike for 20 minutes to reach those fabled blue green waters. We joined the other cars parked along the side of the road in makeshift spots. “Do you think our car will be ok here?” I nervously asked my husband. You see, I’m even worried about how an object will be ok just as you might worry about leaving your dog for a few hours. I began wondering why we didn’t get the full insurance coverage. He reassured me, “Suzy, it’s going to be fine,” a sentence I hear a lot from him.

The rocky yet surprisingly green terrain was nothing some simple tennis shoes couldn’t handle. We didn’t have coolers like those who came before us, but being a redhead sort of eliminates the purpose of a beach cooler. I can’t stay outside in the sun long enough to enjoy a full cooler of drinks and snacks for all day sunbathing. I figured we would swim an hour and then head back to the car that I was so worried about leaving.

We lost track of the couple with a giant cooler in front of us, but still resolved we were on the straight and narrow. Pretty soon the terrain grew from a moderate hike to extreme rock climbing. We scaled rocks up and down, trying to find what looked like a path down to the cove. A few skinned knees later, we eventually reached the water, securing a rock that was straight out of the Little Mermaid. There was only one problem. We didn’t see anyone else, alluding to the fact that we weren’t exactly where we intended to be.

We jumped into the clearest of water, so turquoise in composition you’d think you were in a pool or the Caribbean. We knew that we hadn’t found the place we were looking for, but for a brief time, it didn’t matter. We had found something better, something that was all our own, even if I had to explore my inner mountain goat to get here.

My fears for authority and petty theft however quickly crept in, never wanting to swim too far from our belongings. Again my husband reassured, “Suzy, we would see them coming down here.” After an hour of swimming, we dried off and began rock climbing back to the car. On our way back we noticed a very clear division of stones laid out to mark the direction of the path to Cala Coticcio. We stepped over them, rather than seeing them as a wall telling us head the other way. Such a division wasn’t seen on the way in, but only on the way out. It’s funny how the trip there and the trip home can seem like night and day.

We made it back to the road where we left our rental car, which was now surrounded by probably another 50 cars. We clearly didn’t find the right cove everyone else did, one that was no doubt easier to reach than our own, but frankly I’m glad we didn’t. And mostly I’m glad our rental car was still here all in one piece. My vivid imagination had someone stealing it while we were in what seemed to be the most remote place on earth. We would owe a company called something like Cheap Rental Cars a not so cheap $30,000 for what seemed like an oversized golf cart. We hopped off Caprera and began to follow the loop road along La Maddalena after stopping for a healthy lunch of cheese and bread.

On our last morning, the heavens opened as we waited for the car ferry back to Sardinia. We dashed in a shop and bought two espresso cups made in Sardinia. We figured these cups would remind us of La Maddalena, its secret cove, the rock climbing, the car ferries, the cheese, the rugged beauty and all every time we needed a caffeine jolt at home.  The shop owner laughed when we told her they were a gift for ourselves. My grandma always cautioned about bringing home souvenirs for others, “They had their chance!” The rain gave the port town a nice cleaning and for a brief moment, it washed away my troubling fears of authority, that is until the car ferry came into view.

I’ll need to back up a bit. My husband and I decided to take advantage of an offer from a sailing company to write about my experience sailing Croatia way back in February. It was a two for one special since I would be writing about the trip and using social media to document our week island hopping in Croatia. We booked our tickets and a couple days into the trip, we kept looking back on that day in February, cursing the email that arrived in my inbox.

A few days into our sailing experience, we both realized it wasn’t completely our thing. Sleeping in what felt like a coffin and using a pump toilet grew tiresome to say the least. We were docked on the appropriately named Pakleni Islands, meaning Hell’s Islands, off of the island of Hvar. We headed to Hvar town for dinner and that’s when, officially, the trip and our stomachs took a turn for the worse.

Within an hour after taking this photo, our trip took a turn for the worse.

My husband became quite violently ill in between courses so much so that I knew we had to get him back to the boat. We took a water taxi back to the boat and he collapsed. People walked over him, thinking he must be a Yacht Week victim. With the help of two of our friends from the boat, we managed to get him back on board. I called a doctor and was quickly advised to get him off the boat. He had food poisoning. And to top off the idea, we were stuck on an island, off of an island, possibly the worst place to be when a stomach bug hits.

Quite possibly the worst place to be when you get food poisoning, an island off of an island.

The next few days consisted of us cutting our losses, spending change fee after change fee to change our tickets and get home sooner. I carried all of our suitcases on and off ferries and through towns for he was too weak to lift much of anything. We would walk a few steps and have to stop. We theorized what he could have eaten that made him so sick and I thanked my lucky stars that I didn’t eat whatever he ate.

Everything changed in that singular moment in Frankfurt when I felt my stomach take a turn. Being that it was several days after food poisoning hit my husband, another call to the doctor confirmed our suspicions. We both had contracted the norovirus, a highly infectious virus from poor food preparation that can transfer from person to person. Considering that our 19-year-old skipper was preparing our meals on the boat, we cursed that email back in February yet again. Not being fit to fly, again, we rescheduled our trip home by another day and I spent an entire 24 hours in a hotel room. As dramatic as it sounds, I wouldn’t wish the norovirus on my worst enemy. It was the sickest I have ever felt. Give me the flu. Give me a cold that stays for a week. Give me strep throat but by God, don’t give me the norovirus.

Sick while traveling

My husband and I learned a bit about sticking together in sickness and in health on that trip, but mostly we learned how ill-prepared (pardon the pun) we had been all along about food poisoning while traveling. As I wouldn’t wish anyone to get food poisoning while traveling, here are a few of my tips to soften the blow when and if your stomach churns in a way you didn’t think it ever could.

1. Meet with your doctor before your trip and compile a list of medications to bring

I always pack a “just in case” medical kit of recommended medications. Perhaps as some cruel joke, we forget this kit. In many ways, I think we tempted the fates too much. I believe if you are prepared, you will never have to use it. When you aren’t prepared, disaster strikes. Before you take off, you can combat food poisoning by meeting with your doctor and compiling medications to bring should you encounter a problem on the road. You won’t have to search for a pharmacy in a foreign land when you feel as though you are on your deathbed.

2. If you’re on a tour, ask questions about food preparation

In all of my independent travels, I have never gotten food poisoning. It wasn’t until I signed up for a group tour that the norovirus took ahold of me. Our skipper would prepare all of our meals except for dinner. Not once did I ask if the person preparing our food wore gloves while preparing breakfast and lunch. I was at the mercy of a 19 year old kid and whether he adequately washed his hands. Perhaps if we showed more concern like how there wasn’t even hand soap in the bathroom for two days, we would have never gotten sick. If you are signing up for an organized tour, be sure to get details on food preparation. If the company has no policies in place and you witness the person preparing your meals with bare hands that you don’t know when were last washed, it might be time to put down the fork.

3. Hand sanitizer can’t always save you

The norovirus is so mean that hand sanitizer does very little to save you from its wrath. Only soap and water can help prevent it. As mentioned above, the bathroom on our boat did not have soap for several days. I was naïve and thought I could use hand sanitizer as a substitute instead. Food born viruses like the norovirus are vicious. There is a reason the cruise ships ridden with the norovirus shut down ports. They laugh in the face of hand sanitizer. As travelers, we are always told to have hand sanitizer on us at all times. However, nothing beats good old soap and water. Always insist on soap in your bathroom if it’s not present.

4. If someone around you gets food poisoning, don’t think you are immune

Based on my husband’s symptoms and how quickly it came on, we figured that he had some sort of food poisoning. I figured I was in the clear. After a day or so and no symptoms, I resolved that he ate something that I didn’t. All the while, I could have been extra careful around him to avoid catching what would be determined as the norovirus. Even if you are around someone who appears to be battling food poisoning, take extra precautions. Maybe if I had been more careful, I wouldn’t have gotten sick too.

5. When food poisoning hits, take it easy for several days

Once my husband became ill, the next morning I promptly got him off the sailboat, on to another boat that would take us back to the mainland. I booked the nicest hotel I could find with the biggest bathroom. He slept for a whole day. I would later do the same in Germany, except this time my husband picked up the slack, booked the nicest hotel he could find and the easiest to reach. If you do come down with food poisoning while traveling, take a few days to recover. Treat yourself in the accommodations department for you won’t leave your hotel room. You need to sleep and rest and do absolutely nothing. If you try to push it, your recovery time will double.

Find refuge and stay awhile

Sadly travel isn’t always one of posed Instagram shots against colorful backdrops and in our case, feasting on the finest of food. Travel can kick you down, when you least expect it, namely if you catch food poisoning on the road. We spent thousands of dollars to have most simply, a miserable time. You have to take the bad with the good with travel and I’m crossing my fingers, the norovirus never meets me on the other side of the world ever again. We should have known better. Nothing good can happen at a place meaning, “Hell’s Islands.”

Have you ever gotten food poisoning or the norovirus while traveling? Share you horror stories so we can commiserate together.

I never really had an urge to visit Montenegro. When we decided to visit, it was mostly out of proximity. Landing in Dubrovnik, we figured the “it’s right there” excuse would suffice for spending four days in the tiny country in Eastern Europe. Unfortunately, Montenegro failed to capture my fancy as it has so many other bloggers and writers as of late. I had read all these glowing articles, singing the praises of Montenegro and yet I struggled to find their truths.

The Good

Even in the darkness of travel, there is always some light. Close to the popular Kotor, Perast was described as a mini-Venice in my guidebook and in some ways it did appear so. A large church tower and a handful of crumbling palaces made up Perast. It was quiet, simple and unhurried. My husband and I were excited to check into our hotel in Perast, relax, get some work done and take it easy. And then at 7:30PM, the entire town went dark. Restaurants began lighting already seated tables with candles. Children began playing in the streets, excited over the lack of power. And we retreated back to our room, hungry. With no cash, no ATM in town and figuring credit card machines wouldn’t be working in the power outage, we munched on an old bag of chips and a granola bar for dinner.

Twelve hours later and still no power and no one at the hotel desk, we made the decision to leave with missed deadlines looming due to a lack of being able to work the night before and next to no sleep in a hot hotel room. We headed for Kotor, stumbled upon a hotel with an open WiFi connection and booked a room. At 7AM, we went to the front desk, merely to ask if we could check in at 1PM instead of the 2PM check-in time. She smiled and said, “You can check-in in 30 minutes if you would like.” The bags under our eyes must of told her all she needed to know. Finally, Montenegro showed us some kindness and I saw what my grandmother meant. Things really did look better in the morning.

After spending the day sleeping, recovering from a lack of sleep the night before due to extreme heat, we woke up the next morning, resolving to give Montenegro another shot. The nail biting Kotor-Lovcen road was the first good I found in Montenegro. Rising over the city in dramatic fashion, the road itself is a bit of a stomach churner with 25 switchbacks and next to no room for two cars to pass at the same time. We admired the views and for a small window, Montenegro started to grow on me.

On the other side of the drive, we found yet another mountain road of beauty. With nothing but mountains to admire, I paused for a moment, put the power outage behind me and concluded that there is some good in every place and it happened to be right here.

The Bad

What boggled my mind was the attitude of our hotel in Perast. No one came to tell us about the power situation or even give us a flashlight. No one was at the front desk all night. In an emergency situation, you would hope someone would stay the night in case a guest had a medical problem or fell down the flight of stairs in the dark. And yet, we heard nothing. In many ways I felt abandoned by Montenegro, an attitude many people projected onto us throughout our four days in the country. People didn’t smile or laugh, except of course our savior in Kotor. After doing a bit of research, it would appear power outages are common in the country. One review of a hotel in Budva explained how the power went out all night one July evening a few weeks prior. I can take the lights going out for a few hours, but when you are approaching almost a day without power while paying the same prices on accommodations as mainland Europe, it’s time to get up and go.

The Ugly

While I can’t speak for all of Montenegro, I felt deceived by other bloggers and writers who praised Montenegro as a great beauty. While the country had its moments on the Bay of Kotor, especially the drive up to Lovcen National Park, further down the coast showed me a different face. Abandoned concrete block buildings and mega resorts dirtied what would be a pretty landscape. Widespread development crippled coastlines that would otherwise be great beauties. We stayed in Budva much to my disappointment. Filled with tacky tourist shops, clubs and one of the smallest old towns, I questioned why so many told me to come here. The main attractions all consisted of tiny historic towns, hard to find in the midst of their modern, developed exteriors. Sveti Stefan is one of the top places to see in Montenegro and you can’t even see it. It’s a closed off resort that can only be photographed from outside.

On our last day in Montenegro, our hotel clerk in Budva stopped us like thieves for trying to bring in water and a lone bag of potato chips. A two-hour wait to cross the border back into Croatia the following day sealed my fate with Montenegro. We were never going to get along once the lights went out and perhaps that’s just fine. You can’t believe everything you read but things always do look better in the morning.

Have you been to Montenegro or a place that you read glowing reviews only to feel like you have been deceived?

A few years ago, I posed the question, “Where art thou perfect travel tote bag?” Many others joined in on their troubles of locating the perfect bag for travel. A few suggested the Lo and Sons O.G. bag and I had seen other travelers sing the tote’s praises. Before you fork over the hefty price for this travel tote, here’s a breakdown of the O.G. bag from my own experience.

Oh The Compartments!

When searching for the ideal travel tote to keep with me, I would always be disappointed by the lack of compartments. The Lo and Sons O.G. features more compartments than I could wish for in a bag. While the laptop sleeve won’t fit my 15 inch MacBook Pro, I figured I could stuff my notebooks in this compartment instead. It also features a sleeve for your iPad or tablet. The front pocket lends a space to toss the items you need to reach quickly like a boarding pass, keys or passport. The O.G. bag also has a side pocket, almost a secret compartment to stash an extra pair of shoes, socks or a t-shirt. In terms of organization, the bag excels. I never had to go fishing for my belongings throughout three months of travel with the O.G.

A Material That Lasts

You can wipe the O.G. bag clean as it is composed of a water resistant nylon material. The handles are also strong and sturdy, made up of full grain leather. Throughout three months of packing up and unpacking in Europe, the O.G. always looked brand new. Even looking at it hanging in my closet now, the bag looks like I bought it yesterday when in fact it has been through the ringer. A bag this expensive should hold up for several trips and the O.G. didn’t disappoint in this regard. I could also take a wet cloth to any stains or marks and they would vanish.

The Trouble with the Back Panel Sleeve For Rolling Suitcases 

Weight training?

In my search for the perfect travel tote bag, I was pleased to see the O.G. bag came with a sleeve to place over the handles of a rolling suitcase. I like to be able to be able to lug everything on one arm. While this feature has zippers for added stability, it didn’t always work properly for me. If you have the bag full of your belongings and your rolling suitcase is pretty full, lugging both together is quite the workout. I imagine on shorter trips this feature works better with luggage that isn’t so heavy.

A Place For Everything I Need But At An Awkward Shape

The travel tote bags that I purchased for my carry on bag were almost always too small for my needs. My computer would barely fit in the bag. At times it seemed like I was bursting at the seams. The Lo and Sons bag comes with a place for everything I need. I could fit the following in the bag for my three months spent in Europe.

15 inch Computer

iPad Mini

Computer Charger and Cell Phone Charger

Makeup

Socks

Notebooks

Wallet

Pens

Passport

Guidebook

Magazine

Gum and Mints

Jewelry

While I could fit a great deal in the O.G. bag, the shape of it did make lugging all of my earthly possessions around a bit awkward. Measuring 17’’ wide, 6.5’’ deep and 15’’ high, the curve of the bag sometimes made it awkward to place under my arm, creating the common scenario of whacking strangers without my knowledge at every sudden movement. I also sometimes looked like I was stuck in a funhouse, tilted to the side.

The Lo-down

Lo and Sons bags are not cheap. The O.G. bag is the bigger version of the O.M.G bag, running for $295. I was able to find a coupon code on another blogger’s website to reduce that cost by 20%. While many will say you don’t need to spend this amount of money on a bag to get a good one, I have to disagree after seeing the O.G. bag in action. As I was constantly buying cheaper totes that either wouldn’t last, in the process I was spending around the price of an O.G. bag over the course of a year to two. I don’t expect to have to buy a new travel tote for a long time.

Another downside was the fact that the O.G. bag doesn’t fit a 15 inch computer in the laptop compartment. Again, I decided to just place my laptop in the bag and not the designated sleeve, which worked fine, but I would have liked to have my computer all tucked away in its assigned space. Also, if the bag is full as mine was, it can be difficult to fit under the airplane seat. While I could get it to fit every time, I had next to no room from my feet. In the end, the O.G. very well could be the perfect travel tote bag, but not without a few misgivings.

Have you tried the O.G. bag from Lo and Sons or have you found the perfect travel tote bag?

Cuenca was never on my Spanish itinerary, until perhaps by happenstance, we checked into what could have been a minimum-security prison in Madrid. Just off of Puerta del Sol, I lost a little piece of my soul in that Madrid hotel. The accommodations reeked of trash, attracted salty characters and boasted a buzzing system for every door in the building with the intention of promoting safety while achieving the opposite. Something told me it was one of those cases where getting up and leaving seemed like a good idea. As Madrid disappeared from the rearview mirror and Cuenca appeared in the front, I quickly realized travel is filled with new beginnings. You never have to dwell on a husband’s bad hotel decision for too long. And so we pressed on to see this city haphazardly hanging on the edge of a cliff.

Built by the Moors as a fortress in the 8^th century, Cuenca remains as it were, a medieval fortified city. The Castilians would add royal touches in the 12^th century, sprucing up the place with grand buildings like Spain’s first Gothic Cathedral. After lazy meandering, the Cathedral appears, basking in a certain light that probably floods heaven on a regular basis. Dominating Plaza Mayor, the Cathedral of Nuestra Señora de Gracia was built on the site of a mosque, as is the case with many churches in Spain. Bearing Gothic, Renaissance and Baroque touches, it is a masterpiece in its own right. The doors might be locked this evening but the main act is always on display.

The Castilians would also be responsible for one of the main reasons why Cuenca caught my attention, the Casas Colgadas. Translating as the Hanging Houses, this small medieval city packs in the punch with a series of homes that appear suspended in air, almost as though that at any moment, they could come cashing down into the gorge.

Once noble quarters, Cuenca’s calling cards date back to the 14^th century. Their layers of wooden balconies extend in natural fashion from the cliffs supporting them. One of the hanging houses holds the Museum of Spanish Abstract Art where you can see some original elements of the Casas Colgadas.

Viewing Cuenca’s main attraction is a feat in itself. We follow the Spanish chatter to what could be our demise, the Puente de San Pablo. Hailing from the 20^th century, the bridge crosses the Huécar River, connecting one side of Cuenca with the other. A stone bridge once acted as this connecting point, but I’m told it collapsed. As I make my first step off of the cliff and on to the Puente de San Pablo, I’m hopeful that this reconstruction will hold up better than stone one before it. Seeing as it is composed of wood and iron, I’m skeptical but if little Spanish children can run across this stomach churner with glee, surely I can too.

Every aspect to Cuenca is dramatic, from its houses clinging to a cliff to its exits. A set of stairs invites me up to what appears to be old castle ruins. In essence, the city gives the green light to crawl all over its history, to bask in remarkable views from every angle. As the light begins to fade and after no sleep from my Madrid prison, we head in for the night, most appropriately beneath a perfect stone archway. I wasn’t supposed to meet Cuenca and perhaps in turn the spontaneity makes for a sweeter meeting. It isn’t Toledo with its convenient proximity to Madrid, but by going a little bit further and taking a bit of a leap, I found myself stuck between two dramatic gorges and a hard place. I ran to Cuenca and left Cuenca dragging my feet.

Have you been to Cuenca, Spain?

At the same time, traveling with scents isn’t always a walk in the park. Big bottles of perfume are either cumbersome in toiletry bags or they break at the worst possible moment, like in the security bin at the airport. Aside from spills and space hoarders, sometimes I don’t want to be limited to just one scent as I travel, especially during long term travels. And yet, I’m limited due to the space left in my bag and the lack of practicality in bringing several different scents in one suitcase. Due to my olfactory conundrum, I was excited when Pinrose contacted me to review their pocket-sized, perfume wipes for travel.

What is Pinrose?

Pinrose began with two friends, intent on making perfumes distinctive pieces of wearable art. All of the perfumes are phthalate and paraben free. The company produces several different scents in bottle or towelette form. I tried out the Pinrose’s Petal Packs, a bag filled with 25 “petals,” otherwise little doses of fragrance for one time use. The single dose sachets are designed to fit your every mood and occasion, all while appealing to the woman on the go. The Petal Packs costs $24 and you can building your own or select from pre-set packs. Each petal pack comes with 25 petals.

In order to figure out what scents I might enjoy, I took the Pinrose fragrance quiz. Created by the founders, the quiz asks a series of questions pertaining to color, shape and sound. Based on your responses, you are matched with scents that are right for you. I was matched with the scent Surf Siren, a blend of lavender and neroli and Pinrose, the company’s signature scent of fresh rose with a dash of leather. After trying both scents, the quiz did prove accurate, as I loved both, especially Surf Siren.

How Do The Petal Packs Work?

The Petals come in tiny square packages. When you open up one scent, a little towelette of perfume is ready to apply. I worried that these towelettes wouldn’t provide enough scent, as can be the case with perfume wipes. However, I was pleasantly surprised to find the scent lingering on me all day. I also noticed if I placed the towelette back in its packaging, it was still moist enough hours later in the day to reapply. I could see this as advantageous for travel as I often like to freshen up after sightseeing or a long flight with a little fragrance.

Does Pinrose Work for Travel?

I had a hard time coming up with any reason why the Petal Packs wouldn’t be great for travel. I could really only see Pinrose perfume wipes disadvantageous for long-term travel. If I travel for two or three months at a time, I would need about 60-90 petals. At the same time, as one fits in the palm of my hand, the fragrance won’t take up space in my bag. I don’t have to worry about going over a liquid requirement since they are in wipe form. I can travel and not be limited to just one scent for two weeks. I can come out smelling like a rose even if a shower is very far away. And perhaps most importantly, I can connect even more scents to memory as I travel as you can get an assortment of scents in one Petal Pack.

The Giveaway!

Pinrose has generously given me 10 Petal Packs to give away to 10 readers. Unfortunately, you must be a U.S. resident to enter. You can enter two different ways. You can either comment on this blog post, telling me your favorite scent to take on your travels or you can take the Pinrose scent quiz and leave a comment here with your scent match. You will have until Thursday, February 19, 2015 at 11:59PM MST to leave your response on this post. I will then use Random.org to select 10 winners based on what comment number you fall on this post. Winners will receive an email on February 20, 2015 requesting their address which I will then pass on to Pinrose.

Full Disclosure: Pinrose supplied me with a complimentary Petal Pack to review along with 10 Petal Packs to giveaway to readers. My thoughts and opinions are always my own.

Even in the rain, Zaragoza greets in grand fashion. Located on the banks of the Ebro River, the provincial capital of Aragón boasts a history dating back to the Romans and one of Spain’s top pilgrimage sites. Its name still bears Roman roots when it was called Caesar Augusta. Those Roman roots show like a bad dye job. In the 1970s, Zaragoza was minding its own business, digging up for a new building when it unearthed a major ancient site. Even though I want to visit outside of museum hours, they can’t keep the Roman theater in the center of town from complimentary view. In its heyday, the theater held 6,000 souls for a spectacle. Today, it holds not even one.

And yet, Zaragoza’s Roman Theater is almost an afterthought, overshadowed by the large and in charge Basílica de Nuestra Señora del Pilar. Its lengthy name even seems fitting for a church of such large portions. The reason for its construction stems from a miracle. In January of AD 40, Saint James, patron saint of Spain, is thought to have seen the Virgin Mary descend atop a marble pillar. A chapel was built around the pillar and then more churches followed to become Spain’s ultimate nesting doll. The main dome compliments with ten other smaller domes, each encased in blue, green, white and yellow tiles.

While you can still see traces of the miraculous pillar inside and out, I head for the clouds, close to the soggy messy still pouring down. For €3, I ride up a fancy and seemingly out of place elevator with a chaperone. A man mutters a few words to us in Spanish and jumps on board the elevator. He leaves us alone at the top of the north tower or Torre Pilar to appreciate the gray views of Zaragoza. Looking down on the Basilica’s domes and glittering tiles, I am reminded that even in the gray, there is great deal of color.

 Coming back down to Zaragoza, the squeaky sound of my rain soaked shoes has produced a temperament for caffeine. From its façade, Gran Café de Zaragoza pulls me inside. With its old-world feel, I order a café con leche and sip on a different time, a Spain that once was.

With a café con leche driving me, arguably the best I had on my month in Spain, I press on to see Zaragoza’s Aljafería, a pleasure palace built for the city’s Islamic rulers in the 11^th century. Forgotten to Granada and Cordoba’s palaces, Zaragoza’s Islamic remnant is decidedly less grand, especially with a €5 entrance fee, but its obscurity almost makes for a better experience.

When the palace fell out of Islamic hands, the Christians renovated and remodeled. The main trace of Islamic rule echoes throughout the Patio de Santa Isabel, a central courtyard with geometric arches. Even inside a palace, I can’t dodge the rain.

I head upstairs to the Palacia Mudéjar, an addition of the Christian rulers from the 12^th through 14^th centuries. The palace leads to the Catholic Monarch’s palace, Ferdinand and Isabella digs. Room after room features Mudéjar coffered ceilings. Ornate, intricate and heavenly, staring up in awe at a sky that has rained down on me all day seems ironic. The roof over my head holds up, keeping me out of the rain and still looking up, on the bright side.

Leaving town, we experience our own Zaragoza miracle. It isn’t the Virgin Mary on a pillar or even unearthing Roman ruins. Rather, the sun comes out and we can see a color only viewed in the Aljafería’s ceilings, blue. We stroll down Calle de Alfonso I, a wide boulevard lined with shops and cafes. And right in front of me, aside from the Basilica in its grandeur is the typical old man in Spain, walking with hands tied behind his back, sauntering slowly through Zaragoza like its his first time.

I turn a corner and wind up staring at a stone slab etched with the quote by Aragon local and famed Spanish artist Francesco Goya. “Fantasy, abandoned by reason, produces impossible monsters but united with it, she is the mother of the arts.” I didn’t abandon reason in Zaragoza but rather I resolved that the rain would in fact dampen my spirit on the city. However the fantasy of what Zaragoza is and was created a not so gloomy masterpiece for 24 hours. Then again, a little churros and chocolate can also bribe a soaked traveler into Zaragoza’s ways, shelter or no shelter.

Have you been to Zaragoza, Spain?

The Parador de Almagro sits in the La Mancha city of the same name. It was once the Santa Catalina convent. Today’s rooms are former monk cells. I whisk down long hallways decked out in antique fixtures. My room has a wooden beamed ceiling, turquoise furnishings and cold tiled floors. I peer out a small window, picturing a monk doing the same.

Spain boasts a system of government run hotels called paradors. The country has been restoring historic buildings and then converting them into hotels for some time. A number of structures would have crumbled into the ground without the parador system. The idea behind it all was to bring income to remote villages of Spain and save a historic building or two. There are nearly 100 paradors across the country. Paradores de Turismo de España even has a parador route you can follow all around Spain. In many respects, after one taste of paradors in Almagro, I grabbed the map and followed.

My view from the Salamanca Parador

Most of the paradors are former monasteries, medieval castles and Moorish forts. During Spain’s economic crisis, the paradors were placed under threat, but the Spaniards clamored to save them. The situation still seems bleak. I check into the Parador de Trujillo in Extramadura. Again, we are the youngest people staying tonight and also one of only a few guests. Located in a town that saw discoverer after discoverer, the parador hosts Renaissance arches, small dungeon like doors and dark interiors that make sleeping until noon practically mandatory. The former convent has a pool that gazes at the old stone structure. On a blistering hot day in Spain’s summer, we dive right in. Such a setting would be enviable, even crowded anywhere else, but not at the parador. Coupled with free Wi-Fi, complimentary parking and nice bath products, at 30 euros a night, I almost feel guilty not paying more.

Throughout my month in Spain, my husband and I felt as though we discovered paradors. They were often our cheapest accommodations throughout the country. At the time, Paradors de Turismo de España was running an under 30 deal at many of its paradors. For 30 euros per person, we could stay in castles, monasteries and former palaces. Paradors de Turismo de España is clearly trying to attract more travelers to these often empty structures. There are deals for the over 55 crowd too. We join the Amigo program with Paradors de Turismo de España, a rewards club that is free to join. At each parador we check in to, we receive a welcome drink just for arriving as an amigo, all while acquiring points to use on future stays. Again, I feel a bit like I’m cheating on a test. The paradors are offering so much history, amenities and comfort, for what some concrete confection hotels charge.

Not all of the paradors are quite historic. We arrive to Parador de Antequera, a seemingly modern building at the crossroads of Andalusia. Again, I head for the pool after a long day of touring and travel, a deserted space that gazes out on a valley. I slather on the SPF 70 and perch my lawn chair in the shade. Again we are paying 30 euros a person to live in a piece of Spain’s history.

When the Wi-Fi can’t seem to find a signal at our Almagro parador, my husband commences a complicated conversation with the hotel clerk in Spanish, a language he does not speak. Even for what is basically a hotel chain, speaking English is virtually non-existent or very limited, the way it should be in Spain for the traveler. Rather than searching for signals, we take the spotty Wi-Fi as a sign to most simply enjoy staying in a former medieval convent. Our time is limited and perhaps the parador’s time is too.

Tips and Tricks: Before booking a parador, be sure to check out the main website for deals. I noticed they are still running age group specials and many other offers at present. 

On a dark night in April, the rug beneath L’Aquila was pulled out from underneath its feet. I stand on that rug now, one of cracks and uneven surfaces. L’Aquila has become somewhat of a ghost town, so much so that my guidebook doesn’t even recommend visiting. But I’m here in many ways looking to be reborn too, convinced again there is an Italy I still know and love.

Containing L’Aquila is Abruzzo, under two hours from Rome but seemingly days away. The central Italian region covers the heart of the Apennines and reaches to the Adriatic Sea. Mostly mountainous in composition, its main beauty is also its downfall. Coupled with the region of Molise, Abruzzo is Italy’s most earthquake prone region for it sits right smack on a major fault line. With few attractions open, even restaurants to eat at, I leave L’Aquila optimistically unhopeful. I can see behind the scaffolding lurks a city of grandeur, one I hope to return to and see reborn.

I set out on the SS17 toward Sulmona, heading deeper into a region I seldom hear of the topic of Italian vacation conversation. Having just left Rome and then the Amalfi Coast, I was hardened by Italy until Abruzzo entered the picture. So much of the country has become overcrowded with tourists to the point where I was starting to fear this could be the end of the Italy I know and love. With windows down, we head up and down mountains, where wildflowers brighten the scene.

We finally reach Sulmona, a medieval town known for its confetti, a candy that makes its way into nearly every Italian celebration. Sulmona’s other notables include being the birthplace of poet Ovid and also its days spent as an important commercial center in the Middle Ages. After touring one of Sulmona’s biggest confetti manufacturers, I head to the town’s main square for the evening passeggiata.

Piazza Garibaldi soaks up one of Abruzzo’s best views with the Morrone massif looking down upon it. Along one side of the square is a 13^th century aqueduct, its arches now serving as grand thresholds into the piazza.

The southern Abruzzo town snakes down into another time-trapped village, Scanno. I begin to drive from Sulmona to Scanno, through the rocky Gole di Sagittorio and past the glassy Lago di Scanno. While perhaps not as dramatic as the Amalfi Coast, the drive invigorates, and in many ways, I’m reborn again by Italy.

I start to roam the steep streets of Scanno. It’s riposo time, meaning I have the maze that is Scanno to myself. The air is perfumed with the smell of a warm fire. The buildings don’t look like they have been touched in several hundred years.

Scanno leaves me wondering if I have stepped into a movie set for medieval Italy. And just like that, Italy has me again with Abruzzo, a region of cliff clinging medieval villages frozen and deserted, purple mountains and a spirit for revival and rebirth. The ground rumbles beneath my feet, jostling a country I can’t seem to shake.

Have you been to Abruzzo?