Here’s the thing. I’m from a small town. And like a lot of people from small towns, I have heard miniscule Trump-isms coming from the people around me my entire life. Some things are as innocent as “I’ve heard it’s really dangerous to travel to (insert any unknown country)" to overtly racist comments from your neighbour’s Uncle Bill that I probably shouldn’t repeat. I blame it on ignorance. See, it’s easy to fear something that you don’t understand. When you have a leader who plays on those fears and promises to protect you from the unknown evil in the world, it’s easy to support him.

A place of commerce and tourist traps juxtapositioned against the philosophy of Buddhism, Thailand has more ways of getting your money than the vendors on Khao San Road. That being said, you can vacation here fairly cheap if you know what to watch out for.  

My first impression of Spain was Barcelona, a city like many others, yet different and enchanting at the same time. Gaudi architecture and new age graffiti clash and mesh like the independent Catalan nationals and their Spanish counterparts in a contentious battle over independence that has somehow been halted for an afternoon siesta and tapas. But it was not this city we came to see; our destination was an hour plane ride out into the Mediterranean Sea to the island of Mallorca. Here we rented a car and drove across the island to Artá, a small town not far from the northwest coast. We had previously made arrangements with our couch surfing host Gerard, and it was here where we were to meet him.