You could climb, although, if you are like me: a scrawny mzungo who hasn’t ever climbed a coconut tree before in his life, then, like me, you will probably end up flat on your back empty handed.

You could try jabbing it with a long stick. We spent countless hours attempting this and implementing the scientific method, “So poking them with the bare stick didn’t work, but if we tie a knife on the end then maybe…” Try all you want, but those coconut stems are unbelievably durable, I couldn’t even cut them down with a knife!

Spontaneously growing several feet. With my mom’s genes? Yeah right!

Getting someone else to do it. (“The American Way,” according to locals.) After three failed attempts I was desperate. During my brief moment of despondence, I finally found my answer: a local to Tanzania, athletic, and, best of all, the proud owner of a panga (a huge machete.) I instantly came to the conclusion that it was time to call in the big guns. After all, I was American.

“I’ll lift you up” Nayay suggested. “You can take my knife and cut them down.” Why didn’t I think of that? As Nayay boosted me up, I grabbed onto a few branches, which after my prior experience, felt a little bit sketchy. Nayay handed me his monolithic machete with a cheery smile as I clung to the tree for dear life. Grasping a fraying, dead palm frond that served as my sole lifeline in my left hand and a nine inch blade in my right hand, I had a horrific epiphany: If even do manage to cut these coconuts down, they would fall right on my head, possibly knocking me unconscious and sending me eight feet down, only to land on top of Nayay’s malicious machete. And with that drastic image in my mind, I was somehow scurrying down the palm trunk like a monkey that just had tried to eat a hornet’s nest.

“How about you lift me up this time.” Sure, why not? Any idea is a good idea at this point. As Nayai grasped the skinny tree trunk, I supported him as best I could. Once Nayay established reliable hand holds and assumed the best, most stable position possible with my arms wobbling all over the place, Otto handed him the knife. Whack. Whack. Whack. It began to rain diminutive orange coconuts. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. I watched as Nayay took a couple of them to the upper thigh (Ouch!), yet he kept chopping away. Only two left.

He paused. “Uh oh. That kid over there is running to get his parents! Let’s get these last two coconuts and get out of here!”

What? What kid?! Where?

Nayay and the last two coconuts hit the sand with a resounding thump. He grabbed an armful and started sprinting. Both confused and horrified, I followed with one in each hand. Otto was already booking it home. We sprinted for Crazy Mzungos and didn’t look back until we finally reached salvation! Why were we running? Nayay later articulated: a small African boy had been furtively watching us chop the coconuts down, swiftly dodging my, but not Nayai’s gaze. Although the palm trees on the beach were technically public property, understandably, the locals didn’t enjoy us picking away at excess food. In the midst of our coconut heist, the boy ran for his parents. How bad could that of been? I’m guessing pretty bad. However, I was just happy to finally be holding the fruit of my labor!

So what does one do with eight coconuts anyways? The plan was to stuff people’s Christmas presents inside empty coconut shells and leave the unwrapping up to them. It wasn’t that atypical, because my usual wrapping strategy consisted of using as much scotch tape available, leaving a practically impenetrable, disheveled glob of wrapping paper coated in clear, sticky plastic, so both forms of wrapping left the actual gift pretty much inaccessible. Nayay used his panga to shuck them down for me.

Since they were babies, they had a hard, orange outer shell, and were filled with coconut water, not meat. This was fine by me because coconut water is packed with vitamins and electrolytes but extremely low in calories. It is like an organic, way, way healthier version of Gatorade. We cracked those babies open and chugged coconut water until we felt like throwing up, and the ultimate Zanzibar wrapping paper was ready for usage.

For Christmas I gave everyone a haiku because not only are they poetic and deep, but they are extremely fast and easy to write! 11:00pm: I was frantically stuffing haikus into empty coconut shells, through a tiny hole! The entire project was much more laborious than I had predicted, but that’s what I get for “last-minuting” the whole thing. However, it all paid off Christmas morning, as I got to watch my family members helplessly try to open their presents! Comedy gold. Penetration methods ranged from wildly banging the shell against the ground, to slyly pulling the haiku out of the hole I used to put them in, to flat out going hulk mode and pulling the shell apart with bare hands.

During my corybantic quest for coconuts, I observed a reoccurring pattern: even if a task may be daunting, there is always a way to do it, just tap into your inner creativity. As I write this Henry Ford’s wise words echo in my head: “Whether you think you can or you can’t, you’re right.”

Now, flash forward one month, the free-fall!  Everything, all that planning and preparation has led up to this moment, this ineffable high.  Florence, Italy!  However, there are always those unexpected bumps in the road (or sky if your speaking in the terms of an overly prolonged metaphor), those mishaps nobody could have seen coming: that slaphappy 747 that’s flying a bit too low, that stray pigeon poop, or, don’t mean to be the Morbid Marvin but, the chute just flat out fails. Although, just because there are a few dastardly aerial dilemmas does not mean that you can’t fly, you simply adapt, and I have a feeling this is only the beginning of a long adaptation adventure.

For starters, there’s adapting to living in such close quarters with my crazed, and at times vexatious family.  I love them, but it’s like that Modern Family episode where Phil takes the whole Dunphy family out on a road trip (if you don’t get that reference, just forget about it, and move on… to the television because you missed a great episode).  Though, the crabby lady, whom you will read about in a second, keeps the chaos to a minimum…ish.

In addition to spending “quality time” with cacophony clan, there is the challenge of adapting to school abroad.  There’s nothing that can extinguish ecstatic summer energy quite like the first day of school.Well, so I thought, apparently reacquainting myself with the all-too-familiar tediousness of math, language arts, spanish, history, and science (in that order) proves much more difficult when surrounded by the awe-inspiring beauty of Florence, Italy.  Focusing becomes an issue when the aroma of freshly baked baguettes waft in while I drill exponential and logarithmic equations into my head.  I am sure that sooner or later the routine work schedule will kick in, but for now I’ll just plug my nose!

Lastly, there is adapting to Italy.  Personally, at the core, Italy seems no different from Seattle.  I mean of course, Seattle doesn’t have a magnificent cathedral or statue waiting at every corner, but hey, Florence doesn’t have the Space Needle!  It’s the little things that require the most attention here.  You need to remember that there is no walking on the luscious, green grass at Boboli Gardens, and that you can’t order cokes anywhere near the Duomo, because heads up, they cost twelve euro a pop!  You have to quickly reconcile with the fact that you’ll be served your fair share of marble meat because no surprise, the statues hear have no shame!  Oh, and I almost forgot!  There is an seventy-year-old woman upstairs who despises children and hates noise, so it didn’t take long for us and her to establish ourselves as enemies.  She bangs on the floor when we escalate from anything above a murmur, and frequently yells down the stairway in Italian (since we can’t understand her anyways.  Problem solved!  Just stand, smile, and wave).   Be prepared for the inevitable blog post from behind bars because she has a history of calling the cops!

Italy is outstanding and adaptation isn’t only a part of traveling, but life.  Without obstacles like our cantankerous neighbor, it wouldn’t be as fun!  All this only adds to the experience and makes it more memorable!  For what it’s worth, skydiving can use the bird poop, because without it, you may as well blow seventy bucks at iFly, but that’s just not even close to as fun.

Did you know that on average we spend 80% of our lives wearing the same type of underwear? Weather you care about how fast your boxers dry or not, I think I found the pair that all of us will want to spend the next 100% of our lives in. The Exofficio Give-n-Go Boxer is, put simply, awesome. Awesomely comfortable, awesomely stylish, and awesomely, without going into to much detail, water resistant (think about it, it’s a plus)!

I know what your probably pondering at the moment, and the answer is “yes.” Yes, this bog post is over and yes, once we leave for our trip my blog posts will drastically improve (I’m still in summer mode)!

“I soon realized that no journey carries one far unless, as it extends into the world around us, it goes an equal distance into the world within.” – Lillian Smith