Such amazing adventures unfold when you live life with little planning.

Tired of sweating all day, and all night, I decided to sleep on the beach here in Barcelona, two nights ago. Had to wait ’till the police cleared everyone off, the sand grooming machines gone, everyone returned to settle in for the night.

I fell to sleep to the sound of waves at my feet, and a solo trumpet playing a few dozen meters behind me. At 3:00 am, I woke to a light rain on my face. I was not worried until the lightning strikes were visible in the foreground. With the majority of patrons in this open air hostel, I packed my blankets and walked back toward my borrowed flat, to the patter of rain drops on the sand.

Not far from my resting spot, I noted a woman’s purse, unattended. I looked to a couple sitting ten meters to my front. They shrugged. I took it with me. The next morning I opened it to find a novel in English, a Spanish ID card, a bank card, eye glasses, a number of pencils, pens, and a sketchbook filled with wonderful sketches and drawings.

I worked for two hours to locate “Carla Besora”. I found her address an hour north of Barcelona, a few tickets stubs to know she was in the area the same day I discovered her bag. A Google search confirmed photos with the ID card.

I called Carla’s number in Brussels, as given in the notebook, but it was switched off. I contacted the company which hosted the photos I found via Google. They denied knowing her. I confirmed what I saw in Google images, wrote again, and directly referred to the photos on their website.

“Ah! Yes! We interviewed her last year! Good investigation work! I will email her your contact information.” Two hours later, I received a phone call. It was Carla. She was so excited that I had found her bag. As is standard in Barcelona, it was nabbed while she was sitting on the beach, cash removed, and then dropped only a few meters distance.

Carla came to meet me yesterday evening. She is an illustrator, and that notebook contained all her ideas for the past several months. As a gift for my effort, she presented me with one of her books, a beautiful, rich journey through an iconographic story without words.

I encourage you to visit her work at cargocollective.com/carlabesora

What an adventure, unplanned!

Here in Madrid, Spain, I reunited with Dalia, a friend I have not seen since 2004 in the little mountain town of Vinales, Cuba.

Between the two of us, we recalled so many splendid moments in those distant days, when the call of the limestone climbing was all that mattered. I would sharpen a machete each morning and march through farmers’ fields, cutting pathways to caves and boulders. The Cubanos on their way to work, standing in the back of a Russian dump truck or crammed too tight in an old bus, would pass and yell to me, wondering why this American was carrying a machete and where he could be going.

Each weekend my Cuban friends would follow me to those hollow domes, to be the first to climb the new problems I had set. Do you remember “La vangenza de Ana Maria”? A mossy, slippery, nearly green wall at the back of the cave. Ana Maria, the smallest of us all, was the first to make it to the top without falling.

When the sun had set, we filled the plastic containers my host family daily provided for my lunch with rocks and sand, marching down the middle of the road by moonlight. We danced and sang to the rhythm of shakers and shoes against pavement.

Once we were camped at a home not registered as a casa particular and a neighbour called the police, a typical event in a totalitarian state. Anibal’s aunt would be fined, jailed, or worse–if caught with Americans in her home. Taralee and I jumped in the back of a dump truck and sped off to a designated intersection marked by a large tree, an hour down the road. We were reunited later that day and Anibal’s aunt was unscathed.

Posterboy Anibal, Russo, Renier, Dalia and Elaine, El Turbo and Anna Maria, the German Tom and Canadian Devin. What an eclectic crew, like none before and none to come again. Dalia confirmed this evening, as we walked to catch her bus, “You came at a special time Kai. Those days were very unique. Nearly everyone we knew left Cuba and Vinales was never the same.”

Those moments came to life for me again, like something out of a story book.

Thank you Dalia, for conversation and story time.