Survived Another

Some people really enjoyed the birthday chronology photos on Facebook so I thought I’d share them here.

Birthday #30 (Gramma’s backyard)
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Birthday #31 (Inner Mongolia with a toll gate operator I had met the day earlier)
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Birthday #32 (On the roads in Yunnan)
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Birthday #33 (On the Assey Plateau – damn amazing!!!)
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Birthday #34 (Back at Gramma’s with my Momma)
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What did I get for my birthday? Well a little cash to help afford this baby…
She’s a bit sick…haven’t really gotten to ride.
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But the view looks a whole lot different down there…first oil change…for both of us.
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She will be my sanity this summer, as I’m sticking around to teach some photography courses and hear if I’ve been accepted to a very prestigious photography workshop.

Welcome to the ‘Boys Club’…or rather, no welcome at all.

“I’m more woman than you could handle.”

7km off course to camp next to Lenin Peak, Kyrgyzstan.

This summer was the first time since beginning this tour that I had the chance to encounter so many other travellers. Ranging from backpackers, motorbike riders, cyclos, and other miscellany.

I began this summer by riding with my favorite brothers, Matt and Lucas. It was stressful, downright frightening…at times I wanted to murder them for keeping me from my beauty sleep with their tent talk. I miss the chatter and that SMELL…THAT SMELL…from the tent. Although, at this current moment, I think both of these would offer great comfort to me. I do miss them dearly, especially that I’ve returned to Kashgar where we met.

There was Nathan in Bishkek and from there I would go onto Kazakhstan. I would not encounter another traveller until Tashkent, nearly 5 weeks later.

It was only the budding of the tourist season…where I met 2 Italians that had just completed the Pamirs on motorbikes. And a wonderful backpacker from the States that shared delightful stories of Africa, and a cyclist he met. Tashkent would be just the beginning.

From Tashkent, I would ride a small road through the mountains of Nurata. What a beautiful experience…except…that “eco-tourism” listed in the “Lonely Liar”. Stay away…they even received a lengthy complaint email.

The Uzbeks on this route…were…amazing. The homestays…the love. I had already broken the law after not registering for 3 days so I just threw my shit to the wind and didn’t worry so much about it.
Usually sleeping in cafes or with locals, kept me safe, rested, and well fed. The one time I camped in the desert, I got invited in by a petrol station attendant who grabbed my breasts twice in the late night. Nothing like starting to ride at 3:30 am along the desert highway, after only a couple hours of sleep. Luckily, I was planned to arrive in Bukhara that afternoon. I would do 80km before 10am that day.

Bukhara…I would become fast friends with Chris-Alex, a Swiss cyclist. We hit it off splendidly. A gentleman and a fellow solo cyclist who has been on the road for nearly a year. Besides our language barrier and his accusation that my English is “horrible”, we spent our days talking and recovering. We had both fallen ill and he was getting his shots for a dog bite.

We made plans to meet in Samarkand and away I went…through the deserts of Uzbekistan…taking a small road to Samarkand. I thought a route with little traffic would offer an authentic experience of the Silk Road. Everything DID turn into a beautiful golden color.

Samarkand must be the meeting point of the Peloton. All couples or solo male cyclists. Here I would have the honor of meeting the famous Jacques Sirat, who sends me lovely electronic correspondence.

The guesthouse is filled with all kinds. I would meet Robin and Keely (my favorite motorbike couple), Max and Mariya (who would see me crying on the side of the road in the Pamirs and donate their food supply), Richard (a British boy I would spend a half day with in Sary-Tash), Angelica and her new love (what an inspiring story, and the only girl to love my southern accent), this boy who had ridden a horse across Mongolia that was now carrying a pair of rollerblades (having given up his tuxedo a few months earlier)…and I would see the return of Chris-Alex…the boy that sleeps and showers more than anyone I know.

One night we enjoyed the fine vodka of Central Asia. Robin began to tell us all how women are better than men. We would also have a guest there that was completely insane. She kept us all entertained for a couple of days.

Towards the end of Samarkand, new couples arrived. Then it became couples/cyclists time. Chris-Alex had told one pair to talk to me about China as I “know everything about China”. I don’t…but more than the majority.

When I over heard them discussing the usual…maps/visas/roads…the stuff that bores me…I tried to add some insight and advice. I was looked at like I was speaking Chinese and they would rather not hear. Oh, excuse me…I’m sorry…did I talk outloud…shame on me…I’ll go sit in my room by myself. All my friends had left and I had these pompous cyclists left in the shadow of pleasant memories.

I’d been in Samarkand for 8 days…it was time to move on. My mood suffers drastically if I stay more than 5. Especially having to hear the same conversations over and over and over and over. Hey cyclos…lets make a deal…Visa talk for 5 minutes max. Let’s talk about other pleasantries…or funny stuff. Routes…mileage count…what job you quit…*yawn. Okay, so it was the first time I was obviously shunned from cyclists. Love me or leave me.

Onto Dushanbe. What?!

A dozen tents in the guesthouse. Bicycles and motorbikes everywhere!

I’ll run into some of the folks from Samarkand…hear rumors of those ahead of me leaving for the Highway a week earlier. Here, in ol’Dushanbe…I would learn that boys on motorbikes and I get along real well. I acquired a nice short list of emails…some handed to me…Alick being the first.

Again, the usual run of couples and a few solo men…with the eventual return of Chris-Alex and a posse of 2 other solo cyclos. Men, of course. A few pairs of girls show up (the second time in Dushanbe)…which surprises me.

The couples from Uzbekistan had been there earlier…and left with 2 other couples. Hey, ain’t nothing wrong with being a cycling couple…ain’t my thing, probably never will be…nor is riding in a group of 6.

While in Dushanbe, I got to meet a wonderful cyclist gal that lives and works there. It was such a pleasure spending some time with another woman that spends hours pouring over maps and can “do it all” herself.

Pamirs…well…we all know that one. FAIL.

I returned to Dushanbe with Chris-Alex and 3 AMAZING Swiss couples, all returning from Kalaikumb. So wonderful that I was invited to their National Day Dinner…the only non Swiss, out of 9! Sheeesh, I felt like the guest of honor although I couldn’t understand a word. Eight were German speakers while Chris-Alex is a French speaking Swiss. Remo, the solo guy on a single speed Swiss Army Bike, impressed me not only by his bike of choice but also his beard. The wonderful couples, Janine & Dominik and Ruedi and Fabienne – see the Sponsors page to visit their blogs.

If you all have found this blog…you made the return to Dushanbe enjoyable. As enjoyable pouring our tears and misery into bottles of beer can be. Perhaps we will have a reunion in Dushanbe before the next Civil War…as Matt Woodward would joke to me tonight about. A fine fella on a motorbike that is currently in Mongolia.

The great thing about being alone, is when other travellers cook, you more than likely, get invited. THANK YOU TO ALL…IT WAS GREAT!!! And never ever under appreciated.

So, I’ve only met a few assholes…honestly. It’s been a fine fine summer…so many new friends…a lot of faces I won’t ever forget. Although its caused my Chinese to go to the shitters, I’m thankful for a few of lifelong friendships I look forward to. And just imagine…when I finally tour Europe I’ll have Switzerland, France, UK, Belgium, and the Netherlands covered.

What the hell happened on the border of China?!

Ok, I’m not going to act completely naive. I’ve seen a little of the “Hey I’m on a bike…I’m extraordinary…lady you should talk to me.” But very very very little of it. Most of us know there is nothing special about it…we are just like you, backpackers…just like you motorbike folks. We are all living the way we want to. We are not extraordinary…we may just be more masochistic…and for the solo folks, socially inept, emotionally stunted, or running away/towards something.

On the border, yes, I did the Irkeshtam Pass – again, I met 5 other cyclists, 1 married couple, 1 2dude couple, and 1 recently solo dude.

I know the ropes. I help them all with the border crossing bullshit. Getting into the truck and all that garbage.

My stuff is loaded with “Doofus” and Christian…the boys from Germany. I would camp with them that night, it’s nice to have the laughter…but I do notice “Doofus” is a bit in love with himself and NEVER quits talking. Well, when he’s asleep, I suppose.

We make it to Kashgar the following day, early afternoon. The solo Frenchie caught up with us and the 3 of us got here just a few hours before the Dutch couple.

After 7 beers a piece…and a lack of water and food…we all crash out. “Doofus” had been making his moves on me all night. I was quite turned off by his technique for passing gas in peoples faces…and his beatboxing was not something that makes a lady swoon.

Then the most awful pickup line…”You inspire me”. Gross. Shut up.

He keeps trying to cuddle with me outside and I tell him, “no, I don’t want anyone to see me”. First, I’m not 15…I do not like PDA…especially from an A1 Doofus. He tells me he has always wanted to be a clown…”Really, are you retarded?” was my drunken response.

Yes, I’m difficult.

He continues to try and convince me to cuddle…”Oh, it’s been too long…you just need to be close to another person”. Haha, that’s a new one. I deny and fall off the platform pulling away.

I’m lying down next to him and Frenchie comes back. The two start wrestling and then Doofus turns to me and gets extremely aggressive and starts trying to bite my butt? I pull away telling him to stop/quit and he refuses…he gets a big ol’slap across the face. I don’t stand for that shit…when I say stop…you better STOP.

Earlier that night, Doofus had strutted around the courtyard about riding a bike to a few locals here. At 4000km, a few months, and a plane ride…yeah, homeboy…strut your shit to someone else ‘cus your shit to my face, stinks!

He gets the nickname Doofus from me this night.

So we go to the dorm room. He lies down in the bunk next to me and he’s silent. Oh my god…you do shut up. Okay, readers…I’m going to be completely honest about what I do next. Jason, quit reading now…or anyone that thinks I’m a nice girl.

I lie down next to him for an hour. There is NO hugging, NO cuddling, NO kissing. It’s nothing. Honestly, I just needed to lie down next to a SILENT human being (after 18 months) for an hour. His hand would only lie on my thigh. Completely innocent. Yes…I used him. Blatant admittance…I used a doofus for emotional comfort, slipping back into my bed an hour later and awake with my dignity – or so I would think.

Through the next 2 days I would go insane listening to him in the courtyard. Even his friend and I would exchange a couple of eye rollings of the “kids” behavior. Oh, I never told you how he claimed to be a filmmaker and wanted to work on my project with me. WHATTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT?!!?!?!?!!?!?!?! You think I’m some stupid girl that’s going to give away years and years of work for you. You have got to be out of your obnoxious, self obsessed, mind! (This is the same filmmaker that didn’t get to film the Buzkashi match because he had a dead battery. No excuse.)

(I would explain to Doofus what the “drivetrain” is. He also told me how he will change his chain when he changes the cassette…wait a minute buddy. You’ve missed something here. You keep on dreaming of your clown career and your ukulele/beatboxing performances in the courtyard.)

Okay, I know I’m loud at times. Yeah. But I do have an “Off” button. I was really hoping this guy would find his. But, nope. Does not exist.

About 6 other cyclists show up. All guys…no solo. I’m really left out in this situation, ain’t I?

I begin to pick up on something. I watch from the corner…my face buried in my laptop dreaming up my next Expedition with Miss Chappell…laughing at my Doofus stories.

Hearing his stories over and over and over and over again. The same…over and over and over…He’s a braggart and a performer. I begin to catch onto the other male cyclists. There is a pattern. It’s somewhere along these lines.

“Where are you from?”
“xxxx”
“Oh yea…”
….
….
…..


“You came here on bikes, that is sooOOOooOOOoo cool, I would sooOOooOOOoo love to do that.” (Responses similar from men and women).”

Of course, I’m a woman, I’m a cyclist…of course I sit in the corner by myself wondering why they don’t talk to me. What’s wrong with me. I walk around with a smile and try to make small talk. Oh, like this classic one.

“Hey guys…where ya headed, where ya going”
“We are going to India.”
“You didn’t come from the Pamirs by any chance.”
“No.”
“Oh…just wondering because a lot of cyclists are coming from there and there was trouble because of the war.”
“War…KnoW nothing of it…that’s what happens when you are on a bike. Where are you coming from.” (Catch that?…letting me know THEY ARE CYCLISTS!…my bike is not in hand and there is nothing to show I have a bike.)
“I started in Shanghai and just did a loop through Central Asia and am returning home.”
“Oh, Shanghai?”
“Yeah, I live there.”
“Ahhh…teaching English…obviously.”
(Wait a minute!)
“No, I’m a photographer.”
“Oh.”

Great intro, eh?

So, I get it. Maybe it all stems from the fact that these boys that think what they are doing is the greatest thing since sliced bread or ice cream know they can’t use their silly “I’m cycling around the world” charm on me. Hey homeboy…I see through ALL YOUR SHIT.

I’m leaving Kashgar for a nice visit with a local Uyghur family. I’m so tired of listening to the whole “why you should bike tour” speeches. Why can’t people just enjoy what they are doing now…without regrets or thoughts of what they should/could be doing.
Cyclos…quit selling the idea so hard…it’s tacky. Let these people enjoy what they are doing NOW…they can think about the bikes later.

5 Seconds after we had arrived in Kashgar some girl just started up about cycling…to the BOYS. On and on and on and on…maybe I smell bad? Is there a reason to think Doofus has more experience and knowledge than me…oh YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH…THAT’S RIGHT…THEY HAVE PENISES…I FORGOT…TOTALLY SLIPPED MY MIND. Of course…they must know more than me and give more accurate information.

Everything Doofus said about cycling China was a repeat of me…but inaccuracies added. I would sit and listen to the bullshit being spread around the only hostel in Kashgar. I even shared a quote from Genochio – giving him full credit and I heard doofus use it at least 10 times out of context. The third time (in a few hours), I screamed from inside, “Hey, you know that’s not YOUR line!”

I may go absolutely insane if I have to hear his voice…

…oh, wait, I nearly forgot…the conclusion of Doofus and Co.

So, Doofus and Frenchie go out for KTV their last night here. Well, it will be the second to last after all the drunkeness.

I wake up at 6:30 to the awful word: Pu$$y…being dropped like the word “bike” over the past few days. What is going on…I’m sleeping. Of course it’s Doofus…eyes barely parted I realize he is TALKING ABOUT ME!?!?! It continues…on and on…a debate on if it’s shaved or not. WHO THE HELL DOES THIS A METER AWAY FROM THE GIRL?!?!

Then…THEN…THEN…I hear: “I probably know but don’t remember…huh huh huh.”

EXCUSE ME…EXCUSE ME…EXCUSE ME…

I throw a pillow at them and go into the room. Leaving behind, “I don’t know what I did wrong…she’s so beautiful.” Yeah right buddy…try to make up for that vulgar talk. You didn’t do anything wrong besides being the biggest creep, one celled organism, self obsessed, moron I’ve ever met. I’m just NOT into you.

Christian tries to have me come back and feels bad about it. I whisper, “this is bullshit, no.”

The next day, Doofus comes up to me with his arms spread…going in for a hug and says, “Darlin’ (Aussie accent), I’m sorry if we hurt your feelings.”

I pull away, flip my hand in his face and say, “Whatever, DUDE!” and walk past him.

Frenchie calls me a Princess. Sorry homeboys…if thats the only insult you can fish for…well, Thanks.

Bon Voyage ASSHOLES! They had been planning a route through T1b3t and with Doofus as their Captain…and already 2 days late because of his shenanigans…it’s not going to happen. There are some logistics I didn’t share, nor did they ask for. You will not get your Visa renewed after the police escort you back to legal land. 3 Weeks will not get you across the Northern part.

I don’t wish ill on anyone…he’ll be sure to find it on his own.

Days earlier, whispering with Christian at 4 am…I would tell him that the biggest problem they will have in T1b3t is teamwork. The stress levels will be high, you’ll be hungry, rushing against a clock, dealing with altitude…relationships will fail. i.e. Brandon/Ellen.

Being a woman…alone I have had to deal with a lot of shit.

I had one cyclist make fun of me in Dushanbe accusing me of using a “poor little girl” technique to get taken in and fed. Let me tell you one thing…I would give up all these perks if it guaranteed no rape attempts, no boob grabs, no pelvic thrusts on the side of the road, no harassment about not having a husband, no secret massages late at night. Bring on the equality!!!! I’ll take it with open arms.

YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT ITS LIKE. You wonder why I lock myself in a hotel room every now and again. It’s exhausting…it’s painful, having these reminders that I am inferior in so many eyes.

Then, western boys do similar, if not worse shit to me. Who am I run to for comfort? To another dude on a bike that uses his “riding around the world” to get attention from girls, and guys. I don’t think so. I try talking to the Dutch couple about it, but they have a bit of starry eyes for the triplets.

Two French boys, that had ridden with Doofus and Christian a month earlier invited me to come along. So…why would I? Is it because I’m a girl and I need company? You don’t know me? How do you know we would get along? I’ve learned that most people have ulterior intentions. Even like the Uyghur “friend” I have here…that made me promise to bring him back an iPhone.

If Chris-Alex was here…there’d be none of it. Or if darling Jacques…or even Brandon who behaved as a gentleman for 2 months. There are a lot of good, really good men out there. But at the present moment…there are too many boys stuck here in Kashgar.

Hey lady…wanna ride a bike….? I’m SPECTACULAR!!!!! I really hope my bike turns you on because my conversation is DULL DULL DULL.

Welcome to the Boys Club, Darlin’…too bad I’m into MEN!

I type this, silently, alone…because…I don’t need to strut, nor did I ever. This journey has been about me…not you. It only matters that I proved it to myself…every kilometer since the very first.

Buzkashi

After 4 months riding through Central Asia, I was disappointed to not see a game of Buzkashi. My last day in Kyrgyzstan, the second time around, I pushed my bike through a field to greet the large group of men and horses.

Sorry about the dot in the center, seems there is some water in my lens from my river swimming.

Kazakhstan May 14, 15…Gone Fishin

Breaking down camp well before 6 am, I pass through a small town. Picking up minimal supplies, like candy, along with some ice cream for breakfast.

It’s been close to a week since my last shower and I saw a gas station/truck stop that seemed to offer something of the sort. But, it either wasn’t open that early or just not open at all.

I ride through the barren steppe with a headwind until about 11 when a blue, 2 door Lada pulls up next to me.

There are two men in front, a bit older, and they are extremely friendly and waving at me. Asking me where I’m from and they are even happier to hear I’m an American. We wave goodbye and they move ahead.

They stop about 200 meters ahead.

I’m greeted by two men and an old tiny Kazakhstan flag. They seem so excited to meet me and so welcoming I can’t help smiling during the entire conversation.

He tells me they are going fishing in Lake Balhash and I am invited to come along. Them miming that I’ll throw my bike on the car and we’ll all go together. It’s only 11am but, if you’ve been following this journey for awhile now, you know I rarely turn down offers of any sort. Well, I do turn down the offers for sex…

One man tells me his wife is in the back of the car and this is the confirmation that I shouldn’t have too many problems.

He pops the trunk of the tiny 2 door Lada and there is a tiny girl sitting in the back with reflective aviator sunglasses on. We exchange “hellos”…she doesn’t look Kazakh or Russian, but she does appear to be very young. As she moves around in the area of the hatchback, for me to put my bags in the back, I catch a glimpse of her eyes behind the sunglasses.

Holy F*$K! What am I getting into?

Her eyes are nearly swollen shut and the skin dark purple. It’s the worst black eyes I’ve ever seen and I try not to look too much. I cringe from sympathy pains as I throw my bags into the back, being engulfed by the smell of fish.

They tell me to sit in the passenger seat by I insist on sitting in the back with the wife.

We head off the road and throw sand tracks within just a few minutes. I’m trying to settle my nerves, as I’m having flashbacks of the perverted police officer in the Gobi. Okay, these people aren’t intoxicated, friendly, and it’s daylight. I’m trying to make mental notes of the tracks just in case I have to make a run for it. We are heading East, further and further from the main road but I can keep my orientation by the power lines and the city to the South along the lake.

We pass wild horses through the sand, listening to Hip Hop being blasted through the Lada. I’m forced into the front seat, as a guest. The heater is also blasting on me.

At one point Jalabad, the driver, jumps out and then jumps back in with a small bouquet of wild flowers. For me? Yes. Okay, this is uncomfortable, what about your wife?

It’s about a 15 minute ride through the sand until we arrive at a tiny shack on the banks of a sparkling turquoise lake. We get out of the car and my senses are filled with the smell of salt and dried fish…and the sun beating down on me.

There is an old man at the shack and a very old aluminum boat.

The two men from the car and the wife begin preparing the boat. It’s slid off the trailer and we begin leaving the bank, the 4 of us.

My seat is an old 2×4 set across the front. The driver picks up speed and I’m bouncing all over the place, attempting to secure my camera.

We arrive to the first net in the middle of the lake. As the men begin pulling the net to grab the fish, the wife is in the back scooping out the water that leaks in.

The men toss fish from the front to the back, barely missing my head and hers.

We continue checking nets for about the next 2 hours. The leak is peaceful, and calm, and curious birds all along the way. There are fish I’d never seen before. I watch the wife, behind my sunglasses, sticking her finger in the eye of one of the fish. Not as cruelty, but I saw it as a curiosity, a playfulness.

The driver of the Lada and boat…the leader. His name is “Jalabad”.

Fishing partner and wife.

We come back in and dock the boat. There is a jeep there with one police officer and 2 other men. They are talking to the old man that lives in the fishing shack. The men from the boat join in and I can tell the conversation is about me.

The wife and I go sit in the Lada and wait for the men. As we are completely ignored. A giant bee flies into the car and startles her from her sleep. It’s hot in the sun…I want to go, I want to get out of the sun.

As we are speeding through the sand, I am invited for tea. I’m in the front seat, with the wife squeezed between us. Wife gets a smile across her face and she puts in extra effort with the invite to come to her home.

The first thought to my mind is, “If my presence will keep him from beating the shit out of her…well, I ‘ll go.” If she were to be punched a few more times, she would probably lose the eyeball. But, here I am making assumptions.

What I do notice is both eyes are black, the worst one being her right eye, and her husband is right handed…along with a big ring on it. She also has dozens of scratches all over her face and neck. This is just weird, men usually don’t beat and scratch women.

(I wish I could remember her name.)

After unloading the bike and gear, Jalabad leaves to get rid of the fish and I spend time with the wife. She makes me Nestle hot chocolate and adds a shit ton of extra sugar.

She walks into the kitchen with her hand covering her eye and signals to me not to look. I give a hand signal to dismiss, it’s not my business and I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable.

We sit in the kitchen, the apartment empty except for a few necessities. A new fridge, washer/dryer, and in the living room a bed, 2 chairs, a tv, and countless DVDs. Their bedroom closed off.

Within 15 minutes we are scribbling on paper and drawing photos to communicate. Also using a Russian English dictionary we are able to get simple questions and answers across. She had quit covering her eye and tells me it was Russian girls in Balhash. She is actually half Korean and half Russian, 20 years old and Jalabad is 46, his second marriage and has 2 children.

Jalabad returns home and we have dinner together. Boiled chicken, pasta, and onions…all boiled together. Of course with bread, topped with mayonaise and ketchup. Not my choice but my hosts insist it’s delicious…I’ll say differently.

They escort me to the living room, throw some awful American movie in the DVD player with a hilarious Russian overdub. It’s just a man translating the movie…he does it all…like reading from a script. I’m mostly entertained by the Russian Sprite commercials.

I’m under the impression I will be getting a ride tomorrow, so I settle in for the night and not think too much about my next step.

Jalabad and his wife are in the other room. Finally, I smell marijuana and realize they are getting high. Whatever, none of my business.

It’s getting very late and they enter the room. They have an idea and I’m pulled into the kitchen. Jalabad makes a sketch of me getting bathed by his wife. Um, no thanks…I can pour water over myself and don’t need creep fest 2012. I thank them for the offer, laughing, and say I’m okay.

I’m in bed half asleep, in the living room and I can hear the wife go to bed. Jalabad is switching off the lights and I’m very aware of what may happen next. I’m lying with my face to the wall and the lights are off. Within a few seconds, I have hands rubbing my legs…I turn over and see Jalabad kneeling at the foot of my bed and I kick him away simultaneously.

Damn Sex Pests, everywhere!

To be continued…

I would love to hear from you!