I like looking at things and really thinking them through. If you do this carefully once, you can just automatically do the correct thing forever after that.
So, basic things - when taking the lid off the coffee, where do you put it?
Me? Depends if there's coffee on the bottom of the lid. If so, topdown, bottom up:
No coffee? Then bottom down on the table, keeping the top of the lid cleaner.
I did some laundry a day before checking out of the hotel I was staying at. I wasn't sure if it'd dry one day before I was leaving, but I figured worst case scenario I'd have to put some slightly wet clothes in a plastic bag and then wash them again sometime.
I think about it, and I'm tentatively going to just read a book while blowdrying for a few minutes, and then I get an idea:
I like thinking about things. Just spending five minutes thinking something over can save a lot of time.
Yesterday I announced that a 23 page writeup of my travels and lessons for the year called "Era One." You can download your free copy here - Era One - Download PDF
This is an excerpt from Era One, if you haven't gotten your copy yet.
The Korean Bathhouse
2010 had been up and down for me. But the two weeks I’d spent in Guilin were fantastic, I felt really revitalized. After that, Beijing was okay, and then my visa was up – where to go next?
I decided and flew to Seoul, South Korea.
Need a quick shot of energy but unwilling to mess around with Colombia's number two agricultural export? Try coffee. It's legal, and you're almost never more than a few steps from a fresh pot. It is served everywhere, all day long: bus stations, hotel lobbies, restaurants, cafés and even on the street from vendors who will pour a splash of brown gold into a little plastic cup for about US $0.10 [50 øre]. It's not always good, but it sure is ubiquitous.
(Our Lonely Planet guide gives us the buzz on Colombian coffee.)
Today we made an excursion to a place called Colombia's coffee heart: Chinchiná, 21 km from Manizales. There we visited the coffee plantation Guayabal.
Guayabal is a family farm. Both the owner (whose name I never did catch), her son Jorge, and her sister Adriana had grown up on the farm. They were all very friendly, but none of them spoke good English. Jorge's son Juan Juan was my age, but we had no language in common.