sunset – Specifically Random

Its Never Too Late For Italian Adventures

Dearest Lovers – Ive been fickle again with our Love Letters, letting drafts sit for months on the internet shelves without updating you on the Random adventures. There’s been much ado in my life, but we’ll get to that later. For now, I present to you the continuation of the Italian Adventure.

As the sun set on my time in Trieste, I boarded an overnight bus to the Milan airport to catch my flight to Naples to hit the Amalfi Coast, a bucket list item of mine for quite some time now. It would be a long travel day, with a 5 hour overnight bus, 2 hours in the terminal before a 90 minute flight, 50 minute ferry and 90 minute bus ride to reach my Amalfi Hills stay for the weekend. I got very little sleep on the first two legs of this travel, as the bus stopped frequently, my gate was right next to a foosball table, and my flight was too short for anything but a cat nap. Every book out there will tell you that willpower can be exhausted, and practice will tell you this is absolutely true, so when I landed in Naples, I scrapped my plans for public transport and rented a car for the next ten days…. I was tired of lugging my bags around between check outs and check ins, willing to pay the $40/day just for the luggage storage alone.

img_20180914_092731 — New whip, who dis?

After securing my ride, I hit the highway headed towards the coast, deciding to make a quick stop in Pompeii now that my travel was squarely in my control. As I approached the archeological site, traffic began to back up massively, with parking lots full of busses to my left and right, clusters of tour groups following guides wielding flags, and I quickly decided my sleep deprived state could not handle this adventure, so I drove right on past… only to get stopped at a “road block” just a few hundred meters ahead. The male cops came to my window, immediately speaking English {how did they know}, asking me if I was traveling alone or with a “boyfriend”, and checking my documents. I couldn’t fathom why in the world I had gotten stopped, as it was impossible to speed through this human wrought area, and there had not been an opportunity for any sort of illegal motions… and then the officer returned. And hit on me. Unlike previous travel days and despite traveling overnight, I was in rather cleaned up shape, sporting the hair and makeup leftover from a date before my Trieste departure, but surely that wasn’t the reason I’d been pulled over, right? I was let off, no ticket, no warning (and no date for the inciting officer), and DL told me to take it as a compliment and move on. Eh, it was a confidence booster if nothing else.

I continue my drive into Amalfi, taking the coastal route with all the sweeping cliffside ocean views the area is so well known for. What no one tells you about is the traffic. City jams can last anywhere from 10-30 minutes, and my little Fiat AC is having trouble keeping up during these high noon stops. I eventually make it through Amalfi and up to my Hills area where I grab lunch before checking into my apartment. I grab a much wanted shower, grind out a few Friday afternoon meetings and emails before hitting the market. My apartment is about 10 minutes up into the hills from Amalfi proper, so I grab a couple of steaks and decide to cook for myself for the next few nights. The roads around here are nothing to mess with, parking is a bitch and I’m really just not in the mood.

After a good me night of a home cooked meal, laundry (which is really me washing my clothes in the sink as I haven’t seen a washing machine since week 4 in Sofia), and a Netflix original movie, I’m deciding my day as I sip tea on the grape trestle covered patio that overlooks the coast below. I decide to beach it down in Amalfi, but quickly get frustrated (once again) with the traffic and drive right on past and back up into the mountains, scrapping a beach day for mountain switchbacks and sweeping views. I cruise higher and higher, through villages that dot the mountains nestled between the two coasts, stopping in a village called Tramonti to grab a roadside Italian ice and take in the view of Pompeii, Vesuvius and Naples below. I skirt the western coast a bit before cutting back into the mountains close to Sorrento, headed back over to the Amalfi side. I end the day with another me night – steak, beer, and Dexter on Netflix. I guess sometimes solo travel really means solo, and I’m ok with that.

Sunday I check out of my apartment and realize my next check in is…. tomorrow. Whoops. I scramble to find single night accoms settling on a place on the tip of the coastal peninsula with fantastic views of Capri. I hit the road, winding through the rest of the Eastern Coast and stopping in Positano for some beach time and some lunch. I drop my bags at my new digs which does indeed have majestic views of Capri and head out for a little dinner. The tiny town I’m staying in has 2 restaurants, and the first one I try is full, however, an elderly gentleman in the front lets the host know that his wife and him have a table that seats 6, and they wouldn’t mind if I took one of the other four seats. After my initial protests which they refused to accept, I sat down with this couple, married 36 years here in the town of Termini. They insisted I share in their appetizers, tiny shrimps, local vegetables, a regional pasta specialty, as he showed me pictures of his boat, his home, their weeding, etc… I traded with pictures of my ancestors as well, and although they didn’t speak English and I certainly don’t speak Italian, we were able to get by, and even had help from a neighboring table.

pano_20180916_123910 — Positano from the water

My next stop was Sorrento, or more specifically Sant’Agnello, where I had a secured a hilltop villa overlooking Sorrento, Naples and Vesuvius. The villa did not disappoint, and I spent my time up there lounging by the pool, working from the gardens, and only descending into town to hit the local CrossFit gym. A couple days into my stay, the ACs arrived from the States, even with Aaron sporting 9 broken ribs and a Frankensteined collarbone. The next couple of days they patiently tolerated my late night meetings and calls between drinks, dinner and catching up. Thursday however, I took off work so we could adventure properly.

Aaron had secured us a driver and I was happy to give up the role for the day. The reality of driving the Amalfi coast is largely frustrating and includes horrible traffic, narrow, winding roads and mazes of one ways with no room for error – I have long since put driving after two drinks in the non starter column, but these roads bring that threshold down considerably. Needless to say, a day exploring the coast enjoyably means allowing someone else to drive.

We start in Termini, my previous accidental stop to take in the views of Capri before swinging around to Positano. A quick walk around to find a spot to have a few cocktails ends us at a hotel garden bar where we relax before heading to the beach. The beach is even more crowded than my previous visit, so we load back up and head to Amalfi itself. The stop and go traffic mixed with the twist and turns is not being good to Alissa, so we land at the pier and find a local spot to put her on solid ground for a bit with a glass of water. Once she’s appearing less green, we head to the docks to secure a boat, only to be told its impossible as it is too late in the day – but someone forgot to tell them that people rarely tell Aaron “no”. Within 20 minutes he had rented us a boat, sans skipper, and we are headed out for waterside coastal views with Aaron behind the helm – Aaron, with very little boating experience and an entire quadrant of his body practically out of commission. I am highly impressed at his handling of the situation, cruising up and down the coast in what seemed like an effortless fashion. And he was absolutely right, the Amalfi Coast needs to be seen from the water. Never not boat.

From Amalfi we headed to Ravello, more specifically the Belmond Hotel Caruso, a suggestion from Dins and location of our dinner reservation. We ordered pre dinner cocktails before roaming the gardens and pools to take picture to capture the breathtaking scenery. We settle back in for apertivo while we wait for our seating, chatting with the piano man and surmising the situation of an intimate table for two set below our cocktail perch. We’re escorted to dinner, which is beyond fantastic, and the wine flows as swiftly as the conversation, perfectly facilitating our naps as our chauffeur glides us back to Sorrento.

The next morning I’m off, 6 hours south down the coast to Amantea, where the Pino family name hails from, a cute town nested on the mountainous coast of Calabria. If there were next chapters, they would include me getting my money’s worth out of a stay in an converted monastery, where the staff served me risotto in my room as I rode out a stress induced sickness, followed by a train ride to Sicily where I scootered around under the blue skies of Palermo for a week before heading back to Rome to fly to South Africa. On this date, those adventures were four months ago, so I won’t be detailing them out in my usual fashion, as memory is not what it used to be. But do stay tuned, My Lovers. There is so much more to come.

Specifically Yours,

Italy pics are up to date! And in a new, easier to follow location specific album 🙂

Lost and Found

Ah, Lovers… what once was lost is now found… and I’m not talking about my fourth water bottle since leaving the US, my 90# Olympic snatch or my ability to control myself around a bottle of Kentucky Bourbon. Instead what I’ve stumbled upon serves all of us… you see my Lovers, I was ready to hang it up, pack it in, starting my next Love Letter with “Its not you, its me…” – the disappearance of not one, but two lengthy posts detailing the Italian Adventure had me distraught, frustrated, defeated- but a recent reset of some laptop setting and voila! they reappeared – coupled with some unexpected encouraging words, and turns out it really was me…. but just temporary insanity. So without further adieu, I present you with the continuation of my traipse across my family homeland.

Sunday, September 23rd

Ciao I Mei amanti. I’m sitting outside the train station in Lamezia Terme, Italy, in the Calabria region, disgustingly early for my train that is already running 35 minutes behind. With my newfound time, I have posted up at a cafe across the street from the tiny station and ordered a beer while I await my chariot to Sicily, a detour I had not pondered until DL told me I had to go. Why not, though… its only a 6 hour train ride away – rolls eyes. Despite my current state, I’m excited to return to a bigger city, as small town Italy is well…. challenging.

I recently received a text from a good friend and fellow traveler that simply read “Why are blog posts do hard to write?” I had to laugh, because I’ve had that thought so may times myself, and I’m pretty sure that as I sat in my hotel room, crippled with fever and lethargy from going non-stop for the past three weeks I had pondered the same thought, staring blankly at my laptop and choosing to Google “What is Fortnight” instead of regaling the tales of the last two weeks. When I was on my US stint, my friend, confidant and hairdresser of nearly 20 years admitted she loved reading about my adventures, but was curious as to why the writing had tapered off, and the answer is that there are a myriad of reasons that I don’t compose my Love Letters, everything from work to adventures, to a sheer lack of desire to put the words down to paper(computer). Those of us who do blog our adventures encourage each other to keep it up, while excusing each other from the responsibility of documenting every moment in a fashion that forced and not enjoyable for anyone, including the writer.

That said, I “owe” you two weeks of the Italian Adventure, my solo endeavor into the country of my ancestry, and its not a task I’m lamenting, rather one I have been sad to not devote the time to, so, now that it seems I have a free two hours, let’s dive into the week of Venzia and Trieste.

I believe when we left off I was exhausted and frustrated from the debacle that was the death of my electronics from a faulty water bottle and an admittedly not so smart decision about its proximity to the tech that allows this life to be possible. Mostly recovered from the emotional stress that was the replacement of these items, I woke up Saturday and engaged in my usual ramble about the town, grabbing lunch along one of the main canals across from a lovely journalism student who had just graduated university and was about to start her first gig in Rome after this trip. As I wrapped up lunch, I got a text from a Birmingham friend who was in town with his wife, so I began the absurdly long trek from where I was to where they were. Google maps once again was less than forthcoming with the correct path and time estimate. That aside, the walk through the narrow allies and over the canals of Venice made it easy to not get frustrated, even when I almost got on a ferry going the wrong way. note, learn more Italian.

I make it to their SWANKITY SWANK hotel, and we wander to a local bar where the Italian version of happy hour is supposed to be amazing, find it wanting and make our way back to the luxury that is their hotel bar where we sip martinis and catch up on the last 18 months. They have a company dinner, so I started to wind my way back to my side of town, quickly realizing that the martinis are not helping my sense of direction. I talk myself onto a gondola that gets me closer, but once dropped off, my phone decides to call it quits on the day, overworked from all the twists and turns that Venice provides. It’s getting dark, but I compose myself as best I can… after all, this isn’t a Peruvian jungle, and I found my way outta that jam. I know if I can find my way to the train station, I can get back to the basement studio I’m calling home for the weekend. After 20 minutes, I throw in the independent woman towel, approaching a dashing young man to play the {lost} damsel in distress. Chivalry is not dead in Venice, and the super sweet Italian architect holds out his arm and leads me back to the canal side by the train stations where we take off our shoes, dangle our feet in the water and talk into the night. I found it a rather enjoyable evening, despite the temporary state of displacement, but as I recently recounted this story to my good friend Aaron, who knows me well, he posed a good point: “I wonder how he tells that story….” Thanks Aaron. I’ll still take my version

The next morning I am over the crowded, touristic nature of Venice, so I hop the first train into the land side of Venzia and try to decide if I’m hitting Verona before heading to Trieste, the home of grandmother. Seeing that I would have to come back to this exact station in order to get to Trieste, I decide to scrap Verona and get the bus to Trieste instead. My pad for the next few days is only a 15 minute walk, but Northern Italy is still brutally hot despite the time of year – considers I should have checked this out before coming- and my gear gets heavy after about 10 minutes of walking, which is almost perfect timing though, because that’s about the time that the walk opens up the Mediterranean on my left and the gold etched architecture of Trieste on my right. I’m too busy staring in awe at the buildings to pay attention to the sweat dripping or the weight of the pack on my back, and before I know it, I’m at my apartment, and as an added bonus, I’m able to check in early.

I’ve been staying budget conscious for the majority of this trip so far, and in places like Venice that means dank, musty, studio apartments with pull out couches, in Modena it was a hotel far outside the center with no AC, tiny showers with very little hot water (hey, it is Europe) but I’m beyond pleased when I open the door to a fully renovated apartment that’s fresh, bright, and has working AC, which I spend a good 45 minutes just enjoying. After sufficiently cooling, I head to the pier for a dockside dinner, catch up with 4 friend in 3 countries, hit Eataly for some groceries and then take it in for the evening.

I spend the next few days exploring Trieste by morning and grinding by night. The buildings in this seaside town are grandiose and ornate, sparkling in the sun as much as the sea. A morning scooter ride with a local kite surfer reveals even more hidden gems, and I’m quickly falling in love with the city by the sea that my grandmother spent her childhood in. One morning after a seaside run, I wander up the hill to find the church she was baptized in, stumbling across a war memorial and castle before reaching her neighborhood, and if you recall from Sintra in 4 hours (or less) I do so love to play in a castle. My inner child satiated, I continue to what I can only surmise is my grandmother’s neighborhood, as back then I don’t imagine they wandered too far from home. I found her childhood church, grabbing a coffee and sitting in the piazza that lay in the shadow of the steeple. Afterwards I made my way around the streets, imagining her upbringing in this place.

That evening, between meetings and in the 10 minute breaks as prescribed by my Pomodoro timer, I’m taking the picture from my grandparent’s wedding and comparing it to pictures of Trieste churches, trying to find the exact one where they said their vows, even enlisting the help of a friend who photographs churches and has been to Trieste. A clutch message from my dad comes through on my last night in Trieste, and he’s found the name of the church, so I get up earlier that my hotel checkout, and grab a cab up the hill.

Riding up to the church, a knot started to form in my stomach… maybe knot isn’t the right word, as it may imply dread… this was more of an excitement, and anxiety, an unknown I knew I was about to face. First, I have always be uneasy as religion as tourism… as my Earhart travel mates can tell you, I would rarely go into temples, churches, mosques, etc… its a personal feeling, and I’m just not comfortable with it. But this was different. So though I initially paused at the front door, I pushed through my fears, anxiety, and perceived respect level and entered the church.

It was dead quiet, but as soon as I entered, the light from the large windows seemed to envelope me. The butterflies in my stomach ceased, the jitters in my nerves calmed, and my blood calmed to a dull roar that echoed in my ears amidst the silence. I absentmindedly dipped my fingers in the marble tub of holy water to the right, hit a knee and signed the cross before taking the nearest seat in the back pew to my left. I sat there for a long time… if I had to guess, about 20 minutes or so, but in the aura of the moment, it could have been 5 or 60. I stared at the alter, pondering the fact that an event had taken place there over 60 years ago that determined my mere existence in this moment. Wrapping my head around that was a deeply spiritual moment, and I knew once I walked out of that church, I would have a different outlook on several things, including but not limited to the familial relationships I had neglected over the years. I rose from the pew and made my way to the front to light a candle for my grandmother before leaving.

I went from that moment into a state of vagrancy, checking out of my hotel at 11am Thursday morning and not having another home until Friday evening when I would arrive in the Amalfi coast, and no place for my bags until my 11pm overnight bus. I made the most of the day between cafes and coffee shops, and even managed to catch a Trieste sunset from the pier while catching up with Meilz about life post RY, solo travel and the power of introspection.

Spending as much time as I did in Trieste meant that I missed out on Verona and Milan, but for me it was what I needed at this point of the trip, this part of my journey, and this time in my life. My existence as a human, spawned from so much history in that town, where it is told that my grandfather returned to win over the woman who wanted nothing to do with him, where he persisted, and they were married, the city by the sea will always hold a piece of my heart, and that church in particularly will always be where I remember my soul shifting, my perspective changing, and new lights being considered. And that’s all beside the amazing food, stunning architecture, friendly people, and easy lifestyle. I don’t know exactly how long this lifestyle of mine will continue, but I’d like to return to Trieste at some point and spend some more time exploring my roots.

Arevadderchi Lovers.

Specifically yours,

Pictorial Evidence of the beauty of Trieste

Feelin’ It in San Andres

Oh my Lovers… today I’m treating you to a special post, a recent memory accounting of an island adventure, something I haven’t provided for months. You’ve been subjected to past adventures, hustled through previous experiences, and denied recounts all together. But today I’ll provide all access in real time. Adventures as they happen. My steam of consciousness, as live as it gets.

Back in Medellin, Sarabear and I arrived at city preview, late, sweaty and out of breath – but just in time to hear Juan pitch his Feelin experience in San Andres, a Colombian island adventure that drew my attention from the get. After some mental debating, a fat commission check and a need to do something for myself, I booked a spot and a flight, and was headed to and island I’d never heard of with people I had never met for the experience of a lifetime (sounds like RY, right?).

I arrived at the airport with minimal time to spare, an experience I had designed over my many early morning airport trips over the past year. An extra 15 minutes of sleep, or a cushion to grab a coffee and a croissant? I’ll take the sleep any day. Not by design was my check-in bag, something I desperately tried to avoid on side trips, but these budget airlines and their stingy overhead space…..

When it was my turn, I stepped up to the counter, flashed my biggest por-favor-discuple-mi-mal-espanol smile and handed her my passport. Everything was going as per usual until she asked me for a return flight, something I had been waiting to get to the island to decide on. She made my decision for me when she told me I had to have confirmation of departure from the island if I wanted to go to the island. Thank god for cell phone technology. I stepped out of line, and within a few moments had booked my flight back to Bogota for Tuesday the next week. Now we were cooking with gas. Or so I thought…

I hit the ATM before going through security, and I was still left with a few moments before boarding, just enough time to get that passport insta-post in {“Island bound bitches!!!”}. They called my flight, and I watched as the line dwindled to a manageable length before jumping in – only to be denied because I didn’t have a customs form. Customs forms? Wasn’t San Andres Colombia? Was I not in Colombia? I was sent to the back of a much longer line, where I waited to get my form – and pay my island fee. Another item I hadn’t factored into my travels. Good thing I hit that ATM. Also, mental note to do more research on reaching my intended destinations.

A quick hour later, we’re touching down in San Andres. After a short stop for airplane crossing (these tarmac flights tho), I find myself in an actual customs line… talking to a customs agent. In the same country I flew from. But as far as customs experiences go this one is relatively painless, so I’m spit out on the other side to wait for that damned check-in bag. Now, I’ve stood at 20+ luggage belts over the past year, but I am not above the panic that sets in the longer it takes for my bag to peep its purple head out on the belt. My only solace is that several other passengers from my flight are standing around with the exact same look. After 20 minutes, a fresh set of luggage emerges, including my trusty duffel, still adorned with the Tigger given to me by JDC prior to my States departure. Another long line for customs X-ray and I catch sight of Juan on the other side (after being asked 7 times if I needed a taxi – gotta love the hustle these drivers put out).

After a stop at our <AIR CONDITIONED!> accoms for a quick change, Cata, Juan and I hop in the back of scooters and are off to our first adventure, a lunch spot directly on a beach that’s as empty as it is gorgeous. I dig my toes into the soft sand as I gaze out over the waves crashing in, and I can see at least 4 shades of breathtaking blue. To my right is a small rowboat with an ancient trolley motor bobbing in the waves. Off to the left is Johnny Cay, an island covered in palm trees, and just in front of it is the remains of a shipwreck that has been abandoned, a relic that help sets the tone of this scene. If Norman Rockwell painted the perfect beach, this would be it.

With Aguila Lights in hand, Juan recounts the history and politics of the island to me while we soak up the sun. San Andres is closer to Nicaragua than Colombia by far, and the Colombian government has considered it an afterthought for far too long, causing a difficult economic strain on the island. Once a tax haven, put out of business when Colombia opened its customs border, the island turned to fishing until the Nicaraguan government commandeered the waters they depended on. Left with little to work with, narco traffic became the big business of the island as cartels took advantage of its proximity to Miami. As I look around at the beauty of the island, dotted with obvious signs of poverty, Juan confirms the thought I am having that tourism, done right, could have a much needed positive impact on the island.

After lunch, we’re whisked into the center of the island to the national park that houses Big Pond Lagoon, a fresh water lake that sits in front of a compound of houses inhabited by native islanders – Rastas. We start our walk around the lake by feeding the alligators that live in the pond, and as we circle, our guide tells us about each plant, each tree, and how they use them – cedar wood for furniture, gourds for plates, medicinal plants for anxiety, cholesterol, gastritis, diabetes, cancer – there’s mango tress, guava trees, cottonwood. His family has been on this land for generations. I learn that while this area of San Andres sits between two mountains, the bedrock is coral reef, not volcanic, and the coral filters the water from the sea, making the lake a source of “sweet water” as they call it – a “mystic place” he calls it in his heavy Caribbean accent. The natives here speak Criolla, an island English adapted back in slave times – there are forms of this all over the Caribbean – here in San Andres it is derived from English, Jamaican having a more French influence, and the Dominican Republic heavy in Spanish.

Seeing that this is the “Native Experience” portion of the trip, our guide and his family are preparing Rondon, a traditional island stew in which fish, conch, pork, plantains, yucca and local potatoes (all locally grown) are all cooked down in coconut milk {which itself is made from coconuts macheted open, grated and soaked in water}. As the stew cooked down, we once again wander in the the jungle, and it occurs to me that I’m following a machete wielding Rasta into the San Andres nowhere, something that when my step mother reads this will give her a heart attack, but this is my #newnormal, and fear is merely excitement at the adventures ahead.

Our return from the jungle trek, where we find more trees and plants used for shampoo, rope, ties, ship masts and more, is greeted by the delectable aroma of the Rondon, almost ready for us to eat. Truth time: I am FAMISHED, but leery of the hodgepodge stew – 1) I’m not a huge fan of dishes where everything is thrown together – I usually deconstruct burgers, I don’t assemble my fajitas, and bread is a side dish, not a vessel for whatever was meant to go on it. *side note, I make exceptions for pho – load it up with the goods. 2) As my father, step mother, and most recently Marky, will tell you, I’m a grazer. Big meals are not my forte, and I’m aptly served up with a HEAPING plate of this stew. But it smells heavenly, so here goes nothing.

To say it was delicious gives it no justice. If I call it delectable, mouthwatering, savory, or any other food related adjective that I can think of, I’m not even coming CLOSE to accurately describing how amazing this dish tastes. Knowing that even in my ravenous state I don’t have the capacity to eat this entire dish, I quickly isolate the components that will be the focus of my attack – 1) The conch. Dear Key West – please STOP frying this. Yes, your signature fritters are good, but sans deep frying, conch is one of the best creatures from the sea I’ve ever had. 2) The fish. A local fish, white and flaky that falls from the skeleton (sans bones, gracias) in the most delicious fashion. 3) The pork – fall off the bone, flavorful – only to be eaten with hands, gnawing at it to get every last bit *interesting aside, the islanders only eat pork from the States – they aren’t fans of the Colombian swine. 4) Everything else – the plantain and yucca make the top of the list, and there is a dumpling that I want to eat all of, but strategy dictates that carbs will inhibit my goal to eat as much of this as my tiny tummy will handle. Just when I think it can’t get any better, I’m asked if I like spicy (YES) and handed a pepper sauce that ups the ante to mind blowing. I made myself absolutely MISERABLE trying to eat as much of this as I could. Although I wasn’t able to finish it, I’d still say my dad and Marky would have been proud that all that remained was half a dumpling and two Irish potatoes.

Satiated and sun worn, we headed back to the accoms for showers and a wardrobe change. I have a lengthy convo with Latam after a survey of the local wifi proved to be insufficient for a Monday client meeting. Once my flight is rebooked, we head to the main beach walk. As we walked along, I found myself with a sense of deja vu. My surrounding reminded me of my time spent with Ariela in Koh Samui. Or with Duff in Gili. Kiwi in Krabi. Even back to my pre RY days in Costa Rica, the Dominican Republic, and St. Croix. I began to wonder if this cookie cutter island experience was by design. Had someone scripted what a beach feel was, patented the color scheme, filled it with white plastic chairs, stuck some palm trees in the ground (always at least one sideways) and sold it to every tourist destination? A fully functioning island experience, just insert your own music! Whatever the implementation method, this place is vibrant and beautiful, and as we walk the promenade, a warm Caribbean breeze blows in from the sea giving my lions mane an island wind blown look that I’m not opposed to. We settle in for a beer and talk about travel. Juan asks for advice, as someone who would like to see the world. My only advice to give: Do it.

Saturday morning I wake up to a feeling… an odd one only to be described as my skin BEGGING for a day not exposed to the Caribbean rays, but day two is White Wata, or as I like to call it, BOAT DAY! I concede to the adornment of sunscreen, a usual afterthought in my life, and despite the protests of my dermis, we head out. After some breakfast at a local cafe where I horribly mispronounce “revultos” {scrambled} we’re picked up on island time {read, 45 minutes after planned} and head to the marina. Our vessel properly loaded with sub wings, snorkels, and {of course} whiskey and beer, we head out into the Caribbean blue. History first, we cruise by San Andres’s only port before heading to the mangroves. On our way, we pass a graveyard of shipwrecked boats, just sitting in the water, no one caring to remove them. It’s eerily majestic, and Juan tells us that they are narco boats that the government has left to deteriorate on their own. Into the mangroves we go, and Juancho recounts their importance for the eco system and the economy, as the fish and shellfish feed on the algae that grows on the roots. We grab our snorkels and head in search of sea life – I’m looking for lobsters {er, dinner}, but they must know my intentions, because we can’t seem to find any. Lobsters – 1 Pino – 0. I’ll get you next time…..

Onto the White Wata {Criolla}, a breathtaking area of the ocean where the coral reef produced an island of white sand about three feet into the water that reflects the clearest aqua water you can imagine. It’s sub wing time, but my shoulder is still nagging from Lisbon-New Zealand-Cordoba and most recently attempted pull up at Casa en el Agua, so I pass on this adventure and play photog for Cata and Juan. As we’re slowly treading through the water, I look over and there’s this random guy swimming through the ocean – no boat in sight, and we are pretty far off shore. Juancho tells me he’s conch hunting, and his crazy ass had absolutely swam in from shore, with nothing but a snorkel and mask. He tosses one up to the boat, and overshoots his landing – before I can say go, Juan Pablo has dived off the boat after it, surfacing a few moments later with a victorious grab.

After everyone has had their dolphin like experience, we park the boat and hop in for some snorkeling. I dive off the boat sans snorkel, so I swim back to the boat so Juan can toss me a setup. These waters are intense, but I consider myself a strong person, and I’ve faced rough seas a few times this year. Note about a snorkeling mask – put it on before getting in the water. Note about snorkeling in rough waters – use flippers. I’m getting pounded by waves at I try to get set up, and Juan Pablo swims over to help me – something even my stubborn self accepts. Once I’m ready to go, I start swimming towards calmer waters, but I’m already out of breath from my adorning adventure. I tell myself it’s ok, just swim slowly and take some deep breaths, but the waves are crashing over my snorkel, making this difficult. I consider its time to go back to the boat, but I have a destination in mind, and well, like I said, I’m stubborn. It’s not long before I briefly consider the possibility that I might drown out here, as I’m terribly winded and making no progress. About that time, all three Juans are waving Cata and I in, with Juan Pablo sticking close by as we head back to the boat. Yep, those waters were rougher than any of us suspected, which makes me feel better about my own struggle. And let’s be honest, it was easy to push the bounds of my limits knowing full well I was never in any real danger with the boat and boys nearby. Although I have probably once again scared my stepmother. Sorry Bettejo.

It’s time for another island meal, so we pull up to Johnny Cay, anchor off and wade to shore. Lunch is served up at a Rasta run hut, and I have immediate order envy – my shrimp rice was delicious, but the island fish the boys were tearing into looked so much better. We’d been watching the storm clouds roll in for a bit now, and the sky opened up halfway through lunch. We trudged back to the boat, and slowly headed out in the rough waters to yet another abandoned ship – this one a tanker sitting on a reef that divided the rough seas from the calmer waters inside the reef. A quick jaunt over to Rose Cay, but when the sky opens up this time, it’s dumping buckets, so once it lets up, we call it a day and head to shore.

After and absurdly long sun nap (seriously why does this orb take so much outta me?), Juan, Cata and I head to La Regatta for dinner, a restaurant perched on the dock beside the marina. I’m beside myself with wine joy when I see a Sancerre on the menu, and it pairs beautifully with the fish I ordered. *Happy girl*. On our walk home, we run into the boys headed out for the night, so we decide to join and end up at Coco Loco, one of the three or four clubs on the island. Everyone told me the music in Latin America was an acquired taste and it has taken this moment to to make me realize its true. A bottle of whiskey is ordered and we dance to the Latin beats… but I know I’m at home when the beat slows and a remix of Sweet Dreams vibrates across the crowd.

The next morning my alarm blares way too early and I can feel the night before pulsating in my temples. I rouse from my super soft bed with super soft sheets to throw my bag together for our departure. We’re scheduled to fly out at 11:11, and by way of island time, we arrive at the airport at 10:35, and still make it to our flight with a few moments to spare despite Juan being placed on the standby list.

I’m not ready for Bogota… the cold, the rain… but I land in manageable temperatures, albiet without data. Thank goodness or my developed taxi skills, and its not long before I’m headed back to my Harts.

To quote my beloved Dre, home is where the Harts are, and I’m home. San Andres was an incredible adventure, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything, but I can’t contain the joy at being back where I belong, with my tram by my side. <Insert sappy ending….or don’t>

Specifically yours,

Want to Feel It for yourself? Get in touch with my man Juan here. Tell him I sent you 🙂

Conceding to the Universe

Hola mi amantes! I’m coming to you today as I soar high in the sky above the Caribbean on my way to San Andres island. This is the third weekend in a row that I’ve jetted off to Caribbean destinations in Colombia – first it was a house in the middle of the ocean, and then a beach hidden deep in the jungle – now its time to live the island life for a few days before heading back to Bogota. But with some time to kill, I thought I’d check in with you with my latest personal discovery in yet another brain dump post.

I used to believe that in order to love my Harts, I needed time away from them _cue solo side trip_. See, in a past life, I was the kind of person who would sacrifice my own well being to make sure that the people I cared about were happy. After being taken advantage of in this respect time and time again, I started to view this as a weakness, and attempted to reinvent myself as someone who didn’t give a fuck about anything but what she wanted. Ahem, this doesn’t work for me {insert Starbucks “toasty marshmallow” reference}. I’m not saying people aren’t capable of change, but once a caring soul, always a caring soul. What I did learn as the number of people that I cared about in my life grew, is that in order to love and care for those around me, I need time away to love me. Surrounded by the group, I allow myself to be swallowed up by the pursuit of their happiness ~individually and collectively ~ and I’m not complaining, I love every minute of it, and it is a much more fulfilling way of life when those around me are constantly recognizing and appreciating me for who I am. What I didn’t realize until I landed in Cartagena is how draining it can still be on me if I let it, and that my happiness {while still mainly derived from the joy of others} requires effort on my part to focus on me and recharge that spirit of giving. So, in order to love my Harts, I need time away to love me.

I’m not big on faith. I have a hard time accepting that there’s a grand master plan out there, or a celestial being is guiding my life, or that my mood is dependent on where Mars is in orbit {cough, control freak, cough}. That said, sometimes the Universe speaks so loudly, I can’t help but give it a little nod and an “ok, ok”. When planning my flight to Cartagena, the launching point for a weekend at Casa en el Agua, I decided to take a few days on the front end for myself ~ a funny notion, considering this was the consensus of at least half the Harts.

When we landed in Bogota, it was gloomy. I was sick. It was cold. Sure, cold is relative, but when my suitcase is loaded for endless summer, 50 degrees and rainy is a bit uncomfortable. It was fine, I told myself, only a few days until I was coastal bound. When making my usual initial grocery run [er, Rappi delivery], I hesitated on a few items I would normally get for the month {mainly the makings of a PBnJ}. I also heavily researched gyms, and hesitantly held off on signing for the month. When I packed for Cartagena, I WAY over packed, a severe deviation from my usual minimalist travel style. All of the above mentioned out of character moves made complete sense the moment we landed in Cartagena. I stepped off the plane, the Caribbean breeze hit my skin, and I knew I > was > home. Month 11 wasn’t meant for me to spend in the mountains of Bogota {which I’m sure is a lovely place rich in experiences}, but rather on the Caribbean coast of Colombia, gazing out at the sparkling waters and recharging my so{u}l<ar> batteries. That’s why I couldn’t bring myself to buy a jar of PB. I see you universe.

Cartagena is a beautiful mix of Miami and New Orleans. I had booked a swanky top floor condo in the Miami-esque area of Bocagrande, a peninsula of high rises that overlooked the bright blue waters of the Caribbean. A mere 5 minutes cab ride away is Old City, a walled maze of brightly colored buildings, energetic activity, and a distinct New Orleans vibe, if you replace the jazz with salsa. Less than 24 hours into my trip, I booked my AirBNB for another 10 days.

I didn’t spend the whole time alone. As I previously mentioned, there were other Harts with the same idea I had, so I hung at the pool with Duffs, had lunch dates with Mel, birthday dinners with the crew, a week of the Marky and Noir show featuring jungle treks, beaches, hammocks and _boulders_, and of course, the tramily gathering at Casa en el Agua. But when I was alone, I was never lonely. I slept. I ate clean. I drank lots of water. I took myself out to dinner. I ordered food in and binged on trash TV. I laid by the pool. Caught up with friends. I wrote. I read. I watched every sunset. I worked, long days, that I didn’t mind because I was slaying. I woke up every morning to the sound of the waves crashing and a view of the ocean that put a smile on my face. I started to feel rejuvenated and refreshed, felt my confidence return and my mind start to ease. I missed my Harts, but I knew I was exactly where I needed to be. Ok Universe, I get it.

As we begin our descent into San Andres, I have to regrettably say that the time allotted for this brain dump is up. I’m off to more Caribbean adventures and can’t be bothered divulging my inner workings anymore. Until next time Lovers…

Randomly Yours,

Sad you didn’t get any adventure updates? Guess what… pics are UTD

Imma Li-ma Heart Here…

Buenas tardes my Lovers of Random. I’m sitting in a cafe in the Poblado district of Medellin, about halfway month 10 of my adventure, so it seems to be perfect timing for a recap of my Peruvian adventures. My recent delays in updates stems from a variety of causes – juggling three gigs during tax season (a treacherous time of year that I continue to subject myself to), trekking into the jungle to find ancient ruins, planning retreats into the Colombian Caribbean, getting as much time in with my beloved Harts as possible – but also a lack of the fire that usually ignites me to spew my thought onto paper{screen}, through in inter webs and into your Loving minds.

So, what is a writer with writer’s block to do? I can tell you what doesn’t work. Designating time. I tried to set aside time to write. Maybe this is when I believed that I didn’t write because I was too busy. Fastest method of disproving that theory was “making” time to write. First, I would just stare at the blank screen. Then, I would put on some “background” noise – Netflix – not distracting at all {binge watches three seasons of Grey’s Anatomy}. Then came the excuses, and after a while this space, your Loving space, was a distant thought, only visited when Johnny Boy and I would discuss our lost passion.

What changed? If I had to pin it down, I would say it has to do with the release of my latest blog last night, and the humbling outpouring of response to it. I wanted to give people back home a picture of this life – I knew I would capture the sentiments of some Remotes, but I never expected the overwhelming positive feedback that I got from the community. That, paired with the two glasses of house white that I’ve imbibed for lunch {hey, its Friday, no judgements}, seems to have sprung me from my funk. So, while I’m feeling all the feels, let’s run down month 9 of this epic journey: Peru.

After a homey month in Córdoba, I was elated to once again be in a city by the sea. This wasn’t your typical beach town though. The sea sat below towering cliffs, gorgeous monstrosities that lent Lima a piece of its charm. Each morning we would wake to an intense fog that rolled in from the crashing waves, up over the cliffs, blanketing the city. We were told this wasn’t the norm, but at least for our 5 week stay, that was how we started our days. Two months of hearty, meaty, Argentinian cuisine made a city full of ceviche and fusion music to my stomach. Our first night in, we hit up Panchita where we shared a smattering of local delicacies (including the Pisco Sour) that I chased with the most decadent pork belly I’d ever had in my life – followed by Peruvian cervezas and shaking it to reggaton until the Dinster and I are almost sleeping on the dance floor.

photo cred Vueltica

Being seaside again means SURFING, and I’m elated to get back up on the board and try again, my first attempts in 6 months, since Lisbon. I’m quickly humbled by the first set of waves {fall, fall, ride for 4 seconds then fall}, quickly bored by the time between waves {2 good waves, 15 minutes of calm waters} and quickly over it when I get swallowed into a wave and my board crashes into my face. I surfaced from that last failure just praying my nose wasn’t gushing blood, sure I was about to suffer my second black eye of the trip, but once again my resilient blood vessels kept me intact, and the minor swelling I did incur went down rather quickly. I’m not usually one to quit on things, but the universe might be telling me it is time to hang up the surfboard.

My first full weekend in Peru started with a Saturday track. We loaded up early in the morning (after a rather late night) and headed to a local fishing village that backups up to a weekend beach getaway for the better off of Lima ~ a rather odd juxtaposition of cultures. The boats took us out into the choppy waters, around sea lion and penguin filled cliffs from one side to the other. Once docked in the swankier side, there was an attempt to fish (another to add to my list of things I’m not good at), some good tunes and some Peruvian history under the Saturday sun (or lack thereof).

That evening Marky and I were booked at Central. Fine dining was a big part of my “former” life, a part that I miss, so after hearing that the world renowned restaurant was a mere 10 minute walk from my Lima digs, I talked Marky into pulling something more decent than his usual t-shirts out of his closet and accompanying me to the 17 course adventure. I was so excited for it I even bought a hair straightener (recall, mine died with a electrifying POP in Thailand). In the interest of manageable posts, the meal itself will be detailed in a separate Love Letter. Dinner was followed by a walk along the cliffs where we jumped the fence and faced the edge of the several hundreds floors of height of these beauties ~ well, he did ~ I stayed about 5 feet back.

The next Saturday was another early morning load up (after an equally late Friday night) to head to Huacachina for the day. Long bus rides mean sleep, even if it is shorts naps interrupted frequently by the unpaved nature of Peruvian roads. We arrive in another tourist town and proceed to wait an annoyingly long time {sleep deprived and hungover} to load into a boat, where we’re whisked off to see {more} sea lions and penguins, but the penguins must have had the same Friday night I did, because they didn’t show. After the boat ride, we head off to a Pisco making palace lined with armed guards – only a bit strange, but they had my name nailed to a tree, so I let it go.

photo cred Dre by Day

Post Pisco tour we loaded up in massive dune buggies to go bashing through the desert. This adventure was reminiscent of Dubai, although this time we got try our skills at sandboarding. It was… challenging. The boards themselves were total crap, and even with the sad wax they provided us, getting them to actually slide down the sand was almost as impossibility. That didn’t stop us from trying ~and failing~ over and over again. Once we had exhausted our efforts, we loaded up to check out a desert oasis perfect for a photo shoot with my Princess, and then we were homeward bound (read:napping) again.

After some Sunday morning catch up, Johnny Boy, Marky, Eddie, Starbucks, the Dinster and I decided to explore Barranco, an edgier, more hip and up and coming neighborhood then our Miraflores area. Street art, murals, sculptures, bands in the streets, it was all very cool. We wandered aimlessly until we found our way to the cliffs, just in time for sunset. A sunset viewed from the cliffs of Lima is like no other – cotton candy skies float above crashing blue waters, a sea that sparkles for miles as the sun dips toward the horizon ~ ugh, I could stay there forever.

Our next week is pretty chill as I’m busting out work in anticipation of our Cusco trip. Bev arrives later that week, but travel has her bed bound for the first few days, so I stop by her hostel to take her the goods {crackers, ginger ale} and pick up my care package from home. An entire carry on suitcase of all my favorite USA goods – protein powder, O’Henry’s coffee, WHA swag, rye whiskey and of course, Sour Patch Kids. I’m a happy girl.

Returning from a 10 day Cusco trip including a 4 day trek to Machu Picchu requires some recovery, so my last week in Lima is mostly uneventful. There was our farewell, where I took a client call constantly interrupted by crashing waves and Pisco Sours, drinks on the rooftop of a fellow Hart’s building, and a last minute meal at Panchita {that pork belly tho}.

I know I’m missing some things. As I go back through my pictures {which become fewer and fewer each month}, there are drum tracks with musical chair contests, nights out dancing, nights in watching movies, the resurrection of my risotto skills {and the continuation of Marky’s empanadas}, dates with the girls, Race Across the Nation, sushi making class~ but darlings, I can’t be expected to fill you in on it all without writing a novel {foreshadowing?}, so I’ll leave you with the beautiful sunset that was our farewell in Lima. And don’t worry my Lovelies, much like me, this pic has no filter.

Until next time

Specifically Yours,