Welcome to On Sunday Morning. I’m the voice behind the blog and the person behind the camera. I’m an eager explorer, wannabe writer, capable chef, creative conversationalist, aging athlete, and proficient photographer. Queer in its original meaning is an apt adjective to describe me. I even have a day job working in healthcare. Social media is making us sad; let’s go for a walk somewhere together or trade tales around a campfire.
"I'm a big believer in winging it. I'm a big believer that you're never going to find perfect city travel experience or the perfect meal without a constant willingness to experience a bad one. Letting the happy accident happen is what a lot of vacation itineraries miss, I think, and I'm always trying to push people to allow those things to happen rather than stick to some rigid itinerary."
Once upon a time I had crazy dreams of being a cultural anthropologist or historical preservationist or something that would allow me to travel and be the #historynerd that I truly am. But then the reality of these jobs set in. 1. They are few and far between 2. Most require a masters to even get started, and even finding a program that’s available and affordable is not so easy. 3 most are funded on the whim of a government and therefore pay is low and sometimes not at all. In spite of all that, I chose to do my senior thesis/project on Mayan Art and Architecture which 1. required a thoroughly researched and well written thesis [in Spanish] and 2. on-site visits to some of the sites. This was back in the Dark Ages when the internet was a baby, digital camera quality was awful, and blogging was a journal and scrapbook [of which I have both]. So with my SLR… that’s right, there’s no D if front of that SLR and copious quantities of film that I carried in a separate bag and polite instruction to ‘inspeccione por mano, por favor’. Thankfully they did and my 50+ rolls of film, both black and white and color, in different ISOs, made it safely through airport security and allowed me to photograph all the little quirks of Mayan architecture to my little heart’s content.
A little history of Uxmal
Chichen Itza is the most well know of the ancient Mayan site, but Uxmal should give Chichen Itza a run for its money –at least in terms of its vastness. It’s not super well known and isn’t directly on a bus route the way Chichen Itza is, but it is relatively well preserved. If the access was easier, my guess is that it would be more popular than Chichen Itza.
Uxmal rising out of the jungle
The area around Uxmal was occupied as early as 800 BC, but the major building period took place when it was the capital of a Late Classic Mayan state around 850-925 AD. Somewhere around or after the year 1000, when Toltec invaders took over the Yucatán peninsula [establishing their capital at Chichen Itza], all major construction ceased at Uxmal. However, it continued to be occupied and participated in the political League of Mayapán. Uxmal later came under the control of the Xiú princes. The site was abandoned around 1450, shortly before the arrival of the Spanish conquistadors.
Mayan legend claims that a dwarf magician, born from a egg, built the city of Uxmal in a single night. In reality, archaeological excavations reveal that the Pyramid of the Magician itself was erected in a series of five successive builds upon existing, lesser pyramids. This was a common Mayan building practice, thought to capture and amplify the power of the underlying structure.
Kabah is situated slightly further along the road from Uxmal, and is famed for the Temple to Chaac, the Rain God of the Maya. The structure is filled with the masks of Chaac. Across the road, there is also a Maya Arch, part of a Maya Road system that used to span the entire Yucatan region.
Sayil has a beautiful multi level palace
At Labna, you can clearly see an example of a Maya Road system, as well as a well-preserved decorative Maya Arch. The palace is also very beautiful.
Labna Arch
OK enough with the technical stuff…
The area where Uxmal, Sayil, and Kabah is collectively known as the Ruta Puuc, and it is for lack of better terms, deserted. There are plenty of small temples to see as well as small villages [<50 inhabitants almost all of Mayan descent and who speak only Mayan and are ecstatic to talk to you, you know if you can actually communicate. In honesty, most do speak some Spanish, but if English is your only language, you may be out of luck. Luckily, everyone I met was really nice], and deserted roads almost covered in vegetation.
The main road down the Ruta Puuc. I saw very, very few cars and lots and lots of lush, green vegetation. It is easy to see how the area could be reclaimed by Mother Nature.
A small Mayan town more or less in the middle of nowhere in the Yucatán peninsula.
Poc chuc, a very traditional Mayan meal. Essentially it’s seasoned pork with peppers, onions, and lime juice, to be wrapped up in tortillas and eaten like tacos. Tomatoes, avocados, and cucumbers on the side.
Labna, and when you are the only one there, it’s both awesome, and a little bit creepy. Yes, I realize I could have been bitten by a snake or some wild animal, and no one would have ever seen or heard from me again.
Some beautiful ruins at Kabah.
Hundreds of masks representing the gods along the front wall, often with long, protruding noses.
If you look very closely, you can see all of the masks etched in this wall.
One last view of Kabah.
Salbutes. It’s a very common meal in the area, and while not my favorite, it is amazingly fresh, so I had this for a couple of my meals.
A South Carolinian stumbles into a quaint bar somewhere in Northern England.
Well, well, isn’t this the set-up for a hilarious punchline!
After braving my initial weeks in Stafford, I suddenly feel an overwhelming itch to flee the town. But as a foreigner, I’m as clueless as a kangaroo in a cricket match when it comes to picking a destination. And, naturally, when you find yourself in England, the ultimate oracle of knowledge is none other than a cozy bar.
For my grand escapade, I embarked on a weekend adventure to the delightful village of Betws-y-coed in North Wales. Population? A whopping 500 souls. Betws-y-coed is nestled right in the heart of Snowdonia, where Wales may not boast the tallest mountain peaks in the world, but boy, does it still offer a good ol’ challenge for hikers. So, off I went, marching uphill and testing the limits of my poor unsuspecting calf muscles.
It also has charming waterfalls.
But seriously, what brought me to Snowdonia National Park was the majestic Mount Snowdon, and boy, did it live up to the hype! You see, I like to consider myself a tough cookie when it comes to hiking. I daydream about conquering the Appalachian Trail or tackling epic treks like Aconcagua and Denali. But let’s face it, in reality, I’ve mostly done some overnight camping and the occasional day hike. Scaling peaks? Not exactly my expertise. However, back when I spent a whole summer in Great Britain, I was a fearless 19-year-old college athlete who believed she could conquer anything. And by anything, I mean attempting to climb mountains with zero preparation and only the bare minimum of supplies. Ah, the good old days!
Well, well, well!
Take a look at those fancy little squiggles! Can you believe that’s the hiking path?
Quite a sight, I must say. It’s a bit on the narrow side, and dare I say, a tad bit spooky the higher up you go. Little did I know that these peaks double as ski paths during the winter. Talk about a dual-purpose destination! Had I known what I was getting myself into, I might have been perfectly happy spending the entire day lounging by the lake. But alas, here I am, conquering the heights with squiggles and all. Life’s full of surprises, isn’t it?
Tips for Climbing Mount Snowdon
Entrance to the park is a whopping 0 pounds. Yep, it’s 100% free! Yep, you read that right. Zero dollars, nada, zip. But hold on, there’s a catch. It’ll cost you to park your car. Don’t sweat it though. Some fancy schmancy B&Bs offer shuttles to the park. So, if you can manage to snag one of those shuttles, guess what? The total cost is F-R-E-E. Who doesn’t love a sweet deal like that?
Now, let me drop some wisdom on you. When you venture up to the summit, make sure to bring lots and lots of layers. Trust me, you’ll thank me later. Even in late June, it can get quite chilly up there. Picture this: you, shivering on the summit, regretting your life choices because you only packed a light windbreaker, a long-sleeved shirt, and a baseball hat. Yeah, not so smart, huh? Lesson learned: pack a water-resistant parka, some gloves, and a hat to keep yourself snug as a bug.
Pro tip: Go for the climb on a clear day. Your photos will be breathtaking! I got lucky, purely by chance. Turns out, the weather at the bottom of a mountain is not exactly a prophecy for the weather at the top. Who would’ve thought, right? So, save yourself from misty camera shots and go for that clear sky.
Oh, and don’t forget your survival kit. Snacks, water, and for me, ibuprofen are absolutely crucial. I might have learned this the hard way, but hey, at least you can learn from my mistakes. I went up there with just 1 liter of water, a few power bars, and some fruits. And guess what? I had zero painkillers. Needless to say, I regretted it. After stumbling back to my room, I curled up into a pathetic little ball. But thanks to a couple of hot showers and a hefty dose of motrin and paracetamol, I could finally walk like a normal person again.
Last but not least, believe in yourself! Before I embarked on this adventure, I never doubted my abilities. Did I do any research beforehand? Nah, why bother? I just heard about it and thought, “Hey, that sounds pretty cool!” And let me tell you, it WAS cool. But I probably wouldn’t do it again.
This is the tallest peak in Wales. If someone had given me a heads-up that I’d be taking on a precarious ridge, I would have definitely thought twice before embarking on this crazy adventure. You see, graceful balance has never really been my thing. But hey, who needs to be nimble when you can stumble your way to victory, right? Climbing Snowdon is absolutely worth it. This is one of best adventures in Wales, and one that I’ll always remember.
Be prepared for anything when you are hiking in the Welsh mountains. The weather can change in an instant.
The view from the highest peak in Wales–will simply take your breath.
The first time I saw you I was intrigued. There was something there that was definitely missing from the long term relationship I had just ended. We met at the most common of places: my work, not a crowded bar, not at a grocery store, and certainly not anywhere romantic, like a white, sandy beach. You were tall(ish), with black wavy hair, green eyes, and an olive completion. I spoke first–the most banal of opening lines–, ‘Can I help you?’ and on the surface, his reply was just as common– ‘oh, yes ma’am you can’. But it was the way he said it, the glint in his eye, the accented English, that flirty smile. I knew I was in over my head.
Weeks later, after heavy flirting, I finally agreed to go out with him. The LTR had just ended, and you knew this and liked to tease me about this. ‘What would your boyfriend do if he knew you were out to dinner with me?’ you asked. ‘He’s not my boyfriend.’ I’d reply. “So it’s OK if I kiss you?” as you lean over to do just that. ‘Oh that’s definitely OK’ I replied as I kissed you back. In that moment, I fall in lust. It’s everything I’d hoped it might be and more, and it was so incredibly different than before.
Two days later, we were back together for another hot, sultry summer night. We drove down to the river, and opened the moon roof of the car. I crawl on top of you and we kiss, and occasionally, I stick my head out of the moon roof for a literal breath of fresh air.
“Come home with me” you implore. “I can’t do that. I have work in the morning” I try to explain, but you interrupt. “No, no, my darling Micaela. Come home with me to Cartago.” “To Costa Rica?” I ask. “Yes, mi amor. To Costa Rica. You will love it there.”
Suddenly, I can’t breathe. It’s as if all the air is sucked out of me. Despite the 80 degree temperature and near 100% humidity, I am shivering. Even the heady combination of tequila, salt, and sweat can’t shake this chill. Although the full moon is nearly as bright as the sun, everything in my world has gone dark. All I can hear is the sound of my own heartbeat echoing in my ears.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. You were a breath of fresh air. You came around just in time to save me from a catastrophe. You were supposed to be a short term fling. A summer romance. And now. Now you are asking me to go to Costa Rica with you.
In that moment, I hate you. You know my weakness for far-flung places. Places I’ve never been. You know how I hate monotony and routine. You know that I’ll say yes to Costa Rica even if I’m not exactly saying yes to you. You are a beautiful man. So sexy. So sensual. So what I needed in the moment we met. But I cannot go to Costa Rica with you. I. Can. Not. Leave. The. Country. Again. I haven’t even been back that long.
Three weeks later I quit my job and I arrived in Cartago. I call you, and you seemed surprised to hear from me. A little distracted, perhaps, but you agree to come pick me up. I see it in your face: despite your words, you are not happy to see me. “What’s wrong?” I ask, as I reach over to kiss you. You turn your head and my kiss lands on your cheek. “I did not expect that you would come. Micaela, you said you could not come. You have work. You said you had no vacation available. I have many things going on. I have work…”
“But I did. I came to see you. I want to meet your family and I want to see where this goes.”
“But Micaela, where will you stay?”
“With you, of course”, but I knew as soon as the words we coming out of my mouth that it was not to be.
“Let me make a some calls. You stay here. Micaela, mi amor.” The way the said my name was almost a threat.
A relationship ending just as it’s beginning is never quite what one imagines it will be. One imagines it will be painful, and it is, but it isn’t painful all at once. There is the surface cracking… where all the hopes and dreams one may have had disappear shattering the illusion of perfection, and then there’s the deeper cracks. The things that pop up after the initial injury. The ones no one else can see, like the fracture of a bone. It hurts much worse than imaginable.
Cartago, Costa Rica
The next two days are torturous as we spend time together, each knowing that this–all of this– was a mistake. You show me the volcanoes, and around San Jose.
The volcanoes are beautiful, just like the beginning of the relationship, but there’s hardness here too. A stumble, a fall; it could be the end. And I’m acutely aware that I am in a remote place with a man that seemingly has much to hide. I don’t want to be here anymore. Not with him. I don’t want to look into the green-eyed abyss any more. I used to think that I could stare into those eyes for an eternity. Now those green eyes stare back at me with an emotion I can’t quite place. Not hatred. But certainly not the lust from the summer.
After coming back from the volcanoes, I say “I don’t want to be here anymore. Not with you.” Even though my heart is breaking, I refuse to cry. His jaw tenses, and he put his hand on top of mine.
“Micaela.” Just the sound of my name in his accented voice almost causes the dam to break. “Micaela, I did not want to hurt you.”
I pull away from his hands, look into those green eyes, now heavy with regret, turn around and walk into the city. I do not look back.
As I am walking away, I imagine that you feel sadness. Sadness of what was never meant to be. Sadness for taking a chance. And a sadness for keeping secrets. Whatever those might have been.
I head to the bus station seeking the first bus to the coast. Caribbean? Pacific? It doesn’t matter. I just want–no need– to be surrounded by salt water. I get seated on the bus, my backpack on my lap, and the tears start to fall. Slowly at first, almost as if they are waiting their turn, and then, much more rapidly.
I opt for the Caribbean side of Costa Rica and end up in the sleepy town of Puerto Viejo Limon. It is a hippy, dippy kinda of place where some people come to visit and never leave. It had a small guest house, a bar, beaches as far as the eye can see, and some very interesting neighbors.
Puerto Viejo Limon
The first two days I ate nothing but fresh fish, rice, and a variety of fresh fruit, and drank nothing but passion fruit and vodka. I tried not to think of him. I tried not to remember the way his green eyes sparkled in the morning. How those green eyes faded to black when he saw me at the airport in San Jose.
I tried not to remember how incredibly sexy he was, shirtless, brown skin glistening in the moonlight, down by the river on those hot summer nights. I tried not to remember that I was also shirtless. I tried not to remember how he took ice cubes and melted them on my skin. I tried not to remember how the coldness of the ice melting and the heat of his breath drove me mad with desire. I tried not to remember how time stopped when our lips met.
But remember I did. All these moments and so many more. No amount of passion fruit and vodka could make me forget. But I wanted to forget. I wanted to forget so badly, and so I looked at the bartender and said ‘Uno mas, por favor.’
Somewhere around day 5 I notice you staring at me. You are definitely not Costa Rican or even Caribbean. I look at you and you stare back, our eyes locking.
“I’ve been watching you” you tell me. Your English is good. Definitely not North American, but it doesn’t sound quite British either. I tend to notice things like that.
“Oh? Seen anything interesting?” I reply.
“You’ve been drinking entirely too much vodka.”
“Obviously you haven’t been watching me too closely or you’d know I haven’t been drinking enough vodka because I still remember.
“What do you remember?” you ask.
“Everything. Everything I want to forget.”
“Walk with me” you implore.
“I can’t go with you. I know nothing about you. You could be a serial killer for all I know,” I reply.
“I’m not” you say. I notice that I’ve hurt you. The expression on your face is that of a small child who has just has his favorite toy taken away. “Walk with me.”
I get up. Slowly, partly due to the vodka, and partly because I’m just now noticing how attractive you are.
“But I still don’t know anything about you…” I say as we begin our walk along the white sandy beach. “Why are you in Costa Rica?” I ask, then ponder as to why that’s my first question as opposed to something more useful like ‘what is your name?’
To be honest, I don’t even remember your reply… something about Costa Rica and biodiversity and research. I realize I am drunk, and wonder how long the copious quantity of vodka I’ve consumed will stay down. I also wonder if you will kiss me. And if drunk vomiting is the worst turn-off imaginable.
“I need to sit down” I say, probably slurring my works. I notice you steering me towards another beach-side bar. There seems to be one about every 500 meters or so. “No… no more vodka” I muster. I noticed you talking to the bartender and you come back with water. Nice cold water.
“Why are you drinking yourself into oblivion?
“Because I’m trying to forget”
“Forget what?” you ask.
“The reason I’m in Costa Rica. Everything about Costa Rica. Just everything.” I look at him with sadness. There are no more tears. The sea has swallowed them whole, but there is still sadness inside.
At the random beach-side bar, where the not quite English, yet definitely not North American cute ecological researcher gave me water, I notice a dart board. Suddenly I’m feeling better. “Wanna play?” I ask. He’s not so sure about letting a drunk person throw sharp, pointy objects. “Where are you from, anyway? I ask.
“Wales” he replies “It’s near…”. I cut him off and asked “beth yw dy enw?” His jaw dropped to the floor and said ‘You speak Welsh? Where are YOU from? I just smiled and said ‘I asked you a question?
“My name is Matthew. I grew up in Ceredigion.” “I’ve been there” I reply. You look at me, curious. Curious as to whether I am telling the truth or just trying to impress you.”It’s near Pembrokeshire” I reply. I can tell you are impressed. In that moment, I forget about Costa Rica, the reason I came, and everything that has happened in the last 10 days. I look into your eyes, green with a hint of gray, and kiss you. And finally, I forget.
Two years later on a cold dreary November day, I hear the version of my name that only he used… Micaela.
I turn around and look for you. Two years have aged you a lot. I stare into the familiar green eyes and feel nothing. I always wondered what it would be like if I saw you again, and now I know. There’s no bitterness. No hatred. No feelings of lust. Just you, smiling, searching for something in my expression. You says hello, and I reply in kind. How about a drink, you ask. No thank you, I say for the first time. It was good seeing you. And it was.
I will forever be grateful that he came into my life when he did. Sometimes, even now after all these years, I wonder what he’s doing, and where he is. In my mind, the entire country of Costa Rica will forever be linked to heartbreak, a green-eyed lover, vodka, and the one who made everything be OK.
I once read that it would take ten years to view every item in the Vatican Museums. Even if I had 10 years to spare, I would not choose to spend them exploring ever inch of an art museum. So one day at the Vatican Museum it is. It was plenty. I probably spent more time exploring the architecture of St. Peter’s than the treasure troves of the Vatican Art Museum.
Vatican’s sphere within a sphere….
Catholic rules and things
I visited in early March. High temperatures reached a balmy 55F. Showing too much skin wasn’t a huge concern for me. However, keep this in mind if you decide to visit in the summer, this IS a religious site. Even if you aren’t Catholic or Christian, show respect. Additionally, the Vatican has a pretty strict dress cod. They also have the staff to enforce said rules in nearly every language under the sun. So no hats, shorts, bare knees, bare shoulders, ect.
So here’s the thing; I am Catholic, [not a shining example] but I am the only member of my family that is. I had a decidedly non-traditional childhood. The one thing my dad insisted on was that I ‘go to church’. So I picked the most exotic church I could find– Holy Spirit Catholic Church. It was [and still is] a tiny parish. I did not know a single soul that was Catholic. My dad refused to go in with me. And the parish had no idea what to do with a school aged child with no parents. But I regularly attended mass. While I didn’t have ‘parental permission’ to take the sacraments, I soldiered on. And while at my decidedly non-Catholic Christian College, I gave a big, double fingered fuck-you to my dad, and went and got baptized, confirmed, and confessed all at once. And just like that, I was an official Catholic.
So yeah…Vatican City, home to about 800 people including— yes, you guessed it—ole’ Benedict himself. As luck would have it, I was staying right outside the Vatican. Some people say stay in Central Rome; it’s where all the action is. To those people, I say staying near the Vatican is a much better idea. Less people, better gelato, and inn keepers who will get you tickets to the Wednesday papal address.
See Benedict giving me the stink eye…it’s as if he knows I haven’t been to confession lately.I bet these guys 1. hate dressing up like a medieval court jester. 2. constantly having cameras stuck in their face. Not only are these Swiss guard single, Catholic, Swiss army men, they also carry swords and SIGs. Both of which I am supremely jealous of .
Anyway, back to Vatican art…
There’s a statue of some Greeks.
At first glance there is an angry energy to the statue. The father and his two sons writhe and twist in battle with two snakes. The agonized expression on the father’s face as he fights to save his children adds drama and pain to the scultpuree. And the quality of the work is breath-taking. The sculptor depicts the muscles and sinews of each of the three figures as they struggle with the serpents. I vaguely remember seeing a slide of this during art history. The Struggle. The Emotions. The Strength. And since I DO love history, I did a little digging on the history of this piece.
And what a history!
This statue linked to the founding of Rome, and to the renowned Latin writer Pliny the Elder. Who’s he? I’m glad you ask. Pliny was an amazing writer who died trying to escape the eruption of Mt Vesuvius that destroyed Pompeii and Herculaneum. And that’s not all. The statue’s story also intertwines with Michealangelo, the birth of the Vatican Museum, Raphaeal, William Blake, and even Emperor Napoleon! Impressive, no? Next to naked David in Florence, it was one of my favorite scupltures.
Look at the expression on his face.
The Sistine Chapel
The amazing Sistine Chapel ceiling almost didn’t get painted. Michelangelo wanted to be seen as a sculptor [he did create David after all] and not a painter. He didn’t want to accept the commission for doing it, but Pope Julius II wasn’t an easy man to refuse. Julius was nothing, if not impatient. During one confrontation Michelangelo, Julius threatened to have him thrown off his scaffolding if he didn’t complete the work more quickly. On one occasion, the story goes, Julius asked when it would be finished. “When I can,” said Michelangelo, whereupon His Holiness began beating him with a stick. [Ahhhh, Catholicism…]
At *only* 498 years old, the ceiling is by far not the oldest attraction in Rome, but it may be the most famous. It took me two days to paint 144 sq ft of ceiling in one color. It took Michelangelo four years to paint 12,000 sq ft of ceiling in several scenes and colors. He wins.
Let’s face it, other than knowing that I was looking at the Sistine Chapel ceiling, I didn’t have a clue as to what I was looking at. An art snob, I am not. But that staircase. That thing was awesome.
Intentional or not, the staircase leading to [and from] the Vatican museums is an amazing work of art and engineering.
As my travels are winding down and I’m looking for a more permanent existence, I have started doing a little reflection on my trip. 16 months away is a long time to be away. Was it life changing? Not in any dramatic way [although I did make one big decision as a result of my volunteer experiences]. Did I make a difference in some one else’s life? Maybe on some small level for at least the time I was there. I can’t say what happened after I left. Did I meet my goals? Yes. My goals of the trip was to have fun, engage in meaningful volunteer experiences, and meet new people. I am a little bit torn.
In one way, I feel like I could go on traveling forever. There is a great big world out there, and this experience has taught me that I have only seen a tiny part of it. In another way, I am ready to start down the path of my new career. I am a little bit scared. It will be a long road. I don’t know when I will be able to travel again, especially like this. I feel conflicted about going “home.” Do I even have a home to go to? I have friends that I want to be near. I can’t wait to see the children in my life, and how much they have changed.
Wandering without being lost–Laguna Miscanti, Atacama Desert, Chile 2010
There are things I have missed–such as having a regular study spot, sleeping in my own bed, taking a bath in my own bathtub–hot water and all, and of course my kitties. I have people who I want to see although I have learned I can make friends with nearly anyone. So in one aspect I am ready to get home, tackle what I need to tackle in order to meet my goals. Another part of me says traveling is so easy–much more so than real life, so I should continue doing that. I think my next international trip will be to some part of Eastern Europe. I am not sure where or when, but until then I have a little more that half of the United States to explore [and now I have new friends in previously untraveled parts of the country].
Thinking about what to do
I know people are going to ask…
Since I know the questions will be coming, I spent a few minutes in thought about the best and worst parts of my trip. Here goes:
Andean Condor in flight
Highlights: unexpected almost free trip to the Galápagos Islands, Iguazu Falls, seeing Aconcagua, being at the end of the world Low lights: catching malaria during my first month of my trip. I didn’t show symptoms for about 6-8 weeks though. Or at least that’s the best guess based on when I was entering and exiting the Amazon.
Blue footed Booby
Thing I wish I hadn’t lost: my head lamp. I actually know where I left it; I was just too far gone before I realized it. I have been in the dark ever since then. Thing I wish I had lost: I never used my rain poncho. I gave it to some kids and they had a blast playing with it. Most useful items: Zune with speakers, Swiss army knife, sheet, travel pillow Least useful items: camera accessories (I used them because I had them, but I would have been fine without them), umbrella Best new food: Manjarblanco with apples…. mmmmmm Worst new food: cuy–too small, too little meat, too much work, and too greasy
Santa Catalina Monastery
Funniest moment: “beerbombs”–how my Brazilian friend Henrique pronounced/understood the explanation of “beer-pong” Scariest moment: There were two: 1. Being pounded into the rocks like a rag doll with a surf board tied to my feet, not being able to catch my breath, or regain my balance, and looking back and seeing nothing more than a wall of water coming my way…really thought I might die that way. 2. Being kidnapped by rouge taxi drivers crossing the border from Peru to Ecuador who tried to extort money from me. Favorite place visited: Angel Falls, so remote, so beautiful and Usuhaia… for the same reasons as Angel Falls
Lake Titicaca
Least favourite place visited: the midad del mundo monument… so overrated Favorite new activity: para sailing… its like floating in the air Least favourite new activity: Surfing, I could never master it, but the one or two times I did,, it was amazing Favourite countries: Argentina and Colombia Least favourite countries: Paraguay and Ecuador Favourite cities: Mendoza, AR, and Santa Marta, CO Least favourite cities: Santiago, Chile and Rio de Janeiro, BR (just too big)
I don’t know if I ever mentioned that time I went to the Galapaos Islands. I think going to the Galapagos Islands are one of those things that are on nearly everyone’s [ok maybe not everyone, but every traveler, animal lover, and science nerd I know] bucket list. My own adventure to the islands involved a bit of serendipity and a lot of meclizine.
In September 2010, I was working/volunteering for an ecological research/preservation company. The original plans were for me to split time between the Mindo Cloud Forest, the Lalo Loor Dry Forest, and the Ecuadorian Amazon Rainforest. I did all that and more. But the highlight of my conservation internship was when I was asked to spend 10 days on a research boat on the Galapagos Islands tagging turtles.
Galapagos Tortise
These guys are huge and can live up to 175 years in captivity or 100 years in the wild
and checking on these guys
don’t forget about these fellas
and revel in the cuteness of these lovable lions
My home for the 10 days was spent between living on a boat [not ideal for someone who gets motion sickness as easy as I do while on a boat] and spending time at the Charles Darwin Research Center. There were not a whole lot of tourists on the islands. I don’t know if it was due to it being the low season [September] or the fact that back in 2010 there weren’t a whole of of tour groups coming to the island.
Edit note: Before he died in 2012, Lonesome George was the center’s most famous resident. He got his nickname because he was the last surviving member of his species. Scientists tried mating George with several different ladies who were genetically close to George but nothing happened. He died without having reproduced and with his death, his species became extinct. I feel a little bad for him, living his last years in comfort but without the friendship of someone of his own kind. George was also known for being a little bit of a recluse. Each time I saw him, he was hiding behind something or behind the trees, but always munching on grass.
The giant tortoises like George can weigh up to 800 pounds fully grown.
Hard to believe that these little fellas will still be with us in 2180 and will be 800 pounds. I’d be lucky to survive to 2080.
One of the cool things about being a ‘researcher’ is getting to go where is usually off limits to tourists. And when you are in places not often frequented by human, you catch animals, or in this case turtles, having sex. I’ve never thought about tortoises having sex before, but I sure didn’t imagine them doing it ‘doggy-style’.
Tortoise style
It must have been giant tortoise valentine’s day or something. I found another couple doing the same thing.
All that tortoise sex results in lots of babies, and it was because of the babies that I was there. See that yellow writing on the shells? That’s my handiwork… tagging baby land tortoises for future scientific research.
These guys have such personality. And they are only found on the Galapagos Islands. A lot of the creatures on the islands are like that. Being located over 600 miles from mainland Ecuador equals not a lot of genetic diversity. And that is a good thing especially from an evolutionary point-of-view.
When I was a little kid, I used to love to play make believe, and play in the creek behind my house. I’m sure that I wasn’t the only kid in the world who liked to play make-believe or play in creeks, but being as how I was an only child who lived out in the country far away from other kids, playing make-believe was a great source of entertainment for me. I loved to pretend that I was either invisible sea monster or a witch or better yet, an invisible sea monster-witch. Skye would have been a great place to grow up.
Swimming with fairies
Just imagine being an invisible fairy with eternal life and the power to enthrall people.. it’d make sense to live here, bewitching visitors to take off all their clothes [because now I’m a bawdy wench]. The spell of the Fairy Pools is that they look as if they must be warm…
I mean with that kind of vivid blue water it must be like the Caribbean Sea, but having come straight down from the Black Cuillins, they are anything but warm. The saying goes: temperatures in Scotland are either cold, bastard cold, or damn freezing cold. And checking in at a balmy 43F, I say these swimming holes are bastard cold.
Perhaps it is the fairy mischief that makes me want to jump into this amzing clear blue water. Water that is face-smackingly, lung-contractingly cold… wet-suit be damned… I jump in… ohmygod thisissofuckingcold… I clamber back out to catch my breath. Fairy magic… I haul my carcass out of the swimming hole, warm up, and dive in again and again. This is river swimming at its most magical.
Isle of Skye
The Isle of Skye is the largest of the Hebridean islands. It is easy to navigate, easily reached from the mainlaind village of Kyleakin, and has a huge variety of landscapes packed into a relatively small space. Scottish Gaelic is the predominate language of this part of the country , and in this area of around 10,000 people spread out over the islands, is raw wilderness. Each sight is slightly more awe inspiring than the previous.
Leaving Skye, I passed probably the most famous castle in Scotland. In my less than humble opinion, Eilean Donan Castle is the most beautiful castle in Scotland. It’s even movie famous. Chances are you recognize it from a film or two. Eilean Donan starred in Highlander, served as Sean Connery’s home in Entrapment, and was the Scottish Headquarters of MI6 in The World Is Not Enough. Anything related to the world’s most famous spy has my stamp of approval.
This is a conversation that occurred in a Colombia bar in August, 2010.
Colombia is a beautiful country. The Andes Mountains, the Amazon jungle, the Cocora valley are all amazing. In addition to the natural beauty, Colombia has beautiful people. Some of them are naturally beautiful and some of them–well, they have a little help. The plastic surgeons in Colombia do a fantastic job. Medellin is my third stop in Colombia. It is kind of like Goldilocks and the 3 bears. The weather in Bogota was too cold. The weather in Leticia was too hot, but the weather in Medellin is just right. The days are warm and the nights are cool. It feels like fall [or spring].
Last night, I went out with some English/Australian guys that were staying in the same hostels [Funny story: We had actually met on the cable car that goes to the top of the city.] So at some point during the evening after an indeterminate number of drinks, in an unidentified bar, a conversation much like the following took place:
Guy 1: “Are those real?” (referring to boobs, but not mine of course) Me: “Nope. No way”. Guy 2: “Yeah. I reckon. You can tell the difference.” Guy 1: “Aha ha. I agree. Definite difference in shape.” Me: “Yeah. But there’s no way that they could be real. Guy 2: Compare hers (Colombian chic) to hers (mine). Definite extra perkiness. No offense” (referring to Colombian chic) Guy 1: “I’m still not convinced. They’re too good to be real.” Me: “Why don’t you just ask her?” Guy 1: “Huh?” Guy 2: “What?” Me: “Just ask her” Guy 1: “That would be funny.” Me: “Yeah. Go on. Or I will.” Guy 2: “I don’t know. That’s pretty random. Imagine if someone came up to you and…” Me: “C’mon’. It’s the only way to settle it. Fuck it. I’ll do it…”
Me and two guys in a bar
So somewhere, in the night, after an indeterminate number of drinks plus a few more, in the same unidentified bar, another conversation, much like the following, took place:
Guy 1: “What the fuck did you touch them for?” Me: “She said I could.” Guy 1: “And so you just grabbed them?” Me: “Yep.” Guy 2: “And?” Me: “Real.” Guy 1: “Definitely? Did she say so?” Me: “Yep.” Guy 2: “What did she say exactly?” Me: “They’re real. Good hmm? Guy 2: “In English?” Me: “In English.” Guy 2: “Fuck off”
Me : You know, that’s the first time I’ve ever touched a pair of boobs other than my own…
Me and two guys in a bar
These are definitely fake
Conversations similar to the one above are, probably, not uncommon in Medellin. It is, apparently, the plastic surgery capital of the world in a country that is probably the most plastic surgerized in the world. Or at least close to. Such a place has a significant reputation to live up to. However, Medellin does it with aplomb, cosmetic surgical intervention striking you anywhere you turn. Seriously, fake boobs are everywhere. They are more normal than natural boobs.
If you don’t have them, you’re the odd one out. Old woman have them. Girls far younger than the legal drinking age have them. Yes, I even saw a cat that had them (this may or may not be true… this may or not have occurred at the bar). I read somewhere, but I now don’t recall where, that the prevalence of silicon in Medellin is largely due to Medellin’s former status as the center of the world cocaine trade. Don’t ask me why that means fake boobs all over the place – I guess drug lords liked them big. In any event, the reality remains, and it is one scary, bouncy and far too perky reality.
The same can be said for the fellas
Fernando Botero
The theory attributing Medellin’s curvaceousness to the drug lords is a popular one. However, my own personal theory is that the female of residents of Medellin are paying homage to the great Colombian artist, Fernando Botero.
Medellin born and Medellin raised, Botero’s sculptures dominate the public artistic landscape of central Medellin, his ludicrously proportioned, voluptuous and humorous bronze figures in the Plaza Botero in particular a highlight. If you are not familiar with Botero’s work, I can probably sum it up for you in a single word – fat. Not ‘ph’ fat. Just plain old ‘fat’. Like everything being seen through one of those crazy mirrors that makes everything look fat. Not ‘ph’ fat. Just plain old lazy bastard fat. Having viewed a reasonably large collection of his work in Bogota, it’s clear to me that his work is at its most impressive in sculpture – the central focus of his work, the roundedness aka ‘fat’, most effective and striking when experienced in three dimensions. Fat. Not ‘ph’ fat. Just good old ‘if it sits on you it’s going to hurt’ fat.
Ok, I’ll be the first to admit it. I was not enthusiastic when my flight to Maracaibo was canceled and Bogotá became my first South American stop. My original plan was to skipped the Colombian capital altogether and I was not at all excited to visit Bogotá. In hindsight, Bogotá most definitely was a better [and probably safer] introduction to South America than Maracaibo.
I read so many horror stories of mugging. I hadn’t found any articles in which people were raving about the city. It seemed like most people were rushing through Bogotá, hitting up the most important museums, using it as a transit stop and moving on quickly to the next place. Whatever that place may be.
Part of the reason I chose South America was that, in theory, I speak Spanish fluently. Or at least I did a few years ago. I was feeling a little isolated since I am trying to not speak English at all, but today that changed. Not that I magically became fluent overnight, but it is (slowly) coming back to me.
For example, today I took the Transmileno to the other side of Bogotá for no reason than to see another part of the city (It rained while I was riding the bus instead of walking the streets. I call that a win-win) .
Bogota’s buses going through the rain and again in the sun
What is this fruit deliciousness
On the return trip, I had conversation with an elderly gentleman who sat next to me. It was nothing serious, weather, I’m new in town, ect, but it was a chance to practice Spanish with someone who didn’t speak crazy fast. I’m feeling a little more confident. After successfully ordering lunch [3 courses $5500 COP ~$3.25], I stopped in the frutería. Fruiteria = a store only for fruit… these are some of the things I love about being away–I’d never get that in the USA.
I only wanted to get a few snacks for the road, but I was talked into a fruit salad. Nothing like I’ve ever had. It included mango, papaya, pear, banana, and a couple other fruits I have never seen before. Before leaving, I ask the fruit man Que es esto? esto y esto, and very patiently he shows me all the fruits in the store, both in the natural state and the cut up state. So while my fruit salad was only slightly less than lunch, the education about fruit was worth the $2.75 price tag.
Fruit salad covered in cheese
Bogotá is a city of more than 8 million people. And as much as I am not a big-city person, I still find big cities fascinating. Just don’t expect me to move to one. I arrived at El Dorado airport at 2a, a full one day + 18 hours after my intended arrival time. I just wanted to get into a bed as quickly as possible. So I took a taxi, which I hate, to my hostel in Candelaria, where I promptly crashed for a few hours.
The next morning, I started to explore the city, and I noticed two things right away: the altitude [O.M.G breathing is so hard] and the thick layer of gray clouds that hover over the city on most days. The altitude – Bogotá sits at 8,675 feet– caused me to huff and puff my way up and down Candelaria’s steep streets like a chain-smoking asthmatic. I never got used to it during my two weeks in the city. Bogotá is not exactly warm either. I can see why it’s off the radar with most travelers. Especially travelers coming from sea level, tropical temperatures, and perfect weather.
I joined a few of the free walking tours during my stay. They are excellent for getting one’s bearings straight in a new city, finding out a few more details about places to hit up, and addressing safety concerns. They are also good for traveling by yourself but having safety in numbers.
Since my return from Italy, my travel and exploration game has been rather lackluster. I’ve had a few trips along the Carolina Coast and ventured up to the mountains a few times, but let’s be honest, nothing that could be labeled as epic. Oh, and to add some chaos to the mix, I decided to dive back into the academic abyss and pursue a degree in microbiology. As if that wasn’t enough, I even joined the fencing team, attempting to keep up with those energetic 18-20 year olds…well, most of the time. Fast forward to 2008, I found myself back in South Carolina, where I unintentionally stumbled into a romantic entanglement with a guy from my old workplace. You know, just your average, run-of-the-mill routine stuff. But deep down, something felt off. Could it be that I never received the contentment gene that makes people blissfully happy with a “normal” life? As my thirties and beyond loom ahead, it seems I have no real desire to settle down. Not with the frantic pursuit of a medical career, not with the town I’m dwelling in, and if I’m being brutally honest, not even with the guy I’ve somehow landed myself into. What on earth is wrong with me? Ugh, the mysteries of life…
I must confess, I went a bit bonkers with the hair dye and my once-purple locks transformed into a fabulous shade of blue! As if that wasn’t enough, the scorching sun decided to join the party and made it even more vibrant. Who needs a rainbow when my hair can brighten up the whole town?
Blogging beginnings
In my very fist post–way back in 2005, I yapped about how life was getting as stale as a week-old baguette. [ETA: I must confess, that post has taken its final bow and has been deleted. But let’s not dwell on the past, shall we? Because right now, I’m about to spill the beans on that very topic, just above this sentence]. When I first dipped my toes into the mysterious world of blogging in 2005, it was my funky way of figuring out and spilling the tea on life and death, love and loss, endings and beginnings, and all the curveballs that life kept hurling at my face. Back then, I had just flung myself into the real world after college [round one], relocated to a shiny new city, and started my first gig in the healthcare field, where I was moonlighting as a superhero, saving tiny humans, and battling monstrous illnesses. I coped with all these seismic shifts in my life by spilling my guts onto the pages. And going on wild adventures. Now, don’t get me wrong, I adore my job, but let’s be real, if I were to keep at it for the next 35 years, I’d probably go banana-pants bonkers. So here I am, conducting a full-blown examination of my life’s fancy blueprint. And guess what? Brace yourself, folks, because I’m mapping out my most epic escapade to date.
Me–hanging out in the breakroom at work circa 2010? Maybe I’m even planning a trip right there
The ‘other news’–the one where I may be crazy
While opening up the blog to the public is one attempt to stave off the potential mid-life crisis, some may say I’m already in full-blown crisis mode. So, earlier this week, I happened to stumble upon a hidden treasure while surfing the vast ocean called the internet. What, you may ask? an amazing airline deal! Call me impulsive, but without even giving it a second thought, I plunged headfirst into the grand adventure. Lo and behold, I managed to snag a one-way ticket from Charlotte to Caracas, all for the unbelievable price of $99!
Now, let’s address the obvious questions. Have I ever been to Venezuela before? Absolutely not! Did I even have a burning desire to visit Venezuela? Not really. But hey, I studied their history in college and my high school Spanish teacher happened to hail from that very land. So, it’s fair to say that I’m at least equipped with some basic Spanish skills. Plus, I’ve always dreamt of witnessing the majestic Angel Falls with my own eyes. This seems like the perfect opportunity!
Now, you might be wondering: What else will I do in Venezuela? Well, that’s a mystery waiting to be unraveled. Where will I stay? Your guess is as good as mine. And the million-dollar question: Will I be kidnapped by narco-terrorists? Let’s hope not! As for the most pressing question of all—when will I come back? Frankly speaking, I haven’t got a clue. Perhaps I’ll end up hating the place and return within a week. Or maybe, just maybe, I’ll fall in love with Venezuela and concoct a plan to stay there forever. Only time will tell!
Not Angel Falls
But follow along and see how this little Venezuela adventure plays out..
