Day 3: San Gil & Rafting

I made it to San Gil later than I had bargained for — 2 pm. This was due to a series of unfortunate events: first I checked out without getting my passport. Before I even realized that though I was waiting for my inDriver to pick me up. He was running late and had to make a full block. I had been trying to get to the terminal by 8. I couldn’t get there until 8:20. Then I found that the next bus that was leaving for San Gil wasn’t leaving till 9:40. This actually was a rather fortunate event — a blessing in disguise — because it was around this time that I realized I was missing something very essential. My passport. Shit.

I had to find WiFi in order to contact the hotel. Breathe, I told myself. Don’t panic, there’s time.

You see as I mentioned when I got to the second hotel it was 5 am, and I was exhausted. They told me they needed my passport to check me in so I handed it over. Then I never got it back.

It’s a good thing I got my new SIM card and a better thing that the terminal in Bucaramanga has public WiFi. I contacted the hotel and they quickly got a delivery guy to bring me my passport. Without the SIM card, I would’ve missed the guy completely as I had no idea where he was. Mark the first of many times I ran around like a chicken with my head cut off looking around and asking directions all over the place.

6 mil later, I had my passport back. Then it was time to board the bus. There was tons of traffic between Bucaramanga and San Gil, which turned a one hour trip to a four hour trip. Again, not ideal as I was going to take a bus to explore Curiti or originally go to Cañón Chicamocha to trek the same day.

Once I got to San Gil, having slept most of the way, I woke up groggy and spaced out. The driver helped me with my bag but we both forgot one key thing: the package my friend Liz entrusted me with. I found a taxi and literally sat down before realizing what I was missing. Like a crazy woman, I tell the taxista I’m missing something important and dart out of the taxi. I run across the terminal, praying that the bus hasn’t left yet. I nearly got onto the wrong Reina bus that was leaving, but once I realized it was a driver I didn’t recognize, I apologized and rushed to the other Reina bus — and somehow, it was my bus. Everyone stared at me as I gasped for air and triumphantly reached up and grabbed the rectangular package. Feeling everyone starring at me, I explained I’d almost left it, but “todo bien, menos mal.” One step closer to following through with my promise to deliver it safely to Nibiru.

On to Trip Monkey! A cheap taxi ride, just 4800 and not so far off the path. Trip Monkey is ranked number 1 among hostels in San Gil, and it was easy to see why. I was greeted immediately by Yosh (or Josh?) who quickly sorted me out using a map to show me what my options were during my 2 day (1 night) stay. After showing me the king sized (yes “matrimonial”) bunkbed I’d be sleeping in and giving me the grand tour, I took a moment to sort out the information I was given.

I was able to do so much during my short time:

-Parque Gallineral: a natural park right down the road from the hostel, 6k to enter, a peaceful and lovely place to enjoy the natural riches of San Gil on the banks of the Fonce River.

-rafting down this same river at 4 pm for 60.000 cop.

-exploring the 7 pozos of Pescaderito near the town of Curití

-Heading to Páramo in the afternoon to rest before a dive into the Cueva del Indio the next day

And I left having the opportunity of making some nice friends from Bogota in the process! That’s been the coolest part of this trip, the different contacts I’ve been able to make and the stimulating conversations I’ve shared along the way.

I struck up conversation with the group that was going rafting at the same time as me. In reality, their plans had been made and they had been staying at Trip Monkey for several days already. They accepted me into their group immediately and showed interest in getting to know me. I guess we foreigners living in Valledupar are some kind of enigmas. It has given plenty to talk about, that’s for sure.

When we got to the raft launch point, I got placed with a separate, smaller group. They were a family, made up of two small children, two women, a younger guy, and me. And the guide who instructed us and kept us from flipping the boat. The guy was a saint for sure, because somehow nobody fell out of the boat in spite of all the crying and rapids we ran into at the beginning. I love the water and all, but even I have to admit I was a little nervous at first. I didn’t mind getting wet, but falling into the water and possibly hitting my head on a rock? Yeah, I think in worst case scenarios, what can I say?

But as soon I was at the front of the boat rowing away (following the instructions shouted by our guide: Adelante! – Forward – Alto! – Stop – Atras – Back – who had taught us the proper way to hold the oar and paddle ahead of time), I felt like the hero of an action-adventure movie. I was Pocahontas mentally singing Just Around the Riverbend at full belt. I was surrounded by beauty and lush greenery, birds, trees, ancient rocks, and cold rushing waters sometimes replaced by seductively subtle whirlpools. It was magical. I would do it a million times over — I would even go for a more challenging route like a 4-5. Just like that, fear was not a problem.

The other half of the family/friend group was on a smaller raft. Unlike us, they had trouble distributing their weight. They must have fallen out or tipped their boat over at least 4 or 5 times. I got to save one of them as she was pulled toward our boat by the current. Easier said than done — pulling her into the boat was a joint effort. Nobody was hurt, and she was able to jump back into her raft a bit later.

After our hour-long adventure, we made it to the side of the river closer to San Gil. The guide had a go-pro and was kind enough to send me all of the videos and pictures taken of the tour. While we dried off, I spoke some more with my new travel buddies from the hostel. They shared some lemon cake with me, and the strong, gorgeous woman that drove us to and from the rafting area convinced me to buy a bag of artisanal coffee grown in the area. For my parents, I decided, I wouldn’t say no.

Once we were back at the hostel, we sat out on the back patio and enjoyed Burger Night — $16000 for a freshly grilled burger, nachos, guac, and a beer. I had 3 beers while chatting with the group, made up of a few couples and friends from work and childhood. We played our first game of Rummi, one that involves quite a bit of math and patterns. Somehow (beginner’s luck, no doubt) I managed to win. We laughed and enjoyed ourselves until around 11 when we had finished the game and decided to get some rest for the new adventures waiting for us on the following day.

Traveling has a way of stripping all of your mundane worries and fears down and putting them in perspective. I used to be so guarded with new people. But sometimes it just takes sharing — information, interests, a game — in order to create a vibe. I started the day tired and stressed out. I ended it relaxed and rejuvenated, exhausted yet perfectly content. I have reminded myself daily during this trip, whether what is happening is good or bad: it’s the journey. It’s part of the story. Each day and moment and challenge is what we make of it.

A marathon, not a sprint

I got into Bucaramanga at 5 am. Even though I slept on the bus and even had a row of two seats to myself in the front to lay across and try to become comfortable, I still felt exhausted. (I still feel exhausted)

All I could think about was the hotel room waiting for me. I knew it was too early to check in — I booked the room for Monday night. I didn’t care. I couldn’t think.

I listened to Kafka on the Shore on the bus ride until I fell asleep 5 chapters in and had to replace it with relaxing music to avoid missing anything and having to relisten to the same chapters. Kafka is the self-given pseudonym of the protagonist, a 15 year old male runaway. Like most Murakami stories I’ve encountered, his solitude is interrupted by a chance (what they call “karmic”) meeting with a girl called Sakura. They had each fallen asleep on the bus around the time that I did the same. They woke up just as sore and exhausted as I did. Somehow that seems appropriate.

I got to my hotel quickly enough, 8 pesos, and I was promptly informed that there was nowhere for me to sleep until checkin at 3 pm. Let’s just say, I’m less than impressed with Ayenda hotels. Still, the receptionist, Maria Fernanda, was accommodating and helped me get a room in another hotel. Just $25 mil pesos more for a private room upgraded with AC. The only downside is its proximity to reception — right by a noisy downtown street with noisy workmen and guests. But beggars can’t be choosers. I was just happy to have somewhere to sleep. I underestimated how tired I was.

I slept from 6 am until noon. I had three missions today: get a SIM card, print, sign, and email a contract, and find a place to eat and work at. I somehow accomplished it all. I’m sitting outside of Crepes & Waffles right now, getting ready to give an English class. I’ve been here since 4 pm. It’s located in Parque Pio, a very central location that’s had people in and out since I’ve been here.

Many recommended I do different things today. I liked the idea, but my exhaustion overrode everything. Tomorrow I’ll be staying at a hostel in San Gil. I’ll go to Canyon Chicamocha and hike. Adventure is around the corner. But today was evidence that my body needed rest above and beyond all else.

Travel like you’re running a marathon, not a sprint. That’s something life has taught me. Listen to your body. You don’t want to be miserable rushing around doing things just because you feel that’s what you’re supposed to do.

Semana Santa diaries: Anxiety

Somehow even with 3 days of preparation, I still have this gnawing fear of forgetting something. Leaving something undone. Packing too much or too little. Miscalculating.

This is travel anxiety. An old friend I know too well. Almost like an ex I can’t seem to shake off. We just keep on getting back together, no matter how toxic our relationship is clear to be.

Well, it’s my first time solo traveling in a year and a half. I experience this anxiety pretty much everytime I do. I’m always on edge. But I’ve come to see it as a sort of excitement and expectation of the adventure to come. Before the plunge into the unknown.

I have a love-hate relationship with risk-taking. The last time I visited one of the towns on my ever-growing list of destinations, I tried paragliding for the first time. That was in October of 2019. I was somewhere between fear, excitement, and denial. I have this little fear of falling from high places. Not a general fear of heights, but a phobia caused by the vulnerability of looking down and feeling you could die. That’s vertigo, right? It was a thrill. I’m not planning on doing it again though, and definitely not while solo traveling.

This semana Santa, I’m focusing on places I’ve heard about often but still haven’t seen. Tonight I’m heading to Bucaramanga. My bus leaves at 9 and will get there around…6? 5? Something like that. Depends on the number of stops. It goes fast at night.

I’ll be exploring some places that I’ve already been to, like San Gil, with many I new towns like Páramo and Villa de Leyva.

I have all of my destinations mapped out pretty much, but with my personal brand of ADHD, trying to plan each day’s activities is beyond me. It’s so overwhelming my jaw clenched just thinking about it. I have an idea of what each spot has to offer, but I’ve decided to take things slow and not stress over doing every single activity. I just want to soak each place in, come away with a feel of what I liked and what I found jarring or strange. That’s part of the fun of immersive travel.

And I have not 1 but 2 weeks to do this thanks to Covid. We’ll be virtual for 2 whole extra weeks. So I’ll be working while traveling, a foreign concept but a welcomed challenge. That means for next week, I’m looking for private rooms at the best price I can find.

I spent the day sussing through different locations and properties on booking, deciding which would give me the most bang for my buck. I almost wanted to say “f it” and go extravagant and expensive, but then I remembered that 2 weeks of travel require a bargain hunting mentality to avoid financial stress later. So I used what I could find about different destinations and the best deals in the nicest hostels and hotels I could find to guide me on this journey. I’m going to start cheap and slowly work my way up, as will be required while I’m teaching virtually.

I’m also going to look like the biggest tourist ever as I’m going to be carrying not one but TWO backpacks — my big mochilero bag and my laptop backpack. I think it’ll be more comfortable than having a purse or shoulder bag in the long run. Plus I want to keep my laptop on me at all times when I’m not checked in somewhere.

So that’s the plan. In an hour and a half I’ll be at the terminal. I cleaned my apartment (3 loads of laundry — and I still have dirty clothes — dishes washed, trash taken out, floors swept), I’ve rested and showered to mentally and physically prepare for the bus ride. Now I’m contemplating popping an Antianxiety pill or two and meditating.

I always anticipate the adventure. But that doesn’t mean I stop grappling with the negative and positive sides of anxiety. And that’s okay. Confronting the things that give us anxiety and finding the good in them is how we grow.

Migracampi: Ecotourism in Pueblo Bello

Finally! Some inspiration to publish travel content, brought to you by my first paseo (short/roadtrip) of 2021 in Colombia!

Let’s start with the facts:

Town: Pueblo Bello, Cesar, Colombia
Lodging: Migracampi (just say “donde John” to the driver — they’ll know where to drop you off)
Distance: 53 km, about an hour from Valledupar (the capital of Cesar)
Transportation: bus or Coomaple Colectivo ($15.000/~$5 USD per person)
Style: Camping/Glamping
Prices: 35-40.000 pesos (~12-14 dollars)/night
Breakfast, coffee, and tea Included
Food and drink available to buy on site (including beer! and other more “exotic” local spirits)
Host: John Alvarez (@migracampi)

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The long and short of it – follow me on Instagram for more!

Now that I’ve gotten the key info out of the way, let me narrate my incredible experience with Migracampi.

This was my second time staying at the backyard campsite. It had been just over a year ago when I first decided to explore. My third time going to Pueblo Bello.

Pueblo Bello, although a small town, is something of a cultural crossroads between the indigenous cultures under the “Arhuaco” cultural umbrella that live in and around the Sierra Nevada and the post-colonial mainstream Colombian culture. And then people like me, foreigners from all over the world that have been drawn to these little-spoken-of gems hidden among a kaleidoscope of more “developed” tourist attractions in the country.

The creator of Migra, John, is acutely aware of the cultural and ecological significance of the space he inhabits. He paves the way as an entrepreneur who has managed to grow his space greatly within the course of a single year. In fact, he never seems to tire of his various projects to expand on the sustainable mission of his lodging and tour ecotourism services.

Let me start from the beginning. To get to Pueblo Bello from Valledupar, my friend and coworker Carin and I only had to take a taxi to downtown Valledupar. Near an outdoor shopping center called La Galeria, in an alley-like street bursting with venders of fruits, vegetables, clothing, and even school supplies, you can find several transportation offices.

The one we were looking for was easy to spot — Coomaple. We walked in, gave our names, and were quickly instructed to load a white truck by the driver. We paid the driver the 15.000 peso fare once we got to Pueblo Bello — after picking up two and a half more passengers (including their adorable white puppy, Aaron).

The ride up through the mountains leading to the Sierra Nevada is twisted and gave me a bit of motion sickness on the way up, but “luckily,” the truck got a flat tire. While the driver used rocks in the place of a car jack, I sat on the curb of the road, trying to remind myself that things like this happen in Colombia all the time. A flat tire on a sloped incline should be the least of my concerns!

The greenery and blooming flowers welcome you into Pueblo Bello. Unlike in Valledupar, it has been raining regularly. The air is crisp and fresh. The sound of birds fills your ears from all sides. For those that appreciate it, like my friend Jose, it is the perfect place for bird-watching and spotting varieties of birds unique to the region.

We were greeted by John upon arrival. I felt like I was being welcomed home by an old friend — secret handshake and all. A native of Pueblo Bello, John has a sort of energy that makes you feel immediately relaxed and open. He’s just a genuine person, on top of being an earnest host, and a fantastic trail/tour guide.

He showed us our lodging, which exceeded our expectations – even mine having stayed at Migra before. When I visited Migra for the first time a year ago, I had opted for the simple tent experience. The tents are set up by John and include a sleeping pad, bedding, and a flashlight. They are comfy and minimalist. However, this time I had opted to try the “Glamping” experience.

My gorgeous, inviting bed for the weekend. ~Glamping~

Products of his ingenious crafting abilities, John offers two mini homes, cabins made from recycled materials. The windows shine green as the light hits repurposed beer bottles which have been set in the place of glass windows to allow for air to constantly circulate within the cabin. The two cabins sit on different sides of the enclosed camping space. One is made for an individual and the other can fit two people in a queen-sized bed. The decorations are impeccable, reflecting the same attention to detail that you can observe and appreciate around the entire space.

Every personal touch makes sense while creating an inviting, familiar atmosphere. In the middle of camp, there is a public sink with a mirror and handsoap, additional to the two bathrooms with sinks, showers, and mirrors of their own. There is a garden with chairs set up perfectly to enjoy the sunset and sounds of nature or even a smoke, if that’s your fancy. John even dabbles in beekeeping and has his own bee house of friendly bees on the grounds. The signature bar to the left of the entrance continues to be the hub where music plays, and food and drink are offered at low prices that belie their quality.

Even a simple sandwich displays John’s individual style and attention to detail.

With so much to offer, I had not imagined how much more I would find this time around, only a year later. As I noted, John had not taken a day off. Now the Migra campgrounds include a treehouse deck (which will eventually be converted into a cabin) with hammocks hanging in a chill space underneath. This area is cleverly furnished with plants and books, just like the other spaces of Migracampi. We rested and ate in the shade, waiting for our other friends to arrive before going on a bike ride around Pueblo Bello.

John helps you get information and reserve any activities you might want to do in Pueblo Bello. After a quick phone call, he found out that the locals that rent out bikes only had 3 available that day. There were 5 of us. John rented out two of his own bikes so that we could all take off together without a problem.

Biking in Pueblo Bello is just 5.000 pesos an hour. We spent three hours — 2 of which were spent at the river drinking and enjoying the water — exploring Pueblo Bello from top to bottom — literally. The majority of the ride through the town is downhill when heading towards the river and hiking towards the waterfall. The way back posed a problem for me since I had opted for two beers and we had stopped at an ice cream shop before going down to the river. I quickly got winded trying to fight my way up the rather steep hills. Then I started to feel dizzy and nauseous.

My friends helped me to get a bottle of water and a automoto taxi back, just as it started to rain really hard. I was more than relieved to unload the bike and leave it in the front so that I could lay down in a hammock and catch my breath. Once again, the host was graceful enough to return the bike for me without any hesitation.

Another thing to keep in mind about Pueblo Bello is that it rains pretty frequently, depending on the time of year, sometimes suddenly and heavily, especially during the rainy season. Rainy season starts around the end of February, so we are finally seeing an end to the months of drought typical of the dry season.

My poor friends had to book it to get back to the house where we rented the bikes in the rain. They returned their bikes, and we all convened for dinner and drinks on the campground. The rain fell hard, harder than I had seen since I left Louisiana, and lightning streaked the sky in a soothing yet intimidating way. There was no danger; this is typical of the rainy season.

I stayed up until the sun had completely disappeared, but once I ate, with the rain still coming down, I slid into my glamping cabin, slipped under the fluffy quilt and went straight to sleep, even as some of my friends stayed up to chat and drink Churro, a distilled ancestral liquor found in this region of Colombia.

I’ll end this with the peaceful memory of that cool night. The bedspread was just thick enough to keep me cozy and comfortable despite the low temperatures. The sound of birds is a constant symphony at Migracampi, one that lulled me to sleep and then woke me up early the next morning.

To be continued…. (leave some applause if you liked this review/check out my instagram!)

Day 2: The hike to La Tranquilidad and the Deluge that came after.

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Opportunities for Growth

During quarantine last year, all of the time I had to myself gave me lots of opportunities to digest thoughts that had not yet crystalized for me before. About myself, my goals, and most importantly habits and how integral they are to being successful and staying motivated.

So often we put ourselves in this catch-22 scenario where we can only do what we want if we sacrifice our own mental health in some way. We can never win. If we do what we want, we have no time. If we don’t, we feel like we aren’t doing enough.

Wait, was I just projecting my own problems with prioritizing? I guess so. I confronted these feelings a lot during my time in quarantine, needless to say.

We want to create, but struggle to do so. We want to exercise, but fail to find motivation. Wanting to achieve our goals, but — for some reason or another — we still procrastinate on them. We fail to fall in love with the process.

We have to start. That’s the first step. Then from there we have to keep going. That’s been harder than starting, some days. So I started doing a little research on how these new habits I want to form can be done in the most logical and passive way possible. Passive, in the sense that it doesn’t have to be this aggressive struggle to do as much as possible every day. I’d been living by that rule, going against the grain and pushing myself past the bounds of self-care: all or nothing. And yes, I felt drained, and somewhat unsatisfied as a result. Because it never seemed to be enough.

Growing up, my dad would always be watching Seinfeld. I was a big fan, even if a lot of the more sophisticated jokes went over my head. It was always a groundbreaking show to me, in a way, because I felt it had a different vibe than other sitcoms that were big at the time. It felt somehow more authentic.

Never would I have guessed that there was more than just comedic genius behind its creator’s success.

“After a few days you’ll have a chain. Just keep at it and the chain will grow longer every day. You’ll like seeing that chain, especially when you get a few weeks under your belt. Your only job is to not break the chain.”

I found this wonderful article (which I now cannot refind) all about the Seinfeld strategy, described above by my boy Jerry Seinfeld. He pointed out that while most people get demotivated and off–track after a bad performance, a bad workout, or simply a bad day at work, top performers settle right back into their pattern the next day. They reset and keep their long-term goals in mind. They embrace the new obstacles as opportunities for growth.

The Seinfeld Strategy works because it helps to take the focus off of each individual performance and puts the emphasis on the process instead. So instead of obsessing with where we want to be on a daily basis, we focus on the small steps it takes to reaching our destination.

So step one is to choose a task that is simple enough to be sustainable. At the same time, you have to make sure that your actions are meaningful enough to matter. And that your strategies are varied enough to keep you engaged and passionate.

Last month, I also learned about S.M.A.R.T. goals from the Habits for Happiness podcast I discovered for free with my audible subscription. I started 2021 listening to this podcast, and I would highly recommend following this strategy developed by George T. Doran way back in 1981 to help with setting clear objectives in any aspect of life.

What makes them SMART? You have to ask yourself about any given goal you choose to set: Is it Specific? Is it Measurable? Is it Achievable/Realistic? Is it Relevant to your overall vision? And finally, what is your Timeframe for reaching your goal? You can add on points for exciting and recorded, among other qualifiers, as you see fit.

Although it has been quoted to death, as Greg Reid asserted, writing down a goal, breaking it down into steps, and following through with those steps, with the consistency of the Seinfeld method can make all the difference.

But most importantly, the motivation must be authentic. I realized how hard it was to cultivate motivation when I was actively and frequently struggling with depression. That is true for any dopamine and vitamin D deprived individual such as myself. It comes down to chemical composition. How can we level out and correct the release and maintenance of certain chemicals in the body? I realized that addressing this issue had to be part of my plan. Every plan needs room for maintenance and repair, in the event of a setback or *ahem* breakdown. And once I was in the states, finding solutions to those on-going chemical factors became a priority.

When it comes to treatment of a disorder or illness, not breaking the chain becomes even more important. One day without taking your medicine or exercising or meditating can cause a dramatic swing in your mood and perception of your situation, as well as your motivation and momentum. It’s not often a permanent state or condition, but it can have damaging effects on your mental wellness and overall assessment of your own progress.

So, as I coped with the new balance adjustments on my chemicals, while evacuating, having no place to call home, virtual classes, familial tension… I fell back even harder on my routine. I focused on the little things that I could do for a short period of time each day. I made sure to zero in on the most pleasurable aspects of those steps in my plan.

I didn’t stop studying French. I’ve almost cleared the lessons on Duolingo and reached a B1 level in about a year of study after knowing next to nothing and not being able to fully immerse myself in real life use of the language. I’ve gradually been building up my content on social media. I’m trying to apply my SMART goals and the Seinfeld method to my writing as well — and I think it’s getting more consistent. I still get blocked looking through all of my drafts, but as long as I am still writing a few lines a day, publishing once I’m satisfied at least a few times a month, then I feel I am reaching my goal.

Another routine that made a huge difference during quarantine was establishing morning rituals. I try to use my phone as a tool to wake me up mentally via podcasts (like Up Next by NPR to get my daily overview of the news), the Daily Stoic, and YouTube videos by channels that post Alan Watts videos and self-help/introspective tips like Better Ideas and Awaken Insight to name a few. Getting your mind right and finding your best headspace in the morning is the best way to wipe the slate of the previous day’s struggles and stumbling blocks and start with a fresh outlook.

I have continued to make this a part of my routine, as well as filling my body with light, healthy food like fruits, grains, and oatmeal to help prevent my typical digestive problems. Health can never take a backburner in our daily life — if nothing else, I think 2020 taught a lot of us that.

Additionally, I applied the Seinfeld method to doing yoga daily in the mornings during my 2 and a half months in lockdown. I reminded myself that it doesn’t matter how much exercise I do, the intensity nor the duration, so long as I don’t stop doing it. Previously, I felt frustrated seeing the results of my hard work in the gym fade after I became too busy to go regularly. What’s the point if the results wouldn’t stick and I’d repeatedly have to start over every time I went?

That’s where not breaking the chain is truly genius. Even if your growth is not linear or exponential, it does pay off in the long run. I haven’t done yoga daily since my time in the States, but since returning to the gym – and on days when I have a lot of tension, pain, and stress – I use the techniques I learned during those 60 whole days straight that I practiced yoga at least once a day.

It worked! What I learned stuck. And not because I never took time off or never had slow days or short sessions. On the hard days, I took breaks and shortcuts, but I didn’t stop.

In 2021, I continue to think proactively, to enjoy rest and productivity, socializing and self-care in equal measure. The balance has gotten easier, even though it truly is an uphill battle. It’s never as easy as it looks or seems. That’s important to keep in mind. Comparing ourselves to others is the least productive thing we can do when looking to grow and live life to the fullest.

I’ve got to shoutout both my brothers who are a strong example to me of this persistent approach to goals. Jace has gone from knowing next to nothing about music theory and never seriously learning to play an instrument to being able to sing while playing and write songs on the guitar in under a year. How badass is that? As someone who was often a defeatist with new hobbies, I was inspired by how he refused to take a day off from playing or get frustrated, even when he was in exhausting and stressful situations or when progress seemed slow.

My older brother Seth is an extremely hardworking family man. In spite of two hurricanes, having to move suddenly, and all the other crazy consequences of last year, he continues to be a high performer in everything he does. From sports to management and sales, he’s a true inspiration to me as he has become so successful in his work and family life, alike. I’m lucky I’ve had some strong examples in my personal life that have helped me to reach this proactive point in my journey.

I write through the exhaustion of a new hybrid teaching schedule. I’m continuing to learn more about video and photo-editing, teaching and what the hell’s going on in the world — because I’ll need that if I want to get where I am heading. I have projects that I haven’t finished, but at least I have something.

And while progress is not linear, the important thing is to keep going.

I love sunrises and dusk pictures, and how could I not include some of my first edits from my New Years trip and a lovely shot of my own backyard (not in that order).

My WordPress Anniversary and 2021: Rocking Beginnings

How this year began (ish) (or how last year ended?) – Roadtrip Recap of Colorado and New Mexico to come!

It’s been 4 years since I made this blog. Four years living in Colombia. A metamorphosis and exploration of the world and of self. That’s what this project has been for me. So much has changed and developed in my life. One thing’s for certain: we never stop growing, changing, and discovering new things about ourselves and the world.

And guess what? I have over 50 followers now!

Wow, that’s like, 50 more than I ever expected, honestly. Especially when I struggle to stay writing motivated even though I have so many things I want to write about. Thank you to everyone that actually reads what I write! Bigger thank you for the feedback I’ve received. That feedback, beyond the likes, really does help push me to sort out the thoughts in my head and keep writing.

I think with everything going on, we’ve come to realize that all anyone ever wants is a connection. We use social media to gain that connection with the world, and while many detractors of social media say it is making us more shallow and disconnected, I happen to belong to the camp that believes that virtual connection is the way of the future. It is the complement of empathy that allows us to see through the eyes of others. And it’s free (virtually) to (almost) everyone! The sad part of course is that it still isn’t globally accessible; we still suffer a crisis of global inequality. But we continue to march toward a future where all of those bridges have been extended across the world, across the lines of social class, race, and nationality, and we will truly be one world.

This is what I believe. And this is what I enjoy discussing with my students. Now more than ever, these children living privileged lives in Colombia have the opportunity to truly consider themselves Global Citizens. That excites me and motivates me to really educate them about history, social movements, things that are occurring outside of their geopolitical bubbles.

That’s been the objective of this bimester. January has been interesting, because my vision and the message I want my students to take away has grown with every lesson. Students teach us — teachers must be receptive to that. I’ve discovered from teaching in quarantine that while modeling and setting rubrics and expectations is important, giving students and their support systems the freedom to convey what they have learned in their own way is infinitely more important. Learning occurs when seeds are planted in the deepest parts of our brains, but those seeds can only be cultivated by our care and interest.

Long story short, if I dictated every creative choice for my students, I would be alienating so many of my students to the point of turning them off to the subject and creating a mental block. When kids aren’t given agency, they don’t cultivate their knowledge. It becomes a chore. Something to be memorized, regurgitated, and then forgotten.

If they don’t remember any of the facts by heart, I won’t care, so long as curiosity is ignited in their hearts to continue learning and exploring more.

That’s become my mission, as an educator. As a content creator (is that what this is?). I want to inspire curiosity. I want to empower others to look for their own answers and express them in their own way. Creativity should be nourished and encouraged, and I believe from that curiosity and creativity, arrives a deeper level of learning.

Looking back, my writing ended up being more significant than I gave myself credit for. I want that to continue. I want to continue commenting on my experiences, traveling and exploring, but also the daily regular parts of life that can lead to the insights I have uncovered while sharing my writing and thoughts on this platform.

2021 did not start with fireworks for me. It started in under a star-specked black sky in the freezing cold New Mexico desert. I came into this year resolving to hold onto peace amid the chaos. And boy, has this been a chaotic year already. January itself seems like this saga of sudden explosions, like a chaotic pendulum swinging from one extreme to the other while hitting things in its path.

I started this year out sick. I thought it was because of the exposure to temperatures I wasn’t used to, the long hours driving, during my road trip. I could tell it was viral when I found myself aching and laying in bed, too exhausted to walk from one end of the house to another. That only lasted a few days. I also had headaches, an on-and-off sore throat, and other sinus issues. So I got tested before coming back to Colombia. It was a swab test by the Civic Center, free and efficient, but the results were not taken quickly.

I took the test right before coming back to Colombia. Literally the day before my flight. My mom was not happy. I was embarrassed, I admit, and I made sure to frequently sanitize my hands, keep my mask on, speak to no one, and avoid breathing on anyone.

Things continued to go less-than-swimmingly when I got to Bogota and found out the SIM card in my phone had deactivated and my work visa had expired because I had been out of the country for over 6 months. Surprise! On top of that, I would need to quarantine. All I wanted to do was get to my airbnb, but my host wasn’t prepared for my arrival. When I got to the apartment building, I got to scare an old lady working the desk. It was already pretty late once I got through a mile-long customs line moving at a snail’s pace. Welcome back, right?

The rockiness continued the next day. I continued to feel tired and sluggish, and taking advantage of how close the apartment was to the airport, I chose to leave about an hour before my flight. I didn’t get the email to check in. Lovely. So when I got there, I had to fumble through my phone (which is falling apart) to find my flight confirmation number next to my name.

All of this took me just long enough to miss my flight by five minutes. Not miss my flight, really, but the gate had closed and they wouldn’t be able to load my bag. So I paid a $40 penalty to get on the next flight to Valledupar.

After making it back to this land of unending summer, I got to my apartment only to find the internet had not been restored. There was no gas. Things were falling apart — including the AC. I was feeling overwhelmed. This feeling lingered during the following week when I got my positive COVID test and immediately started taking all of my medicine.

It took some pestering and some persistence, but now I finally have things sorted with my apartment. The AC has been fixed, the gas and internet were turned back on, and now I’m back to virtual classes. And that’s been a relief.

But February is coming, and with that comes new challenges. We’re going to start our hybrid program. Classes will only last until 12 pm, but I will be working for that entire time, either in the classroom or virtually or supervision duty. Let’s hope I can maintain my flow and my vision.

Around the time President Biden finally was sworn in, things began to normalize themselves in my own life. At the beginning of the month, the upheaval I predicted unfortunately struck. We’ve all been through so much in such a short time, witnessing this National conflict and tension as the far-right rejects the system of democracy they feel betrayed by. So much is at stake. But this new presidency has involved actions that show an acknowledgement of reality and necessity. The necessity of unity. And that has renewed my hope. Let’s hope things continue on this track. And that political gridlock doesn’t frustrate this hope.

This hasn’t been a normal first month of the year. But it has been better than some. I’ve confronted these situations head-on, both personal and professional. (Did I mention I’ve got a new job in the works?) I put my plans into action, just as I taught my students the importance of not just setting goals but making SMART goals — that is Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevant, and Time-conscience.

Our collective goal? To learn something new everyday. To not be afraid to make mistakes. To try new things and explore new hobbies. My students really are an inspiration to me. They’re fantastic, hard-working, and compassionate. I couldn’t have been happier to talk about New Years resolutions with a group of kids who were otherwise unfamiliar with the concept. That helped me iron out my own.

The beginning may be rocky, but the end results will be worth it. Get those vision boards ready! Here’s to rocking 2021.

What are your goals for this year? How will you make them happen? Or better yet, how will you maintain a growth mindset that will allow you to be flexible with your timetables assuming that you run into setbacks along the way? I’d love to read what you guys have thought about 2021 so far and where you hope it will go!

A lovely mural outside of the Village Coffee Shop in Boulder (highly recommend it).

Teaching with Compassion

Being a mentor is not always easy. As an English teacher of students across a broad spectrum of ages, levels, and interests, I have been tested consistently and found that being patient is sometimes easier said than done. I would like to share some of the keys that I’ve uncovered during my last 6+ years of teaching and tutoring to maintaining my composure and making authentic connections with my students (that I hope could last for a lifetime).

Compassion. If we are compassionate with others, we become more compassionate with ourselves — and vice versa. Throughout my life, I have struggled to find and cultivate self-compassion. This difficulty comes from being a perfectionist, a busy-body of sorts, always wanting things to go smoothly. Always wanting to be right. Always wanting to feel competent.

As my good friend and mentor Uncle Iroh once said, “Pride is not the opposite of shame, but its source.” When you are compassionate with yourself, you forgive your own mistakes and short-comings. You are more patient and ultimately, more humble. And if we cultivate a strong compassion with ourselves, it is not so hard to transfer that compassion to our relationships with others.

Empathy. Being able to see things not only from your own perspective, but contradicting perspectives, and recognizing which of those perspectives applies to the person you are interacting with. As a teacher, empathy cannot be stressed enough. Like humility, if we lack empathy, we easily can become a caricature, the angry, exacting professor sneering down at their students without a drop of remorse or interest in the perspective of those they are teaching.

Empathy can only be built from humility, by understanding that we all make mistakes. There was a time when we were learning. Ideally, we are still learning everyday. And how do we like it when encountering someone supposed to be mentoring us who talks down to us and makes us feel dumb every time we have a question or make a mistake?

We don’t. We shut down. Shame leads to anxiety which can ultimately affect the functioning of our brains and memories. This is why it is so hard for someone that has been abused as a child to recall information and be present in other realms of their lives.

Be an example. As a teacher, we are in a special position. We are learning, just as our students are learning. However, our students oftentimes act as a mirror, holding up our own best and worst traits. (This is also true for parenting, but since I’m not a parent, I realize I can’t really speak to that relationship directly)

When you want to teach something, you must talk the talk and walk the walk.

I know I’m not saying anything that hasn’t been said before, but I’d like to use my own successes–and failures–to illustrate what I mean.

When I started out teaching fulltime in Colombia, I felt an immense pressure to establish myself as an authority figure in the classroom. As a younger woman (I was 24 when I started out), many assumed that I must be trampled by my students.

All my life, I’ve had a terribly great tendency of taking these sorts of assumptions personally and using my disgust at them to fuel my success. You know, to be the best to prove others wrong. Spite, however, led to feelings of anger, defensiveness, and isolation…and that’s what happened to my professional relationships at the outset of this journey. I never wanted to be wrong or be confronted about being wrong. I didn’t like for my authority to be questioned. Because I focused more on what I didn’t want to be instead of the sort of teacher I would admire and choose to be.

Laugh at yourself. The more I let go and got taken off guard, the more I learned that the best solution to any tension or mistake is to laugh at oneself. If a student does or says something shocking (and trust me, they will) sometimes instead of letting yourself fall into the role of vindictive hell-bent teacher to prove a point — imagine how you would handle this situation if you were an actor or person you admired or felt inspired by (in my case, Uncle Iroh obviously ranks high on my personal list). Putting yourself into another role and viewing things as humorously and impersonally as possible keeps the classroom fun and also hides the buttons that your less-than-nice students might try to prod at any given opportunity. Also, it helps maintain that whole humility thing.

Don’t jump to conclusions. Assumptions are the enemy in any human interaction. Students will often speak impulsively — and parents as well — especially when they are under stress. The best thing is to shut up and listen. Don’t assume you know what’s going to come out of their mouth. I’ve realized I prevent fires that could have easily sparked out of a simple misunderstanding. As teachers, we have to be slow to process and react to things. In other words, get all of the information and then respond.

Take responsibility. This goes back to being a good example to your students. When you take responsibility without assigning blame or excusing your own mistakes, your students pick up on how genuine you are and how strong your character is. Hypocrisy is a double-edged sword — it hurts the bearer and those in its path. Being a hypocritical teacher is insidiously easy, but it will not gain the respect of your students, and worse, their behavior will reflect your worst moments.

When I was in the hot-headed phase of hating my job and holding onto my power and control by the skin of my teeth, I let my emotions get the better of me. At times, I would preach about treating each other with respect and following the rules while simultaneously humiliating a student in the middle of class to teach a lesson. Little by little, bullying became a problem among that group of students. And some part of me, unfortunately, realized with great dread that it was my fault. I had taught the wrong lessons, and it was my actions, not my words which the students had picked up on.

Luckily, each year and group of students, while bringing its own challenges, offers new solutions and opportunities for growth and self-examination.

During the past year, I have been working with students to promote a growth mindset. The moment I realized that I myself had lacked this important principle and quality was not a blow to my ego — it was a wake-up call. I often felt as though in order to be an authority figure, I had to be direct and firm, brooking no nonsense. But acting that way was as rigid as outlawing fun in the classroom — and I’m a fun person. But under pressure, I felt less and less like myself and more and more fragile. And I didn’t forgive myself enough to realize how much I was growing and changing everyday.

Change doesn’t happen the way lightning strikes — it’s gradual like the tide, ebbing and flowing, sometimes pleasant and rewarding, sometimes painful and unsettling. But it happens, whether we are aware of it or not.

While teaching online, I’ve gotten the chance to step away and reevaluate Ms. Amanda the Teacher. I’ve recognized how my posturing in the classroom often did not create the environment I wanted to see — but I did have some important breakthroughs along the way. I forgave myself. I celebrated how much I had grown and changed. I celebrated the growth of my students. That’s how a relationship is formed. No one is perfect.

When working abroad in particular, it’s so easy to blame every little thing we don’t like on the culture. We romanticize our home countries, thinking that this level of disorganization would never happen there. Everything flows more smoothly through the rose-colored lens of our memories. I’ve spent hours venting and ranting with other English teachers who are frustrated with their jobs, hate their students, disdain their students’ parents, and reminisce on how much easier things were or had been or would be in their own countries.

After talking to teachers in other places and honestly reflecting on my past experience teaching as a paraeducator in the states, I realized that these idealizations simply aren’t true. The difference between myself in the States starting out and Ms. Amanda the Serious Teacher was that I used to have far more compassion. I used to have more perspective, because I often was not in the spotlight. I was a supporting cast member helping to allow things to go smoothly. Yes, things seldom went smoothly. There was administrative pressure, just like I experience now as a homeroom and primary teacher. But with a fresher perspective, I enjoyed teaching more. And as I adapted to the culture shock of living in another country and region with stigmas and stereotypes and ways of communicating, some part of myself became more closed and less excited to absorb everything, to take in new information. To grow.

So that’s what this experience has taught me. I’m far from a perfect teacher (much less a perfect person), but I have been feeling satisfied with the results as I have fine-tuned my online class experiences. The importance of a plan, working with the end result in mind, while being spontaneous and unafraid to improvise and roll with class discussions and fun, has finally imprinted itself on my sporadic, easily-disillusioned mind.

And I’m enjoying teaching. In spite of the new challenges and hiccups, the exhausting days and the never-ending flow of planning and paperwork. I’ve found within this profession a way to evaluate and assess without judgment and to accept criticism and laugh without being too self-defacing and awkward. I’m growing. Reminding myself always to teach with compassion.

What about you? Have you been challenged as a teacher or a mentor? Have you lived abroad? What have you learned?

P.S.: It seems appropriate that this blog go full circle since it’s officially been 4 years since I started it — 4 years of teaching in Colombia.

Poetry: From the Archives

Be Aware: Disillusionment and Liberty’s Lie

(Unfortunate epiphanies from beyond American history.)

[Be aware:

We sit at the top of a regime,
an empire of terror that we send out
like envoys abroad;
envoys turn assassins
in bitter self-interests,
sell swords with bloody blades,
the blood of innocents bought
at costs unpayable.

We can’t see the worst–
we only see what hurts.
Blood trickles down
our pyramid of power,
not up,
down to
the dark pools
of Texcoco,
down from Texaco
Washington to Tenochtitlan,
down to Panzos and el Mozote,
dark skin spattered red
by white agents of terror
vested all in green,
burning red flags–
blood in the water,
and we are all blind.

We live in the lap of luxury
our fruit mixed, our clothes laced
with the carnage of our enemies,
the friends of true freedom,
the warriors for justice–
desensitized, our noses no longer smell the decay and corpses piled in our liberty’s lie–at what cost?

Blood costs for iron rule.

[Be aware.]

Our middle class is a mask
for our poverty,
And our rich masquerade as
middle class,
And when we go abroad we
get back
Manufactured images of idyllic
views,
And foreign industries that make
it feel
Like home: capitalist, imperialist
haven of
Neoliberalism.

But who needs ghost stories when
your world is a graveyard?

[When the government no longer
serves or represents the
people’s interests, or even the
greater half of the population,
but instead represses them,
it’s time to get a new government.]

[It’s time for change.

Be aware.]

Writing Project: Entre Comillas

I’ve been stumbling upon and rereading some writing projects that are (yes) mostly unfinished, but I’d like to take the time to share some of them and see if getting some feedback might motivate me to finish.

I feel like prefacing this project might be a good idea so that you get what I was going for.

A couple of years ago, my brother and I were talking about love stories and clichés. He gave me a unique challenge that I began to build upon and have added to here and there whenever I stumble across this piece of writing. It’s interesting, because I am a classic example of a writer that takes their own experiences and morphs them to try to tell a story of something (I hope) someone else might have experienced but that, naturally, does not 100% align with my own thoughts or experiences. It offers me a bit of perspective on my own experiences, while making my own writing feel more concrete without simply and narcissistically copy/pasting experiences from my own life — I have other mediums for that (*glares pointedly at Part 2 of my roadtrip post sitting in my draft folder*).

This project I decided would be bilingual. A love story of a different kind. The idea of two people meeting, not being able to understand each other, yet falling in love anyway. This hasn’t actually happened to me, but it has happened to a family member of mine, and I found the whole idea rather fascinating. I mean, how does one fall in love without understanding the other person? Seems like a pretty big stretch to me.

And so, naturally, writing about it would be the perfect avenue for exploring this concept which people apparently experience, but I have not.

However, as I said, this sort of project does borrow influences and experiences from my own life, allusions that people who know me well might recognize.

And it’s bilingual. I realized that it would cause an interesting marketing issue if I ever wrote a full book — because yes, there are a lot of bilingual readers out there (especially people that can read Spanish and English – yes, huge market win?) — but I would want people that don’t speak or read Spanish or English to find it accessible somehow as well (aside from reading the translations with mere context). (still not sure how I would accomplish this) But the whole idea is that, just as these two people could not fully understand one another, the pieces that they shared would be enough to craft this bigger picture. Yay, literary elements and whatnot.

While I catch up with other projects, I’m going to upload what I’ve written of this story in installments, since I’ve already completed around 4 chapters of the story. If it receives any response, maybe I’ll continue? Or if I get useful feedback, that could serve a source of inspiration.

I’m just curious, and I want to start sharing more of my fiction pursuits for peer review. Looking forward to seeing the response (if any!).

Cuando se acabó la gran noche, solo me quedé pensando. ¿Qué tal que fuera toda una gran casualidad? ¿Que tal que me quedara con ella? ¿Tendríamos una familia ahora en aquel apartamento tan moderno en aquella ciudad tan fría?

“Stay,” me dijo. Como de costumbre, me quedé mirándole los labios. Tan finos, hasta pintados de rojo. Pensé que al fin le entendía.

“Ya no. No se pudo,” le repliqué, y sus ojos no dejaban de mirarme a los míos.

Me prometía todo, sí, como no. Se dice que solo sabes lo que tienes cuando te toca perderlo. En mi caso, podría decir que eso es sólo la mitad del cuento. Y qué cuento más largo. Pero al final, la cama vacía habló por sí misma. Primero la suya. Después la mía.

Me marché.

Pero ¿cómo fue que empezó todo? ¿qué momentos tan pequeños se convirtieron en los que sé que me marcarán para el resto de mi vida?

Just like that, he was gone. I knew I would have to adjust again, to the quiet spaces in between. To the haunted melodies of the sad songs for lonely lovers we used to enjoy together. You see, I didn’t realize how much one could understand in spite of a language barrier. So much of what we communicate we do not say in words alone.

I never really knew what I wanted – to be. I could be one thing one day and a thousand things another. I wanted to be a writer. An actress. A politician. A teacher. A chef. Whatever it was in the moment, regardless of what the profession or fancy might be, I at least knew that I wanted to be great, by whatever definition of greatness I was willing to apply.

I knew I wanted to leave Arkansas. The endless fields of agriculture and livestock had nothing for me. I don’t even have a green thumb. Naturally, there was no better option for a young, indecisive dreamer than to pick up and move to Los Angeles and live a cliche like so many before me. Behind me, there were the winding country roads and broad plains, a life I was sure I would never miss.

Yo siempre me he sentido como una persona decidida, cuando no había camino, me lo abría, o sí o sí. Igual, nunca me imaginé que me iba a marchar de mi familia, de mi comunidad. Aún no supero el eco de su llanto, y los suplicos de mi niña: no se vaya, no se vaya, con Dios todo se puede.

Pero al final, me dejaron ir. Soltaron la correa. Porque su bien también depende del mio, y si uno no tiene milpa y no tiene palanca, conexiones para que uno salga adelante, pues se estanca. El peso de mis pasos fue como si me amarraran hierro a los zapatos. Pero seguía hacia adelante, hacia esa ciudad rodeada de montañas y la esperanza de una estatua verde, una mujer que abraza a cualquiera que aguante hambre, frío, desolación… El sueño americano.

Now you might think because I was raised in Fayetteville, Arkansas–big for a southern city with the same small town feel that seems ubiquitous in the Southern USA–that I had never seen things that could make any normal person’s skin crawl. That I wasn’t ready for skid row.

In reality, Arkansas is far from a idyllic paradise. For me it was more like a swamp hidden among old town charm. Kissing cousins were actual cases of incest and child molestation. A man resembling Pennywise the Clown sans makeup actually lived on my block and had a known reputation for watching and perhaps even trading child porn on the Dark Net. A known sex offender, he had the most uncanny way of looking through any person he met with his unworldly steel gaze. Most people were repelled, but nobody could deny a morbid curiosity. Nobody had ever tried to bust him, in spite of this common townsfolk knowledge of the things he must do in the dark confines of his brick prison. Whenever his sickly grey gaze landed on me as I waited for the school bus in the morning, I felt a convulsive shiver pass through me. I began to feel my heartbeat in my feet, and I suddenly forgot the layers of clothing I would wear on cold mornings as my limbs began to tremble. Still, he was also the little league coach’s assistant, and most people would never talk bad about him to his face.

Then there were the Mason’s. They had changed the face of Fayetteville. All of the small mom and pop shops they owned by the end of the first decade of the 2000’s. They stunk of old money and racism, slavery and lynchings. Few would admit it, but Mr. John Frederick Mason Jr. had been known to don the white hood and go out on night prowls. Again, everyone kept quiet, especially when he gave big donations at all of the ten or more main Christian churches in the town, each claiming to be the first or the closest to God. In reality, I was fairly certain God had shifted his gaze away from Fayetteville long ago.

And yet, you would think when I announced that I was moving to Los Angeles that I had just said I was going to have public orgies with a group of demonic familiars – while getting high and overdosing no less. Most would never dare to leave, for fear of what could be worse. But still, I have to admit that they were right to be skeptical about my rushed decision to take off. I was a lost sheep, free to wander until I got myself eaten by the first wolf I encountered. Sheep’s clothing not required.

Me lo propuse en un día de calor ardiente y persistente. Miraba por las tierras que ya no eran mías, que ya se adueñó de ellas el cartel, mientras plantaba la mano en la frente. Tanto sudor, todo para que me llegaran y me quitaran mi hogar. La frustración se sentía en cada rincón, susurros de qué pasaría con el nuevo presidente de Gringolandia, hechizos de las brujas y los brujos de la comunidad, que se colocaban siempre en la orilla de toda maldad.

Y me decidí. A pesar de todo, no me quedaba de otra.

I could keep living there, I admit. I had my college degree from the University of Arkansas, conveniently located in my hometown. I had a little bit of sway in the community, but not Mason level sway. Still, there was some hope for upward mobility, what with both of my parents being productive members of society. My mom worked in one of the local high schools and even had a position in the school board. My father, though not as noteworthy as he would like, had a financial firm and one of the most easily hated professions on earth. They both set the bar for a life of potential security, if not the old school power play of more influential families.

All the same, the day I left was an act of pure rebellion from a young woman that had never stopped being an adolescent. I felt a sort of pit in my stomach as I threw the majority of what I needed in the one big suitcase I had had for years and had never used. I left at midnight, thinking idealistically that if I drove all night, I might just see my first California sunrise peak over the mountains the next day. What I didn’t realize was that the road from Fayetteville to Los Angeles is over two days long, and the sun rises in the East and sets in the West. I had enough savings to sleep in my car that night and regret every decision I had made up to that point. Still, I convinced myself, rationalizing and reasoning all in one contradictory step, I was living the adventure of my dreams. Nobody could stop me. I was going home, where I belonged.

Roadtrip 2020: Seeing New England in Times of Covid

Part One: Through the Bible Belt into a Brave New World

Against all odds, this year has provided some silverlinings in my life, the likes of which I would have never been able to imagine. I’ve dealt with isolation, loneliness, depression, anxiety, grief over the deaths of friends and family members, displacement, a sense of homelessness (or perhaps just placelessness) – and yet, there is always room for growth. That room gives way to light. It gives way to hope.

October was a busy month for me. If I look through my instagram feed, nothing is more apparent. I started the month with a can-do attitude, a feeling of radical self-acceptance I have written on a lot recently. And fortunately, the feeling continued to grow by the day.

The highlight of the month – of my year, as someone that’s been terribly deprived of external adventures that I crave – was hands-down my heavily anticipated road trip.

Let’s look at the context, complemented by Corona, to understand why this was such a big deal: Semana Santa is usually one of my big travel months. I was in total lockdown in my apartment in Colombia. I had aspirations of making a full (or at least partial) trek around South America. Lockdown was still going on. It only just let up in Colombia. I made the decision to come home to Louisiana. I was anxious, mind you, about choosing to do the following: leave my apartment unoccupied for an indefinite amount of time, taking a bus to get to Bogota and then a plane (all the while possibly exposing myself to the virus) only to be shut in my parents house or my grandma’s house – indefinitely. Possibly unable to return.

I had expected to be back in Colombia by September. That didn’t happen.

And on top of that, my grandpa passed in July and I spent that whole month basically mourning and taking care of my grandma. My depression and anxiety reached a fever pitch. Around which point I reached this turning point in regards to taking advantage of qualifying for medicaid and reaching out for medical help. And from there, things began to move at lightning speeds. Even now it seems like a beautiful, hazy blur – and yet, simultaneously September onward has been some of the clearest moments of my life so far.

For starters, in August, I went back to work. Virtual work. I readapted to this schedule, a new schedule, while living in somewhat close quarters with my grandma, my cousin, and eventually his girlfriend and their baby. But while getting things straight with work, I also was going to the doctor, practicing driving, and by the end of the month I had finally passed my driving test – just before Hurricane Laura came to town. September was upon me. No license yet.

3 weeks with my uncle. A month evacuated and struggling and being held together by my work schedule. I adapted to my medicine. And finally, we were back home – back with my grandma again (my parents had no internet at this point, so staying with them wasn’t even an option).

As soon as I could, I got my license with a vengeance. Why so eager? you wonder. Well I could see at this point the blatant truth – I wouldn’t be going back to Colombia anytime soon. I was stranded and just homeless enough to qualify for free healthcare in the state of Louisiana. But it was time to turn these negatives into a positive.

My first move with my freshly printed, hot-off-the-press license? Renting a car. And taking a roadtrip. To New York City!

My grandma thought I was absolutely delirious when I told her. “But surely you won’t go alone,” she said. “I mean, these days, with all these crazy people, it’s just not safe for a woman to travel all that way alone.”

I insisted I would be fine and that I’d made up my mind. I had been doing this sort of stuff since I was 16, and everyone always called me crazy, but I always came out of the experience fine.

Still, it took a call from my brother and dropping the news on him for a spontaneous collaboration to calm her fears: I wouldn’t be going alone. Jace would be going with me, my second in command, my navigator, my…deadbeat driving partner. [I kid, but he did spend considerably more time on his phone watching Hunter x Hunter instead of paying attention and giving moral support as I drove in THE DARK FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER NOT TO MENTION IN THE MOUNTAINS – but don’t worry, I don’t take every possible opportunity to remind him of this or anything *clears throat ostentatiously*]

Our journey began at the Alexandria airport on Sunday morning. The date was October 4th. The time was 10 am. We arrived just when the rental car was supposed to be ready. Unfortunately, it was not. We had hit our first snag in the trip. However, I was far too happy to be bothered by the minor inconvenience – and the lady working at National Rental was far too nice for me to get upset about it.

This delay was caused by three factors: rental car customers not returning the cars on time, a limited supply of cars to begin with, and the time it took to clean and sanitize the cars before turning them over to a new driver. I don’t know if it’s because I didn’t feel rushed or distressed, but as luck would have it, we were only waiting a short time – by 11 am we were on our way from the airport to the highway.

Three days before, I had made my reservation and calculated things just so Jace and I could leave from his girlfriend’s house in Alexandria. A Mid-Size car for a week runs at $217.64 at National – PLUS Taxes and Fees of $109.36 PLUS a protection plan…and fees for late return. Put a little pin in that fact, because it comes back to bite me later. I was so naïve, thinking by paying the gas, Jace had the worse end of the deal. But we had a car, and in the moment, that was all that mattered.

The road is an exciting place. It’s more exciting when you’ve been fantasizing about hopping in a car and just driving for years – literally romanticizing Kerouac’s On the Road and praying to the universe for the opportunity to do what so many Americans take for granted – blast music from their own speakers without anyone else’s approval and go on an adventure.

Needless to say, I was literally buzzing for the first 3 hours or so of the trip. Then the fatigue set in as every rice and even the beautiful white cotton fields all started to look the same. Jace and I alternated a few times as I found myself get more and more weary.

We made it to our first stop, a basement airbnb in Evansville, Indiana. One episode that stands out from the 12+ hours on the road was our stop off in some town in Kentucky. We stopped because it was time to refill the tank (wow, gas goes fast!), I needed to use the bathroom, and we both decided if we were gonna drink that night we would need to go ahead and buy our booze before getting to Indiana. It was about 6 or 7 pm I think, and the chipper lady behind the counter rang up the drinks I’d grabbed without even asking for my ID. When I tried to pay, there was a restriction. Dry after 10. I laughed in confusion. It was still early. The lady kindly clarified: No alcohol can be sold in Kentucky after 10 am on a Sunday.

Now I don’t know what kind of law this is except: BACKASSWARDS. But unfortunately there was nothing she could do but recommend a liquor store or bar or something (warehouse?) down the way that sells alcohol even after legal hours. Once again, I was more amused than bothered. That’s just life, but there was no way we were detouring for that.

I discovered that something essential when you’re on the road is using your time wisely. Jace and I began racing from day to day so that we would not waste too much time on the road.

Our stay in Evansville was…quaint. The lady, a slender ginger woman with long braided hair, seemed to have a stiffness about her. She did not answer the door right away when we got there (admittedly it was late and we were very embarrassed and apologetic). Then when Jace ran off to get food, he gave her a headsup yet she still locked the door – causing some more chagrin as I struggled to unlock it before finally resorting to knocking on her door – this was after midnight.

We were delirious and exhausted. Surrounded by what seemed to be a perfectly set up classroom for fundamentalist Christian homeschool, replete with a Biblical history of the world and “The Lord Jesus Christ” scrawled loudly in beautiful cursive script on the whiteboard on the other end from the queen sized bed – somehow we were exhausted enough to pass out. Until we were woken in the morning by the sound of her three children running around. Walking past them sitting at a dining table near the living room/ante chamber was…awkward. So that was our first brush with the quaintness of the famous Mennonites – the slightly more modern version of Quakers and Amish people, I guess.

Anyway, we got on the road early that day. Each day was about 12 hours driving, and we were more excited than ever to reach DC. Our airbnb in DC was flawless. If a kindly uber driver hadn’t later informed us that we were in a “sketchy” part of the city, we would have never guessed – aside from the unavoidable smell of weed. And the view of it growing in broad daylight across the street the next day. But still, not necessarily a “sketchy” thing.

You see, DC is interesting because marihuana is decriminalized and yet technically still illegal to sell. So you can have it, but you can’t sell it. And if you buy it, you are technically giving a “donation.” Don’t ask how I found that out. But DC was a lovely experience. Our airbnb was a different kind of basement – quiet, a big comfortable bed and a big sofa bed, a big kitchen and clean bathroom. And still basically the same price as the place we stayed in in Evansville. Well, maybe a bit more expensive. My brother was in charge of lodging on the way.

We had imagined taking a bike to the historic part of the city. We didn’t realize how warm it would be. Yes, it was cooler than Louisiana, but under the midday sun, DC still felt just as warm. We opted for an uber to what is known as the National Mall.

We visited the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, the Vietnam memorial, and even the Smithsonian Institute focused on American history – all for free. The only expene was the uber and our lunch.

Most restaurants were closed in DC because of the virus. Jace and I noticed people were still active, walking, vlogging, and visiting museums – but few places to eat. Not even a coffee shop. We eventually found the sculpture garden after leaving the Smithsonian and had some good sandwiches and a drink, which we ate outside in the garden.

We passed by tons of museums and old state houses – the city was absolutely gorgeous. And the people were friendly as well. Unexpected bonuses?: We got some free edibles and some lady was walking around with her boobs out. Questions were asked. No answers were given. And the White House was still being watched by every political newscaster in the biz, no doubt speculating about the health of a recently Covid-stricken Trump. DC, my dears. A dream fulfilled.

With our day in DC well spent, we turned our eyes northward to our true destination: the Big Apple.

*Note: I’m having issues uploading pictures, but there will be more to see soon!*

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