Arequipa, the second largest city in Peru with approximately 1 million city-dwellers, was formed by Spaniards in the 1500’s after conquering the Incas. As you enter the Plaza de Armas at the heart of Arequipa, you’ll feel as if you’ve stepped into time and place outside of modern day Peru. Surrounded by 3 volcanoes, the view from Arequipa would have been reason enough for the Spanish to settle there. The sillar from these volcanoes is what forms much of the architecture surrounding the Plaza de Armas and crowns Arequipa as the white city. At 7640 ft (2300m) above sea level it is not the highest city in Peru, but it still has an altitude associated with some of the higher cities. If you are coming straight from Lima, you’ll definitely feel it; if you are coming down from Cusco, you’ll hardly notice.
If you’ve been to Machu Picchu, you may think that nothing can top that. And while it’s true that Machu Picchu is amazing (or at least I’ve heard it was pretty awesome), but Arequipa can certainly hold its own and is well worth exploring and a great starting point for many other outdoor adventures in the area. Want to hike into a canyon? Or go white water rafting? Or explore volcanoes? Arequipa is the perfect place for all that. Want to learn about the naughty nuns? The ice princess? Or are you OK with just people watching. Once again, Arequipa is the answer.
My weekend in Arequipa went something like this: People-watching, nerding out on history, hiking down the world deepest canyon, people watching, and market exploring. My sole reason for coming to Arequipa was to visit Colca Canyon. I am not missing out on another awesome hiking expedition
One of my favorite things to do is just hang out in the square and people-watch, and the Plaza de Armas is the best place to do just that.
Nerding Out Part One: The Santa Catalina Monastery is one of the main tourist attractions in Arequipa and anytime I can get a glimpse of nuns behaving badly, I’m all in. As a bonus, the cafe was serving apple pie and lemonade so I indulged my appetite after indulging my nerdy side.
Nerding Out Part Two: After the monastery, I checked out the Andean Museum to see the “ice maiden” Juanita – the body of a young Inca girl found completely preserved (frozen) at the top of a nearby volcano. To go in, you have to do a guided tour, which includes a 20 minute video about the discovery of the body. The guide told us about the sacrificial rituals and the other artifacts found with Juanita’s body.
When I’m at home, I hate all things winter. Being from the southeastern United States, winter [meaning snow, skis, cold] is still a bit of a foreign concept. Just the threat of snowflakes sends everyone scurrying about buying up all the milk and bread in sight. Should the grass actually be covered, expect the entire city to shut down. For days.
So my position statement on winter has always been I like to visit winter; I do not like winter to visit me.
My previous adventures on skis consisted of one adventure when I was 16 to the North Carolina mountains and my recent trek in the French Alps where I discovered that I LOVED cross-country skiing So, bolstered by success in the Alps, I knew skiing would be on the agenda when I ended up in Sarajevo. Why Sarajevo you ask? Sarajevo [as Yugoslavia] hosted the 1984 Winter Olympics than Sarajevo, and if you know me, you know that I love all things related to the Olympics.
Sarajevo is a city surrounded by mountains which makes for some awesome outdoor adventure activities. These mountains have seen a lot in their day–from being a world-class Olympic destination in 1984 to being occupied by Serbia in the 1990’s to being used to attack the city in the Siege of Sarajevo. Sarajevo the city has experienced peaks and valleys just like the mountain that surround it. Sarajevo’s popularity is surging yet again as it is much less expensive and much less crowded than say -France and Switzerland, and it’s mountain are just a good for a variety of winter sports.
Jahorina and Bjelašnica are the two of the most popular ski resorts in the area; both are approximately 30 minutes’ drive from Sarajevo city center. If you are new to skiing, I’d recommend Jahorina Olympic Center. It’s perfect for skiers of all levels, offers ski equipment rental, but not clothing rental, and has cheap ski lessons for 10 euros/hours. A day pass can be had for less than 20 Euros.
The great thing about this resort is there are fewer crowds.This resort is probably Europe’s best kept secret. I am not a downhill skier. And I know my limitations, so lucky for people like me there are other options such as hiking and snowshoeing and just riding the ski lift. On this trip I opted to try snowshoeing, and man, is that a workout. My heart was pumping; my lungs were screaming, and my legs were crying by the end of the trail.
But to see these views, to do something new, and to experience these mountains…
It was completely worth the time and effort and expense it took to visit the mountains surrounding this city on the rise.
The transition from pediatric registered respiratory therapist to adult registered nurse has been… difficult, to say the least.
Six months after graduation, I’m two months in to my first job, still on new-RN orientation, and question my decision on a daily basis. Nursing is not inherently a difficult profession as compared to respiratory therapy, but it is a completely different one.
After graduation I promptly took and passed the NCLEX, went to Europe, then began applying for jobs. I was contacted by an adult pulmonary step-down unit, interviewed, and hired. After three weeks in hospital orientation, I was released onto my floor, and then realized my mistake. This unit, and perhaps this career is not for me. Transition sucks; it is a time that brings out all my insecurities and fears, and having multiple preceptors and an unavailable nurse manager and educator has not made this easy. As a RT, I knew what my job was, and how to do it, and who to go to when I had questions. In this position, I have different people telling me how to do things differently on a daily basis. While I understand that everyone develops their own system for doing things, it would be helpful for people to not constantly tell me I am doing ‘this’ wrong– whatever ‘this’ may be.
The transition from working essentially independently under protocols in several areas of the hospital to being confined to one area and essentially having to ask permission to do anything with a patient is a hard one, and it has confirmed my decision to become a nurse practitioner sooner rather than later.
I am already looking into what my next steps are going to be. I start my BSN next semester. It should take one year and then I can apply to NP school… which was my goal for becoming a registered nurse to begin with.
Today is Valentine’s Day–a day where couples celebrate their love, or for the more cynical among us, a day capitalized on by card makers, candy purveyors, and jewelry hawkers. Despite any appearance I may give, I’ve been coupled up [and mostly happily coupled] every year since I was 19 years old. My sole year as a singleton, I happened to spend in Italy–a placed designed for romance. I survived asking for a table per uno when dining alone in Tuscany. I was treated to a free tour and then some by an amazing vespa driver who decided no one should be alone in Rome, and no one should be alone on their birthday. Never-mind I was meeting a group of people for a tour the very next day. What happens in Italy, stays in Italy [you know, at least the non-travel parts].
Overall, I am a private person and just because I choose to be on the internet doesn’t mean my partner does. I respect that. My current partner hates airplane travel, and doesn’t really enjoy long car rides– the most distance we’ve traveled together is Florida [about 8 hours in the car together]. And you know what, that’s OK. That means I have an automatic support system at home. I have someone to feed the cats and check the mail. I have someone who can contact banks and such if I’m abroad. Sure, we haven’t invented a way to literally ‘reach out and touch someone’ but with technology being what it is, I can video-chat, talk, text, or whatever anytime I’m gone. And missing someone makes coming home so much sweeter. And there’s always someone to pick me up at the airport. So, I am not a solo traveler. Or at least not by choice. Given the opportunity, I would rather share amazing sunsets or discover interesting things or go on hikes with someone than do it alone. But I’d rather do all these things alone than not do them at all. And therein lies the quandary.
Long-term solo travel is still an uncommon practice in the United States [as compared to Europe, Australia, and New Zealand, but getting more popular every day] so when I announced my plans to travel around South America for a year plus my news was met with trepidation more than excitement. Perhaps the main issue was that most of my friends, co-workers, and family had never heard of someone taking a year off and heading off without concrete plans. Add in the media hype of danger at every turn outside the US borders and I can *somewhat* understand their concerns.
However, sixteen months after leaving, I returned, all in one piece, only having one real story of danger to report. I have since traveled even more extensively, to places where I don’t speak the language, and *somewhat* off the tourist trail. I have not found the media view of danger at every turn to in fact be a fact. BUT in the early days of planning every time someone told me of ‘something’ happening ‘somewhere’ I wondered if I needed to be prepared for that–whatever ‘that’ may be [‘That’ ranged from the plague to kidnappings to earthquakes]. Eventually I said fuck-it-all, and just went with the fact that I’ve successfully gotten myself ‘un-lost’ on several occasions, have survived natural disasters, and have even managed to disentangle myself from unsavory characters while at home.
So while safety was always the first thing someone brought up upon hearing my plans, the ‘solo’ aspect was immediately next as in ‘aren’t you afraid to go by yourself?‘ or ‘what if you get lonely?‘ or several other well-meaning but misguided questions. The truth of the matter is that as an only child who grew up in the country instead of a neighborhood full of other kids being by myself is the least of my concerns.
For me, it was always the opposite. I am/ was worried other people would get on my nerves and I’d have no alone time. I have since learned that as a solo traveler I can have as much or as little ‘alone’ time as I want, and it’s always easy to meet up with other travelers for activities, day trips, or whatevs.
At 19, I planned to go to England with my then-boyfriend. I worked my entire freshman year of college to save up enough money for flights, train tickets, souvenirs, ect. A last minute change of plans on his part meant either go by myself or not go at all. And so I went. By myself. Which was the last thing in the world I wanted to do. I hate asking for directions, or talking to strangers. I don’t trust easily. But I went anyway. And I had fun. I learned to trust my judgement. I learned not to be scared of everything and everyone. I hung out in pubs in England. I discovered the joys of hiking in Wales. I discovered Harry Potter in Scotland. Sure, I read some when I was out eating. I didn’t eat a whole lot of dinners in restaurants. I was 19! I wouldn’t have felt comfortable eating in restaurants with someone.
What I did learn is that young, solo female travelers are pretty much on the lowest of the low of in terms of travelers. Couples have safety in numbers, even groups of 2 or 3 females traveling together have it made compared to the single traveler, and male solo travelers — well, it’s just different for a solo man. And as I’ve gotten older, well, let’s just say I attract less attention than I used to– and I am more than OK with that. Of course I still get nervous if I get lost and followed by strangers; that’s just the evolutionary equivalent of being chased by saber toothed tigers.
There is no one-size fits all rule. Life, and travel, is about constantly assessing a situation, making predictions, observations, and acting based on those assessments. I do this everyday at work. Seeing people, assessing the situation, making decisions based on those assessments. Traveling [and working in healthcare] has greatly increased my ability to size up a situation and a person and make an accurate judgment. In talking to people from all walks of life, all cultures, backgrounds, attitudes I have created a mental book of knowledge from which I pull when I encounter something new. If safety is the topic, then I have only increased my safety by traveling and added new experiences from which I can draw in uncertain situations.
So what have I learned
Understand local cultural norms…. don’t expect them to conform to you. I always try to learn a bit of the local language before I arrive– even if it’s just hello.
Involve others in your safety…. let others [even if its just the hotel staff] know your plans.
Stay sober…. being fucked-up greatly diminishes your situational awareness
Know basic self-defense…. even if you never plan to use it
Carry travel insurance… stuff can be replaced; you can’t
Pay for your safety [even if that means a paying more for a cab or hotel versus the metro, u-bahn, subway…].
Enjoying local beverages should be fun; getting drunk while doing so should be verboten!
Which brings me to my final point– Anything can happen anywhere.
I have never been robbed while traveling. But I have had my wallet stolen and my car broken into in my driveway while I was at home [upstairs] minding my own business.
On the other hand, I left my backpack in a taxi en route to the Cancun airport in 2002 and not only did someone return it to the airport lost & found, but everything was intact, including cash [$MEX and $USD] and credit cards.
I’ve never been physically hurt while traveling… I can’t say the same for life at home.
Other than a few cat-calls while in Mexico and Italy, I’ve never been sexually harassed while traveling. Not so for life in the good ‘ole U S of A.
Above all, whenever you are out and about – at home or abroad – be aware of your surroundings and trust your instincts. If something feels wrong, it probably is.
–a conversation that occurred in Medellin bar in August, 2010.
A Bar is a unique place
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]
A funny thing happened at a bar last night. I went out with some English/Australian guys that were staying in the same hostels (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…”
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?”
Guy 2: “And?”
Guy 1: “Definitely? Did she say so?”
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…
These are definitely fake
Conversations similar to the 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). 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
The theory attributing Medellin’s curvaciousness 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.
I am not a tea drinker, but I also don’t like taking medications. However, altitude sickness is no joke. And Diamox was not working. So, I bowed to pressure and tried the local cure for altitude sickness… coca leaves. At first, the idea of buying coca leaves seems almost rebellious. After all, coca leaves are the beginning product cocaine. Drinking coca leaf tea was a novelty for me. It has a bitter taste; it’s primarily coca leaves and hot water. But being in the world’s highest city requires some concessions, and for me, that concession was ingesting coca leaf–in my case, by chewing the leaves.
Coca leaves became an integral part of my day; I chewed the leaves multiple times a day, and each time, I got a little mental boost–a bit of alertness to soothe the metal sluggishness that goes along with altitude sickness. In some way, I became addicted to the sticky green masticated leaves–it was the only thing that soothed my altitude sickness and made my stay in Potosi enjoyable.
Sticky, green, masticated, coca leaves… my only salvation from the crushing pressure of altitude sickness.
Altitude sickness aside, spending two week in Potosi, was a great decision. A better decision, perhaps, would have been to come to Potosi from La Paz instead of the realitively flat Cochebamba.
At 13,500 ft above sea level, Potosi will literally take your breath away, but it’s colonial charms will figuratively leave you breathless.
Potosi is a UNESCO protected city and walking around the flat parts of the city, it’s easy to marvel over the beauty of the buildings or wonder what the area must have been like when the Spanish discovered the silver in the Cerro Rico mountain that looms over the city. However, when walking uphill around the city, which is at least half the time, my will to explore was seriously in question. But my desire to explore won out, and while walking down the well-maintained colonial streeets it’s easy to imagine the hustle and bustle of the 16th and 17th century when Potosi was one of the world’s richest and had a population larger than Madrid.
On the darker side of things, it’s also easy to imagine the amount of work that mining the silver for which this town gained famed, and how that work would have been done. When the Spanish discovered the Cerro Rico in 1544 it was the richest source of silver in the known world. Potosi and Spain grew rich from the proceeds, but this wealth came at an tremendous cost in human and animal lives and pain and suffering. The Spanish brought an estimated 30,000 Africian slaves, enslaved indigenous locals, used untold numbers of horse and llama to get the goods to the Atlantic coast to ship to Spain. Historians claim that the system of slavery that Spain’s Viceroy Toledo created resulted in a massive depopulation of the Andean highlands. The mortality rates in the mines were amazingly high, and over the next three hundred years, the Spanish authorities, in collusion with the mine owners and the Catholic Church, pressed millions of indigenous Andean peoples into slavery to work in the mines.
It’s estimated that the barbaric conditions in the mines caused the deaths of between eight and ten million indigenous and African slaves.
So important was the Cerro Rico, and so entwined was the Catholic Church with the mines, that all the churches in Potosi point not to the east, but to the mountain, and some of the religious art is shaped to represent the pyramid shape of the mountain. If you want to see some Bolivian silver, there’s plenty on display in Potosi’s churches, but you could equally go to any of the major cathedrals in Spain to uncover where all that silver went.
The Spanish brought the Catholic Church’s Inquisition to the Spanish colonies, something dramatically depicted in the painting below. As per usual, it was often women on the receiving end of ingenious methods of torture…
Charleston is the first city that stole my heart. I was 9, on a South Carolina history field trip, and riding the boat to Fort Sumter. I knew at that moment that I would do everything in my power to have that feeling again…wind in my hair, salty air on my lips…freedom….Nevermind I was with 50 or so other 3rd graders, in my mind, I was on my own.
Charleston was also the city I escaped to when I ran away from home at 15. For three glorious days in June, I was a beach bum in Isle of Palms. I read books and swam in the ocean and my hotel’s pool. Then I decided to return home before my absence was noticed. Once again, Charleston represented freedom.
Charleston was also the first place I had my heart broken. No, not by some boy, [although that did come later], but by a school. I had an athletic/academic scholarship to College of Charleston to play volleyball, but when I got hurt playing softball my senior year of high school, they took it back. I still wonder what my life would be like if I had gone to CofC instead of Erskine. There’s a good chance that ever single aspect of my life would be different than it is now.
The oh-so-beautiful College of Charleston campus. It was founded in 1770, before the USA was even a country.
Charleston is also the one place I return to at least yearly, if not more often. Whenever my energy level is flailing, I return to Charleston, or at least to the beaches nearby. Sun and salt water heal me faster than nearly anything else on the planet.
So it was with some trepidation that I returned to the scene of the crime, so to speak. Quite some time ago, I was here for my friend’s wedding with my then boyfriend as my date. Of course the wedding was the main focus, but we had hoped to carve out some alone time, too. Needless to say, that didn’t happen, due to how to say it—I fucked everything up due to excessive alcohol consumption. [Note: 2016 version of Michelle does not consume alcohol for several reasons, but a big one is to avoid future situations like this one.] The relationship sputtered on for a bit, but ultimately ended. And I’ve always felt bad about that. So Charleston became the place where I fucked up the best relationship I’ve ever been in, and despite my love for the city, it’s always hurt to return to Charleston, but I do, because really, how can you not love a city that looks like this?
Houses that look like this
Buildings like this
Bridge architecture like this
Cemeteries like these
food like this
History such as this
and beaches like this
However, life is funny and fickle and as fate would have it, we both had reasons to be in the city at the same time years after that fateful weekend. And we both knew ahead of time the other would be there too.
Running into each other Friday night on King Street was magical. One hug melted away years of what-ifs? Dinner of hamburgers and fries tasted like the most wonderful food on the planet. We made plans for Saturday to do some of the things we were unable to do together all those years ago… like wander around an aircraft carrier…
get up close and personal with airplanes
and tour a decommissioned submarine, because you know, us history nerds in the world have to stick together.
We also took a walk on the beach hand in hand, watched the sunrise over the Atlantic, and wrote our initials in the sand. Sure it was cold. After all, it IS January, but 40 degrees at sunrise in January is just about perfect.
And just like that, the weekend was over. We went our separate ways. Who knows what the future holds? Certainly not me, but at least I can say that I fell in love with Charleston again. The most negative memory of the city in my memory-bank has been removed and replaced by the most perfect weekend in recent memory.
Places are like that for me. Linked forever with memories of people and events and food, not just the scenery. Charleston and I have a rich, complicated history and while things are good now, like the most complex relationship with people, I expect it to be ever-changing, ebbing and flowing between love, languish, serenity, and hate.
Relationships are like ghost signs; evidence of their past are etched all over a city.
Enjoy this post? Look for other posts with the #weekendwanderlust tag.
Here are your tasks for 2016… It may seem like a lot right now, but you have an entire year + an extra day, so no whining*
You have a new job this year… so don’t suck at it… Also, do not kill anyone. [I kept the new job for a grand total of 6 months. The environment was highly toxic, and for my own sanity, I left. And I didn’t kill anyone… I call that a win]
Keep your shit together… organize your mail, email, and any other important communication and keep it that way for more than 3 nanoseconds. Along those lines, keep your space organized. [Organization has been my nemesis since birth, but I try.I call this one a draw]
Spend time with people who love you and believe in you. [There have been more days than I care to count where the only words uttered from my mouth were LUCY! or CHRISTOPHER! I say this was a miserable failure. Going to school and working full-time in the evening make socializing harder than it needs to be]
Acknowledge that some things are out of your control and above your pay grade.
Stop saying sorry when that’s not what you mean. (Acceptable times to apologize include: when you break something that’s not yours, when you hurt someone’s feelings accidentally, when you step on someone’s toe, etc.). Stop apologizing for every.little.thing that goes on in life. Not everything is your fault.
Take responsibility for your self… (Examples including finding a dentist, dealing with the DMV, investing in your future, ect).
When needed, remind yourself that you have a right to take up space whether that is on a trail or in a hospital room surrounded by physicians. Do not be intimidated by others.
Be nice to yourself.
Don’t completely succumb to adulthood, but still try to pay bills on time. [Yay, another win. I dance with patients in their rooms, play with therapy dogs, and generally try to have fun while working. Health is a serious business, but I don’t always have to be serious]
Do that yoga push-up chataranga thing that currently makes you feel like you’re going to collapse and smash your nose on the ground.
Remember that you always, always, always have a choice. We choose our emotions. Sure, there are situations which will frustrate you. There will be times when you are disappointed, but being disappointed is a choice. Being frustrated is a choice. Smiling and laughing it off is a choice… On that note, choose smiling.
Try to see failure as a painful, but necessary part of success — not a mandate on your character. Try.
Keep getting stronger.
Embrace partial success. Embrace progress, even the very small, barely noticeable, infinitesimal progress.
Lots of love
me, december 30, 2015
PS: read & re-read this letter as many times as necessary throughout the year. If needed, print off this letter , carry it around with you, and read this letter any time you need encouragement.
Hi, I’m Michelle and this is my own little corner of the interwebs where I write, share photos, and interact with others in the blog-o-shpere. So in addition to that–Who am I? I am –in one way or another– the following: hiker + backpacker + swimmer + pediatric respiratory therapist + registered nurse + avid traveler + cat parent + gardener + photographer + medical science junkie + adventure-seeker + DIY enthusiast + voracious reader + history and science nerd + football fanatic + aging athlete + wannabe chef + trying not to succumb to the trappings of a 9-5 life. And beginning in 2018, a Peace Corps Volunteer in Madagascar.
Everyday life doesn’t have to be routine. Anyone can do just about anything he or she wants to do– sometimes one has to find creative ways in doing it. Sometimes one has to tear down the barriers that might stopping them. Everyday is an opportunity to choose your own adventure. That is what I ultimately write about.
Charleston + Portland + Vancouver + London + Cardiff + Bristol + Asheville + Wilmington + Atlanta + Richmond + Savannah + Knoxville + Thru-hike the Foothills Trail
Charleston + Reykjavik + Stockholm + Orlando + St Augustine + Seattle + Columbia River Valley WA and OR + Portland + Pacific Crest Trail + Wales Coast Path + Charlotte + Ocracoke Island + Kitty Hawk + Great Smokey Mountain National Park
Charleston + Asheville + Tybee Island + Budapest + Pecs + Vienna + Prague + Berlin + Copenhagen + Stockholm + London + Washington DC + Montreal + Quebec City
Italy + England + Venezuela + Mexico + Jamaica + Dominican Republic + Haiti + Peru + Colombia + Ecuador + Bosnia + Albania + Serbia + Kosovo + Russia + Czech Republic + Croatia + Argentina + Chile + Paraguay + Bolivia + Brazil + Uruguay + Slovakia + Austria + Switzerland + Slovenia + Netherlands + Belgium + Romania + Montenegro + Ireland + Wales + Scotland + Macedonia + Northern Ireland + Belize + Guatemala + Costa Rica + Poland + Finland + Panamá + Nicaragua + Honduras +