1000 Different Ways

I am equally impressed with and somewhat alarmed by my ability to be with myself. On the flip side of that, I want and need others in my life to share experiences with. This has been a duality present throughout my travels. How can I be content being on my own then crave companionship moments later? Am I going to get used to living this way, without bending to the wants of anyone else? Do I want to live this way, only ever considering what I want in each moment? Is that selfish? Isn’t life balancing what you need and want with what the world needs from you? A give and take?

I was ready. After two and a half months of solo travel, I was looking forward to reuniting with some of my very best friends and navigating Brazil together. What I was not ready for was how intimate I would become with my own tendency to be pushed and pulled by the desires of others. How different it was to not be able to act immediately and fully in line with what called to me in each moment. I learned a lot from this part of my journey: I cannot please everyone, it is possible to disagree with people I often see eye to eye with, I can enjoy being alone and love company at the same time.

Brazil, while incredibly vibrant, culturally rich, and topographically unique, served as a backdrop for experiencing the reality of the disconnect and frustration that sometimes comes with navigating human relationships. There were, of course, moments of bliss and learning and community. There were quiet moments watching taxis drive by the park as the evening sun melted over Rio and soul music played from apartment windows. For me, someone who leans sometimes too heavily on the side of “life is beautiful and human connection is magic,” it was important to experience this. The disconnection was present in my total lack of ability to not only understand or speak Portuguese, but also to understand any sort of expressions or social cues. It was present in a sketchy encounter with a homeless man. It was present in the navigation of making a plan that was satisfactory for each member of the group.

I found myself overwhelmed by the need to facilitate a good experience for everyone, while attempting to consider what I wanted to engage with on a day to day basis. While the latter and the former coincided at times, there were other times where they were entirely opposite. In reflecting on the larger scale questions that these travel experiences brought about, I’ve asked: What is the line between necessary selfishness and unnecessary selflessness? Is it essential to listen to what calls to you alone despite it’s inevitable separation from the paths or ideas of those you love?

This leads me into the expansion brought about the subsequent leg of my journey: a return to Colombia. After introducing my dear friend Abigail Lawes to a few of my favorite humans and key attractions in Colombia, we embarked on a trek through the sacred indigenous forest of La Ciudad Perdida in the Sierra Nevada. In our tour group there were five other extrañeros traveling with us, along with our two guides; a native Wiwa man named Jose, and the sweetest translator and spiritual guide named Davíd. Four of the five other travelers belonged to one family, a mother (Meeka), a father (Tom), and their two daughters (Flo and Sine) from Belgium. The other was Camila, a badass Chilean woman in her 40s traveling solo. These people became our family quickly and effortlessly as tends to happen on difficult, beautiful, and unglamorous journeys through mountains.

Within these other humans trudging through the mud, getting soaked to the bone with sweat and rain alongside me, I found myself opening up to the idea of how many possibilities there are to make travel and exploration a part of my life. Tom is a professor of sustainable city planning. Meeka is a oncologist. They have three daughters between the ages of 16 and 24. They spoke of their family adventures hiking through the desert in Morocco and traveling through Africa. Each year since their youngest was three years old, they have taken at least one family trip and these trips have not been the typical resort stays of a western middle-class family. They have been trips with an element of grit and nature.

Here I was thinking that people who worked 9-5 jobs in areas like academia and medicine could never travel the world, let alone with three children. I was so taken back by the sense of adventure, good humor, and fun that this family shared. Meeka makes the most hilarious sound effects, spurts out the sharpest comments, wears an adorable bandanna around her head, and laughs often. Tom is a spritely dutch man who is always telling stories and making quirky jokes. He is intelligent and funny. And then their children! Flo and Sine are mature and present in a way not many young people are. They were clearly grateful to be there and participate in this experience with their parents.

Camila decided a while back that she didn’t want kids, that she didn’t want to have a partner, that she would retire early and travel the world alone. Despite the misunderstanding of her family and societal pressures to have kids she stuck with her heart and it has led her to become her truest, most resilient, and grounded self. She told us about how long it took for her family to accept that she didn’t want a family of her own, of how difficult it was to leave partnerships behind, and navigate a lifestyle that is atypical. The group of us talked about this obvious contrast of life experiences over several meals and it was wonderful to participate in these conversations as someone still determining all that she wants in this life and sometimes grappling with what seems like the inevitability of giving up some dreams in the face of following others.

Camilla told us of her journey retiring at 44 and traveling. She told us that the only reason she is able to do it is because she has no one to share expenses with. Meeka and Tom joked about how they should get rid of their children in which Flo rolled her eyes and said, “hate to admit it’s a bit late for that.” Camila laughed and said that both journeys can be equally fulfilling depending on who it is experiencing it. It is no better to have a family than to not have a family. There are sacrifices you make on both ends.

At the end of our journey Abby and I found ourselves in the back alongside Meeka and Camilla, two kind, empowered, and accomplished women that lead entirely different lives. Abby asked a question about what life lessons they would pass down to younger generations of women. I can’t recall exactly what their answers were word for word, but Meeka said something along the lines of: the most important aspect of this life is to work hard for the things you want and to give kindness to others. Camilla told us to remember our own needs and never heed the desires of others over your own heart despite how difficult it can be.

These people gave me some insights to the questions of following hearts, selfishness, selflessness, love, alignment, and exploration. It is possible to travel with a big family when you work jobs that require long hours. It is possible to shed expectations and live solo, the places you go and the people you meet as your main companions. There are many different ways to live out this life and each of them can be full of wonderful adventures. Life is a give and take.

I decide what/who to give to and in one way or another it makes its way back to me. The challenging part is determining what it is that I truly want to give to and unapologetically diverting my energy there. There will always be people that don’t agree with my decisions, who judge and pick apart my path, who are living in an entirely different way with an entirely different intention, who will not understand why I do what I do. There will be times where I have to make a choice because it is best for me and me alone. Sometimes I will not agree with my friends and family, but this does not mean we cannot love each other all the same.

One day after a particularly hard portion of the trek, we made it to camp for a break and walked down to the river. The cold water was salve on our blistered feet and aching muscles. I lay with my back in the water looking up at the blue sky as the sun peeked through the swaying branches of a giant willow tree. Yellow butterflies glitted by and I heard Davíd’s childlike laugh and water rushing over stones in the background, the pleasantly muffled sounds you hear when your ears are under water. This became my “beacon moment,” the moment I returned to in my mind when the mountains grew steeper and the rain fell harder.

Because this moment existed, I found everything less heavy. I think that this may be the essence of my life; finding those moments, people, experiences, ideas that free me and tether me at the same time, and committing my conscious energy to them. They aren’t easy to come by, but when I find them I MUST follow them. I think that maybe the most selfless, kind, and radical action is to listen to what speaks to our hearts and, in doing so, inspire others to do the same.

Buenos Aires- Pondering About Food at FRANCA

Carolina greeted me at the green gate outside of her quirky orange home on the street corner of Goroti and Dr. Emilio Riv, central to Palermo, a buzzing little neighborhood in the northeast corner of the city. Cobblestone roads line bricked walkways speckled with trendy cafes, artisanal meat shops, and pop-up flea markets. She is the host of La Casa Naranja, the hostel that feels more like a homestay. Later, I would visit a tiny art museum in La Boca where I discovered the influence of this home’s charm. The bright pastel colors, checkered floor, beautifully decorated windows, and French doors opening up to hidden balconies are whimsical.

Benito Quinquela Martín was a famous artist, art facilitator, host, and creative in Buenos Aires during the 40s through the 60s. He would host a house full of writers, painters, sculptors, actors, and musicians weekly and had a ceaseless devotion to what art can accomplish, inspire, and allow for. In historic Buenos Aires fashion Carolina’s home celebrates pieces of varying styles that come together vibrantly. Her warm and all-encompassing energy echoes the vivacity of this home and of this city.

Carolina’s home is not the only aspect that echoes this vivacity. It would not be a proper trip to Buenos Aires without mentioning food. From Churripan on street corners to steak tar-tar at top-tiered restaurants, from Peruvian to Korean to traditional Argentinian, this city truly has it all. I was overwhelmed by how little time I had to try everything. In the end, I simply could not.

Stories of the food in Buenos Aires were a significant drawing force for me, along with architecture, art, and music. Long before I set my sights on a journey to South America, I watched the Buenos Aires episode of Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations and I latched onto those images until I made it there at last. So, with this in mind, I made a goal for myself to sit with food. To not just try things, but to savor and contemplate them, and to consider how food lies at the center of human life everywhere. Around food grows tradition, togetherness, and connection to the earth. Food tells stories and the reason I love Bourdain so god damn much is because this lies at the center of his work.

As I sat at the bar at FRANCA restaurant and watched as the cooks delicately placed seared watermelon pieces on plates and dotted dishes with vibrant sauces and lifted the rod iron door of the wood-fired grill, I pondered over the physical, chemical, creative, sustaining, and spiritual aspects of food.

There I was, watching as food took shape and changed before my eyes. I marveled at the way the edges of the watermelon became crisp with heat, how potatoes could be held together by thin strands of seaweed, how the outside of the rump steak became charred, whilst the inside changed gradually in color. All elements are involved in a kitchen. Salt, fat, acid, heat, of course, but also gas, water, space, color, nitrogen, hydrogen, calcium, carbon, chlorine, phosphorus, sulfur, and metals. I am intrigued by the physical and metaphysical, the visible, tangible, and invisible changes that occur in the process of preparing food, and which occur within and outside of the body when consuming food.

Here are some thoughts relating to food that I had at Franca, a Michelin-starred restaurant in Barrio Palermo that I have continued to ponder over.

The first is how eating is a prime way to reconnect with essence. This seems obvious. Anything which employs one of our senses evokes emotion or thought. Eating employs many senses and it may be one of the only actions that employ them all at once. BUT, it is only when we tap fully into these senses that we are keenly aware of what it evokes within us. Eating meals alone has forced me to slow down, to consider each flavor and sensation as it hits my tongue.

The next is eating as a sacred act of gathering. At the center of each culture lies its food and the practices around preparing and consuming that food. In Chiloé, a culture shaped by a total surrounding of the sea, Curanto steams from holes in the ground as a group of locals pull up the giant husks of corn from the hot earth, and come together to slurp the soft meat of clams drenched in white wine. On the Caribbean coast of Colombia, redfish fried whole, rice soaked in coconut, and tropical fruits of exotic colors and textures line plates.

Families and friends sit in plastic chairs on street corners and fill their bellies with tastes of the home that molded them. In Argentina, parrillas line crowded streets smoking meat in each direction, a practice that comes from the days of wild gauchos roaming the pampas. In my current (more permanent) home in Montana, I gather with friends for potlucks and barbecues as a way to be present with them. Every city around the world teems with an opportunity to connect to a place through culinary avenues. Often the best place to get an authentic picture of a place is to eat with local families and witness the smiles, sharing, and connection that a meal inspires. As Bourdain said,

"Meals make the society, hold the fabric together in lots of ways that were charming and interesting and intoxicating to me. The perfect meal, or the best meals, occur in a context that frequently has very little to do with the food itself."

This leads me to the metamorphosis of food from plant to plate or “farm to table,” an idea commonly spewed, but rarely accurate. For a long time before industrialization and the rise of technology, native people created sustenance and ritual around what the natural world in their settled region provided them. To harvest, nurture, prepare, and eat was part of the symbiotic process of sustaining life. In many places around the world, especially in America, it seems we have gotten so far away from this. Food has become yet another matter of efficiency, convenience, and cost analysis. There are a few people who are finally attempting to turn back time and move closer to slower, more sustainable processes of food, but of course, to consider this shift is a privilege. With food insecurity and lack of access to whole foods in many low-economic urban communities, there comes an inability for everyone to connect deeply with their food and give time and energy to nailing down purely natural and organically produced food sources. They are expensive and hard to come by.

In a continent ripe with the preserved practices of native people and a deep connection to the environment like South America, (this is, of course, unique to certain places and has its own complex history) the connection to this deeply sacred symbiotic process of food is easier to come by than many a town in America and it shines through as much in the gathering of plantains, the washing of grains, and the tending to lambs as it does in the colorful plate of food that these ingredients give way to.

As I watched the cooks at FRANCA tenderly place lettuces into a bowl, keep a watchful eye over the steaks in the wood stove, skillfully dollop whipped cream on lava cakes, and measure herbs over dressings, I began to consider what it means to exhibit care, and how much that care becomes evident in the first bite, the first meeting, or the first viewing of what is presented.  I considered my friends in Hornopirén who went out on kayaks to gather fresh clams and cook them over the fire, how much better the meal tasted because of how much care and dedication was put into its preparation AND because it was shared.

To round off the long list of considerations I had during this hour-long solo meal, I will share my incredibly cliche observation and use food as a metaphor. I kept thinking about how preparing food is a celebration of change. Cooking is determining how to best change the makeup of an edible thing in order to either a) make it taste better b) create a new sensation or c) intake it in its most nutritious form, depending on who is eating it. It is awe-inspiring to witness these changes happen on a small scale and then taste the outcome of them as a whole dish. Shouldn’t our goodness also rest in how we learned to best change and adapt in order to be better, more open, vivacious, and healthy? To take what we have and transform it into a delicious sustenance?

A Return to Love

It is difficult to let go of the images we create about how an experience is supposed to be, how our lives are supposed to turn out. This journey I am on has looked nothing like what I’d imagined it to be. Yes, there have been adventures through mountains and rivers, there have been small sacred moments shared with people I know for only a blip of time, and there has been a boatload of getting lost. All of these were aspects of the journey I hoped and knew would come. Aspects I could not have predicted include: loving a place so much that I return time and time again despite how far I must travel, summating 2 volcanoes, ice climbing a glacier, diving for the first time on an island off the coast of Brazil with some of my dearest friends, beginning to love a nice meal alone with a book, and of course falling in love with a man within the first few weeks of my journey.

The topic of this entry begins there, but it does not end there because I did not merely fall in love with this man, I have fallen in love with the world and I have fallen in love with the version of myself I have become here.

After I left Pucon and made my way south, Osiel and I made a plan via WhatsApp to reunite and go on a camping trip through south-central Argentina. There were some mountain towns across the border and east of Pucon that I had wanted to visit and that he wanted to return to. The idea of seeing him again got me through many dark moments as I grappled with loneliness and shivered in my tiny yellow tent in Patagonia. As with all the plans we look forward to, the time up until that moment stood still and I had some moments where I thought to myself, “I’m insane. Do I even love this man? What if what I felt with him was only an outcome of the wonder and spontaneity of travel? What if I just created this in my head? Am I missing out on opportunities? Is this living up to what I set out to do here?”  When I stepped off the bus and found myself in his arms again, all these worries vanished and the world stood still once more. The humming returned. The internal silence that mutes out the harsh sounds of a crowded bus station returned.

We set off on the road trip with our camping gear, a starting point, an ending point, and a list of mountains to climb along the way. We woke up early each morning and set out for the day seeking out challenging, yet rewarding routes followed by dips in cold rivers and always powered by chocolate. The region of Argentina we traveled through, from San Martin de Los Andes to El Bolson, is renowned for chocolate and ice cream making. Of course, there were moments when, hungry and tired, we were less patient with each other than we could have been, but we always returned to that calmness that each of us created for the other. There was a popped tire and a night of miserable freeze-dried meals and some not-so-ideal campsites, but each mishap ended in laughter and I never wanted to be anywhere but where I was with him. I never once felt like I couldn’t let myself be hangry or frustrated or tired. Without saying anything he already knew. I am sensitive to his energy and he to mine in a way I have not experienced with a partner.

My favorite 48 hours were spent back on the Chilean side, climbing up Osorno volcano, soaking my sore feet in a cold lake, laying in the sun next to Osiel as we chugged our Mote con Huesillos, waking up next to the Huilo Huilo river and taking a morning plunge in the natural pools, and eating breakfast in the Mapuche market, empty in the morning’s stillness.

One day, as I sat beside Rio Azul in El Bolson, I closed my eyes in meditation and listened to the water flowing over stones and dropping back into itself. In the darkness of my closed eyes I pictured a giant fountain, continuously filling and overflowing in one succinct motion. This fountain is my life- coming and going, giving and receiving, contracting and expanding all at once. This experience with Osiel fits in well with the notion that nothing is permanent. All we have is now and we do not know what (if anything) is next. When I begin to overthink this, to analyze the possible outcomes, or toy with “what ifs” I lose sight of what is right in front of me.

When I opened my eyes from this meditation I was able to look at my life in simple terms. I experienced an astounding clarity there as I looked up at the canopied trees. What I want in life is to wake up amongst trees in a space where I can breathe deeply far away from the rat race. I want to express my creativity, explore, and learn daily. I want to be part of a culture shift, one that inspires people to connect deeply with themselves, others, and the world, to step outside of what they know, and discover a new way of being. I want to share stories with others and hear their stories. All of this connects somehow and I am on the brink of uncovering it. I wrote that day,

“It is on the tip of my tongue and the saliva builds up on the sides of my mouth as I get closer to tasting it, to taking that full, delicious, unrestrained bite of a life that calls to me.”

Upon our return, I stayed in Pucon for over a week and got used to the daily routines of staying in one place long enough to let it become a part of me. My days included walking to Spanish class in the mornings, stopping by my favorite fruiterilla, long strolls into town, doing work at a local coffee shop, and finding new trails to explore on foot. My evenings were spent with Osiel, enjoying dinner, watching sunsets at La Plata, blasting music through the house, and visiting hot springs. Here, I discovered the beauty of knowing someone who feeds my adventurous side, as well as my still side, who can climb mountains with me as well as spend the day lying side by side doing nothing.

I have a dear friend who just married the love of her life. She shared a part of her wedding vows and as I read them I began to cry. She talks about her fear of living a “normal life,” of losing her dreams and independence. When she met her husband she felt more free and in tune with herself and her dreams seemed entirely possible. This is exactly what I want for myself and I have glimpsed it here with Osiel. He has supported me in a way that has allowed me to feel the lightness of freedom, total self-love, and expression, which has made me believe that anything I want for my life is entirely possible. The opportunity I’ve had to witness this love is enough.

Outside of this romantic love I have found, I have experienced a window into my soul and an impenetrable reminder that magic exists in the world, that I can find it, create it, encourage it, taste it. Change begins with the ability to love and accept ourselves, others, and the world around us. This is the glimmer that, when shared, turns into a full, vibrant and sparkling picture.

In The Presence of Giants

A Glimpse of Argentina

Argentinian Patagonia stretches on in a taupe and grey desert. Layers of gradated hills line the planes. On the road from Calafate to El Chalten, there seems to be little life, yet it hums with a quiet being. Every few miles a fluorescent turquoise lake appears, stark against the colorless ground. Eventually, the road parallels the Rio de las Vueltas and Lenga trees dot its banks. The water in the river is so light that it appears void of color.

I have grown to love the “semi-cama” bus, staring out the long windows at tundra and forrest, lake and sea. I have spent entire days on them and have been hurdled through time and space. Everything and nothing is happening outside of this rectangle. On this particular ride, I pondered over the scale of this feeling for astronauts.

I considered the non-linear nature of my journey (how cosmic!) Nothing about my path has made sense, but what is sense anyway outside of another way to label whether or not one adheres to a set of made-up rules? Fuck making sense. I want to make something messy and true and strangly beautiful, most importantly true.

The next day tested my limits. I have hiked miles in the rain in Teton and trekked through the mud in Clay Butte, but Los Tres Sendero to Fitz Roy lookout takes the cake. Not because of the difficulty level of the trail, but because of the downpour swirling with the harsh Patagonian wind. 3/4 of the way through the hike, wind burnt, soaking wet, and shoes sloshing with water, the wind picked up and pushed me backward. I huddled behind a tree and attempted to shield myself from it, cursing the weather and myself. I had made up my mind. “This is treacherous and miserable, I will not continue. I have to turn back.”

When I stood up to begin the descent, the rain stopped, the wind died, and a thick cloud parted to reveal Fitz Roy shining and all of its golden brown, ice blue, silver, jagged glory. Underneath it lay a lush valley with vibrant green brush and an endless aqua-blue river. In this instant, re-vamped by the landscape, I changed my mind. As I climbed, I began to think about how essential it is to be reminded of the unpredictability, the rage and the formidable power of the natural world. We should not be in awe of and indebted to the wild only when it is soft, warm, and forgiving, but also when it is relentless and torrential.

During the hardest parts, I pictured a hot shower and a steaming cup of coffee. I wondered if, sometimes, this was an appropriate and necessary aspect of remaining present. I think even Siddhartha Gautama himself, at times, slid into a picture of a feast, a warm bath, and ample cups of tea as he sat in meditation and the storm raged at his back.

The Doublé V

I began The W Trek in Torres del Paine National Park in Patagonia on February 5th. On my first day, an uncharacteristically calm and clear one, I hiked to the base of Torres Mountain, the most famous of the park’s features. Standing underneath these three peaks jutting into the atmosphere, I had a “don’t blink now” moment. I could not take my eyes off of this astonishing natural formation.

The humungous face of granite and sandstone glittered, its outer layers slick with water from a cascading waterfall tumbling out of a glacier’s mouth. The clouds seemed to play on fast forward, shadows covering the water in rotating sheets. Then the sun broke through and the edges of the spires wore mauve tiaras.

As I marveled at the forest of lenga trees resting just below the towers, the bright green lichen spidered the silver branches and the light was breaking through the leaves. I was thinking about saying “thank you” to the earth for showing good graces today and permitting me good weather. But, then, I thought about how silly it is that we assume Earth exists and functions for us. Those who come face to face with extreme weather regularly or who have seen natural disasters can attest to this: Nature can chew you up and spit you back out again, batter you against her edges, chill you to the bone, spin you around in white water. She does not ask for your forgiveness or your gratitude. She never asked to be a god or a symbol of one.

Over the next few days, hiking miles through this wonderland of varying microclimates, delicate ecosystems, and mind-boggling geological formations, I had a lot of time to get lost in the tunnels of my own conscious mind for both better and worse. I psychoanalyzed myself, went down rabbit holes, and had some interesting thoughts and dialogues with myself, as well as some incredibly stupid and ridiculous ones. But I also experienced a clarity that is difficult to come by in day-to-day life. Out there, I was present in a way that allowed me to recognize that it is not so much that life is complicated, but that I tend to complicate my own life by letting myself be led in directions I know I do not want to go and then having to backtrack, pushed and pulled by forces that speak more to the hardwired part of my brain and less to my essential, honest soul.

On the other side of the W Trek, I was brimming with gratitude and wonder. It felt as though I was waking from a beautiful dream. As I rode the bus into the sunset towards Puerto Natales and away from the park, I stared out of the window at the layers of earth unfolding around me. I looked over my shoulder and I couldn’t tell whether or not the flamingos I was seeing perched at the edge of a salt flat were real. I had to ask someone to confirm that these were indeed flamingos. I chuckled to myself. “Of course they are.”

This sensation was a constant throughout my time in Torres; not quite convinced that what I was seeing, feeling, and experiencing was real. Nothing else outside of that place mattered or existed because of how entirely I was embraced by the existence of it. On my last night at Grey Campsite, I was running through options as I considered my final day. Thoughts like, “I have a full day tomorrow. Should I get back to catch the ferry earlier in the day,” crossed my mind. When I met Laura and Leah, two American travelers doing the O Trek, I was distracted from the need to decide.

With the draw of hiking with friends for a change, I chose to enjoy my day and catch the later ferry. It ended up being a stunning, cloudless, radiant day in Torres. I spent the day with Laura and Leah, high on the buzzing energy that nature provides. Again, I was pushed back and humbled by nature. Slow down. Slow down. Slow. Down. To quote another Mary Oliver poem,

“When I am among trees…they give off such hints of gladness. I would almost say they save me, and daily. I am so distant from the hope of myself, in which I have goodness and discernment, and never hurry through the world, but walk slowly, and bow often.”

I think this sums up the humbling experience one has in nature. You forget your own importance and are swallowed by these giants; trees, mountains, cascading waterfalls, and rainbows. In their breadth, you hear that whisper.

“Stop rushing. There is nowhere to be, but here. Look around you.”

The Unexpected Sheep of Patagonia

Most people do not bop over to Caleta Gonzalo for a day or two and then ferry back to Hornopirén. They continue south on the Carretera Astral, a famous road that swivels through all of the national parks in the Patagonia Circuit. If I had a car or maybe even a bike, this is the route I would go, and the one I would recommend for anyone planning a trip out there. I had made it almost to Chaiten and then had to turn back to catch a flight out of Puerto Montt down to Puerto Natales, the gateway city to the world-renowned Torres Del Paine National Park.

When I boarded the ferry back to Hornopirén I was thinking about how maybe I had wasted money because I was set on getting somewhere without much time. The man working at the front of the ferry recognized me from a few days prior. He smiled and said, “Returning already?”

The ferry ride from Caleta Gonzalo to Hornopirén is split into three parts, one 45-minute ride across the Fiordo Comau, a 10-minute drive from Leptepú to Caleta Porcelana, and then a 3-hour ride across Fiordo Chamanchaca. Shaking these “was it worth it” thoughts from my head, I committed myself to enjoy the ride. I let my shoulders relax down my back as I leaned over the railing and watched the waves crash gently against the moss-covered rocks of the shore, the crystalline water was blue and green and white all at once.

A man walked up to the right of me and began snapping a photo of the picturesque lodge resting at the edge of the shore. I took a few steps backward to get out of his way.

“No no, don’t worry! You aren’t in the way.” His voice was friendly and calm.

“Oh okay.” I chuckled awkwardly and turned my gaze toward the tops of the trees lining the dense forest.

“This forest could potentially produce more carbon than the amazon. It is one of the most complex in the world. Did you know that?” I looked over to see the man’s gaze following the outline of the forest as the boat backed away slowly from the port.

Carlos is a professor of forestry. He researches forests in Patagonia and studies how they function, what they create, and how to preserve them. He can tell you what every tree is, what type of forest exists in each region of Chile, how the green movement in Chile is flawed, and a plethora of other random facts both related and completely unrelated to trees and forests. We turned out to be a perfect match in conversation because these are subjects I could listen to people talk about forever and Carlos loves to talk. We got to talking and suddenly, we had arrived at the end of the first ride.

“I’ll see you soon!” He said as I shuffled to get my backpack and he pranced to his car.

As I stood waiting for the line of cars to disembark from the ferry platform before I walked off to catch the bus I noticed a little white car in the front of the line had stopped. The window rolled down and a woman around my age popped her head out and smiled.

“Would you like a ride to the next ferry?” She said in perfect English.

“SURE!” I ran to the car and dove in with my full backpack still on. “Thank you so much.” I de-pretzeled myself and sat up straight.

Valentin, a bear-like Frenchman from a tiny farming town, smiled at me from the driver’s seat. He wore a leather necklace and a striped shirt and his smile was jovial. He didn’t know much English, but he got by with the help of Merlin, his Dutch partner. Merlin is from The Netherlands. She moved to France four years ago after meeting Valentin. She is kind, practical, and opinionated. The two of them were finishing their month-long trip down the Carretera Astral in a rental car. I could see the yin and yang nature of their relationship immediately.

Upon the next ferry, the three of us found a shady spot on the deck of the ship, hiding from the harsh southern sun. When Carlos strode up the stairs he smiled brightly at me and I waved him over. We had been friends in another life, without a doubt. I introduced him to Merlin and Valentin and the conversation flowed without pause or effort.

Twenty minutes into the ride, a young man in round glasses and a backward hat approached us to ask for some sunscreen. As he lathered his face with the sunscreen I handed him, Carlos and Merlin continued talking about the national park system in Chile. Paolo chimed in, then he sat down, rolled a cigarette, and remained there, the final piece of our eclectic community representing Chile, France, Holland, America, and Italy. Paulo speaks four languages, he knows a lot about everything, yet he is not in the least bit arrogant. The five of us talked about everything from politics to food systems to fish farms to forests to music. Three hours became a sliver of time.

When we reached Hornopirén we went our separate ways to find places to stay and then reconvened an hour later in the town’s Plaza De Armas. We had planned to drink wine and continue the conversation when we were on the ferry. This turned out to be dinner at the local market, pisco sours, wine, and staying up til three in the morning at the cabaña Carlos and Paulo had rented for the evening. When I fell asleep on the couch, I opened my eyes to find my “familia de la ferria” putting blankets over me and telling me to stay.

The most wonderful part of this day is that it was unexpected and that, for each of us, as we later learned, it came at a time when we craved it most. As I wrote in my journal after that day, “Sometimes when our heart yearns for something, we receive it subtly and unexpectedly.”

Merlin and Valentin had set out to meet fellow travelers on their journey but had found it harder to do so while traveling by car, Carlos had been in the forest researching solo for a few days, Paolo was at the end of a few months of solo travel, and I had found myself drifting back into the isolation once more. In a matter of a few swift moments and acts of kindness, we had found each other in that tiny corner of the world and shared a night of friendship that seemed like it had begun eons before that day.

Valentin and Merlin were headed in the direction of Puerto Montt the next day and offered me a ride to save me a bus ticket. I spent the day with them on the road and exploring Alerce National Forrest, a reserve filled with gigantic Alerce trees all between 1000 and 4000 years old. I said goodbye reluctantly, it was nice to travel with other people for a change.

I am learning to cherish the present through travel because, truly, there is no other choice. I meet people and share sacred moments with them and then I must accept the fact that I may never see them again. I love them just the same.

2 Things: Solo travel is not glamorous & you can find people that feel like home everywhere.

As I sat in the grass next to my tent at Rio Caleta Gonzalo Campsite at the edge of Pumalín National Park and ate my dinner of canned tuna and peanut butter sandwiches, I couldn’t help but laugh at myself and at the events of the previous 24 hours. This moment and this day starkly contrasted the serendipitous happenings of days prior.

From booking the wrong ferry and struggling to map out a new plan to waking up soaking wet because my tent could not withstand the heavy dew, to attempting to walk to a trail that turned out to be way further than I expected on foot, to showing up to a one-horse town with nothing but a few slices of bread, a can of tuna, and some peanut butter to sustain me for 24+ hours, to having the worst yeast infection ever whilst camping in my non-water proof tent that I spent way too much money on. If I were experiencing this with someone, we would be cackling at how insane we have been, so this is what I did at that moment.

I am learning that travel is never a steady plane. It is the highest highs and the lowest lows. My mother can tell you about answering the phone to me unable to speak three words without sobbing and telling her I am “so alone” one day to “It’s so amazing here I love everything and everyone,” the next.

The last few days have been a prime example of this. I left Pucón with dread. When I arrived in Chiloé, I immediately judged it. This place is not what I expected. Why did I come here. This isn’t where I want to be. I would have done the same for any place I went. We always let our internal world dictate how we perceive the external world, how can we not? As the days passed and I explored the island, the people I met, the little corners of the world I wandered through, hidden roads, and unexpected sweetness began to open me again. I had shut myself off to the world because I didn’t want to leave something behind, because I was afraid that if I moved forward, I would forget. I experience this all of the time, a sort of future nostalgia.

On my way to Cucao on the bus from Castro, I met an older man named Nano. He had whispy, white eyebrows and kind blue eyes. We began speaking about my travels, about our lives, about the vibrant Island of Chiloé, and his home on the sea. Of course, when I say speaking here it is relative. My Spanish is improving SLOWLY. He told me his daughter lived near the national park I would be visiting and that, if I wanted, I could come visit them and have some tea later on. I took down the contact of his daughter on WhatsApp and left Nano waving at me and saying “Hasta Pronto.”

Later, when I went to contact his daughter, Angela, the contact had not saved. Using the photo that Angela had sent to Nano’s phone of her home that I had taken a photo of (Nano had handed me his phone to text with Angela on the bus ride) I attempted to find them. I didn’t want to lose the opportunity to hear their stories. I asked Nano if I could take his photo and he told me “when I see you later.” I very much so wanted to find them.

This led me on a journey of wandering through the quiet town on the outskirts of Cucao with a few dirt roads intermingling towards the sea and quaint cabañas of all colors speckling the hillsides. Cows grazed freely amongst the tall plants flowering yellow. Bright green parrots with crimson tails moved in packs from tree to tree. The smell of a distant barbecue and a coastal floral scent filled the air. The beach stretched to the horizon with layers of green hills overlapping around it. I had not found Nano and Angela, but meeting him on the bus led me to rediscover the magic of getting lost. I thought about how It is impossible to be lost when you don’t know where you are going in the first place. When I stopped looking, I found exactly what I needed. Chiloé taught me this daily over four days.

Anytime that loneliness began to creep back in, another person appeared who wanted to connect. When I sat in La Patroncita Restaurant alone at a table near the window waiting to try Curanto (the famous dish of Chiloé) a round faced little girl in a pink hat and a Snoopy shirt plopped down in the chair across from me. She talked faster than any Chilean I have met thus far and I understood maybe 30% of what she was saying to me. My Spanish is worse than a seven year old’s… “Soy Florencia.” She began telling me everything about her day. Her mom worked en the cocina I was eating at. When I told her I was from America she gasped, “En serio??? Conoce Billy Eilish? Me encanta Billy Eilish.” I learned that her favorite food is McDonald’s, she loves all things Disney, and she LOVES Billy Eilish most of all. I found this funny. There I was trying to experience another culture, and there she was, telling me all the things she knew about mine. Of course, this was quite sad. Disney + McDonalds= America, right? I would say it’s a pretty reasonable equation. When I left, she gave me a big hug and said, "If you are here tomorrow, you should come back.” I told her I would try, but I did not return.

I met Nano on the bus the day after that and then there was Mario and Tara, a couple from Santiago who sat next to me at a restaurant in Delcahue, a port city in Chiloé just north of Castro. Mario carried a huge fly swatter with him everywhere. There are MASSIVE horseflies that frequent trails in South Central Chile. He wore a black Mercedes cap. Tara had a shining gold tooth that twinkled when she smiled. She kept turning to me and pointing to things on her plate, “Este es mal. NO ME GUSTA. Te gusta???.” I spent the rest of the afternoon exploring with them. When it was time for me to catch a bus, they walked me to my bus station and waited with me to board. Tara referred to me as “La Gringa Linda. The nice foreigner.” Usually, “gringo,” has a negative tone to it, but in Chile, it is sometimes used as a friendly jab.

As I left Chiloé on the bus, I thought about how wildly different my experience became once I opened myself up to a place and stopped comparing it to another.

After two long bus rides, I arrived in a tiny coastal town called Hornopirén. I had not made previous arrangements for sleeping that night, and I had acquired a tent in Chiloé to give me a cheaper, more spur-of-the-moment option for the “plan as little as possible” mentality I have on this journey. The bus plopped us in the center of the town’s Plaza de Armas. Vendors lined the middle walkway with their handicrafts splayed on wooden tables. The breeze carried the salty scent of the sea and the massive granite peaks towered into a deep blue sky-signaling the beginning of “the Patagonia circuit.”

I found a campsite on a map and began walking towards it. Five minutes into the walk Donna pulled up in her tiny red car wearing a Yankees ball cap, a tie-die t-shirt, and a wide smile. In the passenger seat sat Pedro, a young man from Concepción traveling Patagonia. They were on a beer run. She asked if I happened to be looking for a site called “Camping Hornopirén.” When I said yes, she said “Perfecto. Podemos llevarte!” Not having to walk more with a backpack is always a reason to agree to a ride (only if it is safe…).

The site was a sprawling green front yard on Donna’s property right on the beach. The ocean sparkled in the evening sun, the colors of the mountains and the tree tops vivified with that illuminating golden light.

“When you set up your tent, come to the main house just over there. We got oysters today on our kayaks. We made Curanto.”

I wandered over to the main house, a red cabana-style home with a hammock hanging on the deck, and the curtains swaying in the windows. In the sideyard, a group of five others sat around a hole in the ground as the embers smoked the muscles and oysters resting atop a metal grate. Pedro offered me a beer, Donna served me a plate of muscles, with a bowl of soup (made from white wine), and a lemon on the side and showed me how to eat the oyster properly. Oscar, her partner, took my plate momentarily and placed a slab of pork, sausage, and potatoes from a sizzling pot next to the oysters. I met Pedro’s girlfriend, Valentina, and Sebastian, a traveler from Santiago. Together we slurped up oysters, listened to music, and looked out at the fading sun falling into the sea. I knew in that moment that this would stay with me for years to come as all the small, profound moments stay vivid in our memories. This would be the moment I held onto as I ate that tuna and swatted at moscas outside of my little yellow tent in Caleta Gonzalo listening to the raging laughter from a neighboring campsite’s fiesta.

On the Other Side: Osiel

“Do you believe in a love at first sight? Yes. I’m certain that it happens all the time.”

— The Beatles

When I walked into the tour agency the next morning, after missing the hike the day prior, and having a “back to self” moment, I was refreshed with a newfound goal to release control and go where my heart takes me. The guide was chatting with another couple who had arrived before the rest of the group got there. I sat down next to my pre-prepared gear and waited for him to finish his conversation and tell me what to do.

I was in a cheery mood for the early hours of morning. The energy that exists at the beginning of an adventure lingered on the slowly ascending darkness of dawn. Augustine, the agency’s owner, picked me up from my hostel, along with two other people, in his utility truck and I immediately relaxed. He was playing Argentinian rock and drinking mate. His hair was awry and he wore a knitted brown vest over his long sleeve shirt. I knew I was in good company.

I had only seen the side of the guides face, some facial hair, a wooden earring, a baseball cap shadowing his face. When he stopped talking to the couple he turned around fully to face me. We locked eyes for a moment and there was a steady buzzing in my stomach. The room seemed to brighten and every other noise faded into the background. He paused for a second before continuing and his tone grew softer when he began to speak again.

“I’m your guide, Osiel.” He reached out his hand to me.

His eyes were warm and honest, his hands belonged to a mountaineer, large and rugged. I wanted to know everything about him.

The ascent to the highest point people are allowed to climb on Viliarica, Pucón’s active volcano, takes about 3-5 hours depending on the pace of the group. Our pace was a bit slower. An opportunity to try another hand at the whole patience thing once more. I know I need it desperately.

The time seemed to pass just as it should and I found it fairly easy to have patience. I was taking in the magic of the rugged natural beauty I had found myself in; reveling at our place above the clouds, the snowy peaks of the countless mountaintops and volcanoes surrounding Pucón peeking out from the feathery sheets, the succulents and tiny life forms growing from lava rock, the plume of smoke steadily rising from the summit ahead of us. It was easy to lose myself in the beat of the ascent, especially in the snow with the crunch under each shuffled step. But, something else was happening. I could feel myself being drawn to him.

For the first part of the climb, I was following directly behind him. We got to chatting and before long, found ourselves too far ahead of the rest of the group and the other guide. From then on, he led the pack and I was at the end with Leo, his partner for the day and another tenacious mountain guide. If I stayed with him in the front, our pace would not have matched everyone else’s. Each time we paused, I found myself trying to be near him, except, it was subtle. I can best describe it as a humming, like something inside of me grew jubilant when he was next to me and then settled effortlessly again when we parted.

We reached the highest point after about 5 hours of slow climbing and feasted on the remainder of the snacks we each packed for the day. The fog settled in around us and a cold wind blew through our huddled picnic. Sledding down the side of a volcano was less terrifying than it sounds. The guides have created a sort of “luge” that travels in a snaked shape down the slope. I felt that giddy joy of a little kid sledding for the first time as we cruised back down the mountainside.

Once we reached a lower altitude, the snow vanished returning us back to the lava rock. The fog cleared to reveal the multitude of cobalt-blue lakes and the lush green valley of Pucón. The bright orange ski lift moved slowly up and down the mountain. We stopped for a beer at the ski lodge, now reserved for hikers in the summer season. The group sat down at a table and I wandered over to a lookout spot. I stood with my arms resting on the wooden railing. Osiel walked up next to me and began pointing out all of the sights I was seeing,

“That is Villarica lake, over there is Quetrupillan volcano, there is the most beautiful beach in Pucón to watch the sunset.”

As he spoke I looked to each spot, but my eyes were drawn back to him, and all I could think about was how I would like to go to that beach with him. With the hard part of the journey complete, we picked up the pace down to the van. Osiel and I, again, trailed ahead. A hot breeze moved through the Araucana trees, a trail of dust fluttered, birds chirped, and there it was once more. The humming. I found myself speaking whatever came to my mind. I had no fears with him. When he finally mentioned doing something together, I was reassured, although I had known it already, “You didn’t make this up in your head. This is not one sided.”

We went for dinner that evening. He took me to try a Chilean local dish-Pastel De Choclo at a market run by the native people of South-Central Chile, The Mapuche. We sat side by side, laughing, sharing stories, trying to practice my Spanish together. Time was no consequence. This led to a sunset at La Plata (the beach he had pointed at earlier from the lookout point) and a night at the base of the volcano staring up at the milky way and a thick blanket of stars as the orange glow of lava hovered over Villarica.

What was supposed to be a few days in Pucón turned out to be almost ten days. I knew there was something there for me. My heart longed for a place I thought only existed in my dreams. I found it there with him, but not because of him. I can’t explain it any other way. These days with him were truly breathtaking. He took me everywhere. From scaling Via Ferrata, to ice climbing Mirador Glacier, to swimming in the crystalline water of Caburgua, to enjoying an evening with his co-workers on the riverside. He opened his home to me, shared his life with me and (I am not saying this for the storyline) I really, truly believe I fell in love with him in just a few precious days.

I was sad to leave this person who has shown me such kindness, and this place that has wrapped me tenderly in it’s embrace.

Osiel has taught me patience, has taught me dedication to what we love, and a deep level of caring for others. He is soft when the world has been unkind to him, when it would be easy for him to be hard. He has found solstice in the mountains, in the steady rhythm of the ascent. He is fearless, but never rash when it comes to nature. He understands the unpredictability, of the volcano, of the earth, yet he continues to climb. He is tender down to his bones, nurturing to everyone and everything from his dogs to his garden to his friends. He is confidant, yet he does not boast, capable and daring, yet patient and supportive towards those less skilled than him. I could go on about this man and I will for years to come.

My heart was heavy leaving Pucón, in the best way. It grounded me, stretched me, and cracked my heart wide open. And this person. This person, no matter whether or not we meet again, is who I will cling to whenever I start to doubt that deep, soul-level connection is out there and remember that when I find it, I must say yes to it no matter how hard it is to let it go when the time comes.

As the bus rounded the corner from the station in Pucón and the pink light of the morning grew brighter, I listened to music and the tears grew thick. Saying goodbye to this person who I’ve become so fond of in just a matter of days seemed, in the moment, the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I knew I would one day look back on it with softness and understand that I have done and will do much harder things, that in a world filled with suffering, this aching was miniscule. I wanted to turn around immediately, to run back to him, to stay, maybe forever.

In the last few days, I’ve realized hard and fast that what I’ve held onto for all of my life truly exists. There is a type of love that is not dictated by language or place or time or appearance. One that begins with a steady humming of the air and a glint caught in an eye and continues with a soft, unspoken knowing. That shows you a world you never thought it was possible to see. In just one week, I lived a lifetime with Osiel. Held and holding, falling, flying, grounded with him, but not tethered to him. Despite the fist clenching in my heart leaving him and leaving Pucón, I can’t help but think, “How beautiful.” How wonderful, that on the other side of fear and loneliness, I found deep connection, exploration, and an opportunity to know a soul who touched my own profoundly.

The World Always Goes on.

Notes on the Process:

I have found, so far, that traveling solo is both a magnifying glass and a zoom out tool. With it, I am face to face with my shortcomings, my misjudgments, my fears, my reactions. I have already been shown parts of myself that I hadn’t known existed, both positive and negative. On the other end of that is the understanding of how little I know, of how vast the world is, and how small I am in the face of it. Travel is a mirror to life in the simplest sense. Things go wrong, you must pivot. Nothing is the same as how you imagine it and if you cling too tightly to the idea of a place, you miss out on allowing the journey to open you, you miss out on the present moment, on the process.

The process includes fear, it includes loneliness, it includes overwhelm. But the beauty exists in this process, it is not separate from it. I can be filled to the brim with awe and wonder one moment, touched by the kindness of a stranger, struck with inspiration while learning about another culture, and then be floundering in unfamiliarity, polarized from my self and from the world.

The influencers don’t tell you. It is possible to be grateful, joyful, inspired, loving, overwhelmed, sad, frustrated, lost all at once. In fact, it is more than possible, it is entirely real. The arrows of Mara continue to dart towards you even as you live your dreams. Mara is a demon in Buddhism that I learned about at a retreat that I attended in Bozeman. I conceptualize Mara as our own ego or subconscious. We are hit with the first arrow, which is the initial feeling, such as anger, frustration, impatience, and the second arrow is that voice in our head that tells us to be shameful of the initial reaction. Feeling this sense of longing for a familiar face or atmosphere, I grew frustrated with myself. As I looked up at an astonishing snow capped volcano jutting into the sky, the breeze from the lakeside moved through my hair, Chilean folk music surrounded me and I thought, “How could I possibly long for anything right now, with this as my reality?” I should not. I should not. I should not. And, yet, I do. This is part of the process, it is all one in the same complex, beautiful, emotional, chaotic, exhilarating, terrifying web of life.

Notes on Relearning:

When talking to a friend a few years ago, they told me that for them it is always important to have an intention while traveling as with everything else. From that point on, I decided that this is important to me, too.

It is easy to lose sight of this intention if I do not reconnect to it often. Upon arriving to Pucón, Chile’s adventure capital, and to my hostel packed with backpackers doing all of the things, I got sucked into it all again. The FearOfMissingOut game, the “more more more” game.” Instead of considering my intention and authentic needs, I have been falling into my shadow telling me, “you aren’t doing enough if you don’t do it all while you’re here.”

I have been so absorbed in deciding what to do next that I have forgotten the point. Presence. I had the chance to relearn this today. Miscommunication between the tour company and I made for an early morning of waiting around for a tour van that never came. Of course, I was frustrated. I had gotten up at 4am to summit a volcano, damnit!

Awake before the sun, I wandered the empty streets of a sleepy Pucón, I stumbled upon a local biathlon race where a group of people gathered on the beach as the lush green hills radiated in flecks of morning light. I sat on a bench, listened to the birds, breathed deeply. Something in me said, “perhaps, there is something else meant for me today.” Maybe that something occurred right there and then. That silence, that sharpness of the day just as the sun breaks through. That moment was teaching me patience, reconnecting me to my intention. To be present, to be okay with uncertainty, to trust myself, to hear and tell stories, to listen, listen, listen to my heart, to the world, to the unassuming vibration of the universe.

I was reminded of the Mary Oliver poem, Wild Geese, as I sat there.

“You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about your despair. I’ll tell you mine. Meanwhile, the world goes on.”

The world always goes on. The feeling always passes. This moment is the only one that exists and it is my greatest teacher.

The First Hours: Santiago Ft. Camille

I have found that this intention to tell stories of the people I meet has manifested quite effortlessly. Within the first few hours of my time in Santiago, I have already met some incredible souls.

A quick review on my time in Santiago up until the point of writing this:

Running on two hours of shitty airplane sleep, I found myself half asleep, but somehow wide awake as I walked the quiet Sunday streets of Bellavista Barrio in Santiago, Chile. It reminds me of Los Angeles-a city bustling with cyclists and joggers at the edges of a desert and just a hillside away from the sea. It is arid and warm. I arrived at my quaint hostel- Eco-Hostel Tambo Verde to find the sweetest hostess and a sleepy cat. This place feels like an extension of myself. Behind its modest red walls lies a tiny bohemian sanctuary. Books line the light wooden shelves and green wooden chairs line the tables set with clay eatery.

Not able to check in for a few hours, I wandered the streets, desperately in need of food. I walked through multiple parks filled with families and people practicing taekwon-do, and found myself at a hole in the wall coffee shop called Original Green Coffee where Camille made me a glorious cortado with excellent microfoam (for my coffee people out who may or may not be reading this), and a much needed omelette. I journaled while there. I wrote. “As the plane began its decent into Santiago, I felt the jitters and was asking myself things like: What am I doing? Can I even do this? Can I travel alone for months? What if this happens? My first few hours here have whispered all is well, TODO ESTA BIEN!”

Just after I put my pen down, I ran into a lady from my flight. We chatted for a few minutes in which I told her “I want to get better at speaking Spanish.” Camille, working her barista magic behind the coffee bar chimed in.

“I want to practice my English. We can help each other.” We talked for another hour or so, me with my terrible Spanish, and her with her impressive English. She offered to show me around Santiago whilst we practice our “second languages.”

I, of course, said HELL YES. This woman, who knew me for all of one hour, offered to take time out of her day to show a foreigner around her city. How often does this happen I the states?

So this leads me to Camille:

Camille is not just a barista. She is a coffee QUEEN. Her knowledge of the coffee world is extensive and her passion for coffee shines through her. She is also a photographer and videographer, a graphic designer, an anime lover, and a former kpop-style dancer.

She has a vision for the future of coffee and we talked extensively about the possibilities out there to create a more sustainable, just, and equitable chain of coffee production. She wants to figure out a way to connect farmers throughout South America to shops within and outside of South America in a way that is conducive to both shop owner and farmer.

She tells me that there is a broken chain (cadena rota). The disconnect begins, she believes, because of a language barrier. A lot of shop owners want to buy beans directly from the source, but often, only the farmers who are able to speak multiple languages are able to maintain relationships with buyers. This is why, there are often multiple brands and shops buying coffee from the same co-op of farms. I hadn’t thought of this before, even though it makes SO much sense. With the amount of coffee farms that are producing, or can produce, beans and the amount of coffee shops still popping up in cities around the world, there should be enough business for all parties to benefit.

I met Camille in the park around the corner from her coffee shop. She biked up to the bench I was sitting on, in the shade of a plantanus orientalis tree in Parque Forestal, on the outskirts of Bellavista. The sun glinted from her glasses, her blue helmet slanted slightly atop her head, her bleached bangs poking out on her forehead, her face cloaked in a wide grin. She was breathing heavily in the heat. It was 80 degrees (more like 87 with that southern hemisphere sun radiating).

“You know there are like four parks around here, no? I didn’t know which one.” She was still smiling.

“Ahhh. Lo siento!” I replied dumbly. After a few days navigating Santiago, I now know what she meant. Parks sprawling hundreds of blocks line the highways in this area of the city.

Camille just returned to her home-town of Santiago after spending two years in Cork, Ireland where she spent her time learning English and working at a local coffee shop. She told me that during this time she learned that there are many things she loves about her country and many things she wishes were different.

“South Americans are so together.” She talks with her hands and brings her two hands towards each other. “We do everything together. Every activity is with our family or with others. I realized I like to do some things alone. But, one thing I like about us is we [South Americans] are always trying to find the solution, we aren’t waiting for someone to do it for us, like in western places.”

She came away from her western coffee shop experience with an even deeper sense of purpose, as she realized just how essential it is to reconnect shop owners to coffee farmers and repair la cadena rota. After spending an afternoon with her, I have a strong inking that she will accomplish what she sets out to do. She doesn’t seem to be easily dismayed.

Airport Musings

“One way or another, we all have to find what best fosters the flowering of our humanity in this contemporary life, and dedicate ourselves to that.”

As I sit at the Atlanta Airport waiting for my flight to Santiago, Chile and beyond, there is a myriad of thoughts crossing my mind.

The first is privilege. Travel is an experience accessible to only a few in the world. Almost half the U.S population alone lives below the poverty line. Some who immigrate to the U.S can never leave in fear of deportation. Some who come from other countries want to stay, but cannot. Some work three jobs with five mouths to feed. Some work grueling hours just to be able to afford rent. Some hold jobs as teachers, social workers, doctors, lawyers, etc., and are not able to take much time off. Not to mention, non-U.S or EU passport holders do not have the option of going anywhere they please. There are many people who only ever dream of traveling to far off places.

When thinking about myself in this equation, I hesitate to say I’ve worked hard to get to where I am. Sure, I’ve made freelance writing a career for myself. I’ve held fast and strong to my passion for travel and my desire to see the world whilst making a living, and in some ways, that has become my reality in the present. But had I not had a support system to fall back on, had I not known that if I did not succeed I would still have a roof over my head and food on the table, I couldn’t have done it. Had I not used the connections of friends and family to get work, I may never have gotten here.

What I mean is to be able to dream and ideate and dedicate time to discovering and growing is a privilege. To travel the world basking in new experiences is a privilege. I don’t ever want to forget that.

I have this notion that I will discover a truer and deeper side of myself and of the world during my travels through South America. I dream of making travel a larger part of my everyday existence, of making it more accessible, of highlighting the stories of people around the world, of writing to educate and inspire. I think this may give me a window on how to get there. In the name of this notion, I am taking a jaunt to another continent…To some, this seems unnecessary. Perhaps, they would suggest I start smaller.

I have two follow up thoughts on that. The first is this: I have only ever learned and grown softer through travel. If nothing else I leave with a broader perspective and memories to carry with me. And the second: When we discover what it is that takes us outside of our own limiting beliefs about the world and ourselves, that shows us how to be present, patient, and kind, to be free of the burdens of constant striving and rehashing, I think it is our right and our duty to chase it.

My dad likes to tell me that I “don’t live in reality.” Not in an undermining way. He means it more in the sense that I see the world differently than he does. I’ve always gotten upset and defensive when he’s said that to me. I know, now, that he grew up in a different time. One where “freelancing” was not a thing and “work from home” seemed absolutely ludicrous.

I read a quote by Joseph Campbell a little while back that summed up my thoughts in a beautiful expression.

“One way or another, we all have to find what best fosters the flowering of our humanity in this contemporary life, and dedicate ourselves to that.”

I believe in the necessity of the things that flower our humanity. Not just in my own life, but in life itself. I could go into a long tangent listing all of the ways that society keeps us from doing this, of a world so technologically connected yet so emotionally disconnected, of a digression from what is true and good.

What connects me most to my humanity? What humbles me and inspires me? It’s travel, writing and reading, trying new things, and sharing stories. It’s that simple. I am not going to find something. I am going because travel allows me to step outside of myself and be fully present, untethered to all the conventions, aware of the harmonious beauty and chaotic darkness of the world, more willing to listen. I recognize that not everyone can dedicate as much time as I do to finding those things that light them up, that I do not have as much on the line, but the fact that I have this opportunity, to me, means that it is even more integral to go for it.

Backpacking through South America is an unoriginal idea. I am not the first. I will not be the last. I am not doing anything noteworthy, not riding my bike from the US to Patagonia, not free soloing El Chalten. Yeah, there are risks with solo travel. Almost as many risks as taking to the highway in the US.

Not learning Spanish in depth beforehand, having an extremely loose plan, mapping the W Trek on my own, not meeting people to travel with on the road; these are the things I’m worried about. THESE ARE THE THINGS I’M WORRIED ABOUT… How incredibly grateful I feel at this moment that beyond that, I do not have to worry much at all.

This blog is meant to be less about me (that’s what they all say…SIGH) and more about the people that I meet along the way. Stay tuned for that.

The Intention

“To travel is to discover that everyone is wrong about other countries.” -Aldous Huxley

There is a TedTalk given by Chimamanda Adichie where she talks about “the single story” of a place, a stereotyped view of a country or group of people that only allows a single idea of that place and those people. She uses the example of her hometown, Enugu, Nigeria. In the West, Africa is painted as an impoverished place filled with suffering and unrest. Unsafe, unclean, wild. Sure, there is poverty, there is civil war in some areas. Unfortunately, some form of this is present all over the world. It is also a place filled with tradition, vibrant culture, self-sufficiency, community, love, and natural beauty. It is a place where people celebrate life each day it is given to them. 

When I did a Semester at Sea in college, I was introduced to the South African phrase: Ubuntu, which means I am because you are. It reflects shared humanity present across the globe and celebrates the richness of diversity, of culture, of sharing stories. As I have continued to travel, I have held onto this word. Each place I’ve gone has cracked my heart wide open. We all want love, we all want self-sufficiency, we all want community. 

This was true on my trip to Colombia in March of 2023. Before traveling alone as an American female, I was met with wide eyes and looks of terror from my grandparents, parents, and older friends especially. “Be carefullllll.” They would drawl. Sure, Colombia has seen its fair share of crime, corruption, and violence. Medellín once saw the most violence per square foot in the world. I coudn’t blame them for worrying. After all, they had only read the single story. 

What I found in Colombia was a gorgeous terrain of lush green hillsides, stunning beaches, and vibrant cities rich with bustling life. I was touched by the kindness of its people, the endless generosity, and constant gratitude for another day of life. In a local bar in Salento, the staff took turns leading me through salsa steps. The families I stayed with wanted nothing more than to show me their magical country, to feed me, to laugh with me, to teach me Spanish. As I sat on the beach in Taganga, I spoke Spanglish with Ana Cecilia, an elegant, kind, energetic Colombian woman who takes living life to the fullest seriously. She said, “This is such a beautiful country and yet all the people on the outside see is a place with a hard past, somewhere dangerous and corrupt.” She took her hand and moved it through the air in a sweeping motion. I followed the motion, taking in the tangerine sun beginning its decent, the sea a muted purple, the sky streaked in pink, the hillsides speckled with white homes glowing gold in the evening light, the families dancing on the beach, and the boys playing fútbol barefoot in the sand. She didn’t have to say anything for me to know what she meant.  “Yet, here we are.”

I am returning to South America in January. I plan to backpack from Chile, to Argentina, Brazil, and back to Colombia for 3 to 4 months, with the intent of allowing myself to get lost and go where my heart leads me. I want to use this notion of the single story as a backdrop to my travels, to uncover, once more, that the only way to disrupt the stories we’ve been told our whole lives about a place is to go and experience them for ourselves and see that, often times, they are wildly wrong. Debunking the myths and uncovering the truths through unfiltered experience, to tell the stories of people like Ana Cecelia who exist in every corner of the world. I will be using the platform WorkAway to find homestays where I will stay, and, in exchange, lend a helping hand to local families. I will hear stories from families who run hostels in small Chilean towns bordering Patagonia like Cochamó and sustainable farmers teaching permaculture in the hills outside of Cali, Colombia.