What was I thinking?

I often wonder why my brain works the way it does.

Just one month ago, I altogether gave up coffee. Cold turkey. And I haven’t touched the stuff since. Tomorrow, I am flying into Colombia... a country that boasts one of the best coffee roasts in the world. In fact, my hostel in chilly Bogota offers free hot coffee service All. Day. Long.

What was I thinking?

Two weeks ago, I purchased a shiny new pair of Newton running shoes (which by the way are awesome). "If I wear these out the door now, can you donate my old pair for me?" I asked the salesman. Old Asics trainers, well-worn, comfortable, and absolutely perfect for trekking around South America, were thus left behind.

What was I thinking?

While hastily packing up my old apartment in New York, I was all too happy to minimize my possessions by donating or selling as much as possible. One casualty of the move: my trusty green Eagle Creek traveler’s backpack – the perfect size bag, the one that had molded to my frame and fit me perfectly, the same bag that had traveled to all corners of the globe with me during the last 14 years – was tossed into the "donate" pile without a second thought other than: I am too old to be backpacking!

What was I thinking?

In this gap between New York City and Location-To-Be-Determined, I hoped to go somewhere peaceful and calm where I could practice yoga – maybe take a teacher training course – do some writing, pitch some article ideas, prepare for the State Department exam, apply for a Fulbright... Instead, I find myself getting shot in the ass with a Yellow Fever vax, packing up a new wheeling duffel bag (it has backpack straps!) with every medicine known to man, leaving behind both my yoga mat and my laptop, and embarking on a one-month tour of South America.

When I booked this trip, I don’t know what I was thinking. But I am pretty sure that when all is said and done, I won’t have any regrets.

Crisis of confidence

Yesterday, while driving my sister’s minivan to the nearest Target store, I got smashed into by a car that had spun out of control on the freeway. Four cars total were involved, but thankfully that minivan is sturdy and everyone was fine. For over an hour, I was one of those people standing by the roadside being gawked at by slow-moving, donut-munching drive-bys, as though they had never seen an accident before.



I was annoyed, and in that moment, I wished I was in New York City taking subways and not having to deal with these incidents. And I realized this irony: I feel safer and more comfortable in big, hectic cities than I do in a suburban, strip-mall, drive everywhere because there is no other option, type of environment.

The irritation I felt helped me to overcome the nagging fear that has been haunting me for the past few days. In regards to my upcoming trip, I have been told by nearly everyone I know to be careful, be safe, bad things happen in South American cities, watch my back, pack mace, don't get kidnapped, etc. I get that this comes from a place of love, but it is really starting to get to me, and I have begun to drive myself crazy with doubts about my decision to travel alone.

But why? I lived in New York City for 5 years. Before that, Barcelona. Before that, San Francisco. I have traveled in Johannesburg, New Delhi, Istanbul, Havana, Beijing. In all these places, I was fine – in fact, I loved every moment of it all.

Cities, I get. Travel, I get. Hanging out in Suburbia... not so much.

Rio might be dangerous. Caracas might be complicated. Bogota might be challenging. The threat of malaria and yellow fever may be high throughout the region. But I think I would rather deal with all that madness then stand on the edge of a freeway during rush hour, somewhere in the middle of here and nowhere.

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PS: for those still in doubt, Richard McColl writes an excellent and concise article for Matador Travel - with gorgeous photos attached - Why Colombia is Not as Dangerous as You Think

Spin the globe

“Hey Evan, how about this” I said. “Next time you go to your dad’s house, spin the globe. Wherever your finger stops, that’s where I’ll go.”

He looked up at me with those big brown eyes, and a knowing smile lit up his face. He seemed to understand: my life is wide open at the moment. The possibilities are infinite. That blank page before me is, to steal a line from a song, unwritten.

Two weeks later, a telephone call and a sweet 10-year-old voice reveal my potential destination: “Auntie, I spun the globe! You are going to… (hey Adam, what was that place called? Oh yeah)…. Ecuador!”

Ecuador. Hmmmm..... this sounds rather appealing. Can I do it? A quick perusal of my near-empty calendar reveals that the next 5 weeks of my life involve obligations amounting to zero. I am technically without a home (although my sister in Mass has been awesome). For the next 2 weeks, she and the kids will be in California visiting the family. I will be alone in Suburbia, in a big house with a pool, a minivan and cable TV. All this for a gal fresh off the boat from Manhattan. If I don’t make some plans soon, it frightens me to think what might become of me.

Maybe Evan is onto something? Apart from two short trips to Buenos Aires, South America remains one of those continents I have managed to miss for the past 13 years of traveling. And I speak Spanish. No, since you might ask, I have no solid income and very little savings. But I have the time. So if not now, when?

And so it is. Decision finally made. Based purely on economic practicalities, i.e. the cheapest flights available, I now have a semblance of plan. In 5 days time, I will fly into Bogota. One month later, I will return from Rio. Everything in between remains a mystery.

Ecuador itself may or may not happen this time around, but at least the kid got me pointed in the right direction.