the galapagos | 1

From my journal. These pictures were all taken on San Cristobal island, where the sea lions are in charge.

Zan woke up at 4:45am sick to his stomach. We ate at La Hacienda last night, an upscale Argentinian steakhouse in the JW Marriott in Quito. I'm still surprised we stayed at the Marriott, but with only about 10 hours between arriving in Quito and needing to be at the airport to leave for the Galapagos, it was a quick and restful solution. That oversize, comfortable mattress and plush bedding was absolutely worth it. Dinner at the steakhouse was a delicious splurge, but after eating vegetarian and healthy in the Chugchilan for the last 3-4 days, it was too heavy for both of us.

We got to the airport around 6:10am; it was only a 25-30 minute drive from Quito so early in the morning. It still cost about $35USD, and I can't get over not having a public transportation option to the airport. Our taxi driver was Julio, a nice, friendly man. He and I practiced our English and Spanish with each other in between my yawns.

At the airport, we waited in a short line for Galapagos travelers to pay a $10 fee. Is it for the airport? The park? We pay another $100 fee once we arrive on the island.

Speaking of arriving... we haven't booked a hotel yet. It's high season and almost Christmas, but surprisingly I'm not worried about it. We're planning to wing it, and that's exciting. I made a list of 5-6 viable options near Puerto Ayora in Santa Cruz so we at least have an idea of where to start looking.

As our plane began boarding just minutes ago, I noticed the sign at our gate read: City: San Cristobal. Errr....what?!

We had, I thought, booked our flights in and out of Santa Cruz. To be fair, we booked our flights after hiking on the ridge in the Andes two days ago, and we were on the verge of delirium. Zan pulled up his flight confirmation email (yay free wifi in the new Quito airport!), and sure enough - we're flying into San Cristobal island, not Santa Cruz.

I quickly used the last few minutes we had in the airport (waiting in line to board) to find a potential guesthouse and take screen shots of the WikiTravel page to read on the flight. I have some research with me on all of the islands in the Galapagos so we're not totally starting from scratch.

I'm stoked. It's bizarre and funny, and just the kind of adventure I need to get my slow-moving blood pumping this morning. This is almost as good as my fantasy of showing up at an airport with no clue where I'm going. It's like Galapagos Roulette!

We also lucked out that the woman seated next to me on the flight speaks English and is from San Cristobal. She offered us numerous tips on what to do and see. If my 10 minutes talking with her is any indication, we're going to love the people and island.

Galapagos day 1 - here we go! 

stone tower winery is a great new addition to virginia wine

Stone Tower Winery produces two Chardonnays - Lacey and Lauren - named after the owners' daughters. Lacey likes Lauren's oaky, creamy chardonnay, and Lauren prefers Lacey's acidic, floral, lighter version. Stories like these are one of the many reasons that I love Virginia wine. The industry is still small enough that every winery visit feels like you're being invited into someone's home.

The winery is situated on Hogback Mountain - also home to a paintball field (though I didn't see it on the long, winding dirt road drive). The tasting room is in a large, beautiful old barn. I relished the small details. Names of wine varietals are painted on rocks from the property. The names of their wines and vintages are hand-painted on slabs of wood and hung tastefully around the tasting room. Photos from weddings held on the property show off the beauty of the landscape. And there's an equestrian theme that suits the old (but refurnished and modernized) barn - complete with riding hats on the banquet tables on the second floor. The ambiance is just as good - even on a wet and gray Saturday like this past one when we ventured out to Loudon County, Stone Cold Winery was warm, welcoming, and inviting.

Jeremy, a manager, poured our wine tasting. Jess, Zander, and I opted for the reserve tasting - and might I suggest you do the same? It's $15 for all of their current vintages and a few of their stellar older ones, as well (6 total). Jeremy and Jess talked shop while I snapped pictures and listened intently; wine tasting is serious business, and it's clear that Stone Tower prides themselves on making great wines.

We started off with a champagne-based sparkling wine, and I was "bubbling" over with happiness. It's rare to find sparkling wine at Virginia wineries, especially dry, crisp, citrusy ones. I loved it so much I ordered a glass to enjoy while we were there and bought a bottle to take home. When it came to the Chardonnays, Jess and I enjoyed the Lacey, and Zan enjoyed the Lauren more. Jess loved the 2012 Viognier. It has huge minerals and a very round mouth feel. I love Viognier, but this one kept taking me by surprise... I still can't decide if I liked it. Zan's favorite wine is their Sanglier Noble. It has a great nose of cherry, currants, baking spices - basically winter in a glass. I wanted to pair it with dark chocolate. To be honest, it lacked a little complexity on my palate, but Zander would beg to differ.

Stone Tower is new in the Virginia wine scene, and it's an incredibly welcome addition. I can't wait to get back when the air is a little warmer and the whole vineyard is ablaze with spring colors and enjoy a few more glasses of their sparkling wine.

life lately | january

January felt like the start of a race without the "ready" and "set" - just the blast of the gunshot and "GO!" We enjoyed every second of our last day of adventure and easy breathing in Quito on New Year's Eve with friends - one old and a handful new. We bolted to the airport to catch our 12:30am flight, and it feels like from those long minutes of trying (and repeatedly failing) to hail a cab in Quito to make our flight on time all the way to February 1, we didn't stop running.

The pace picked up the second we landed in Atlanta on the 1st. At 6:00am, Zan and I parted ways for our 12-hour layover; I spent the day with my family, and Zan spent it with his best friends and goddaughter. It bummed us out to split up and not see the people that mean the most to each other, but we wanted to make the most of the time we had.

When we finally landed in DC on the evening of the 1st, we were both bone-tired. I cried when Zan hugged me goodbye in my apartment. The emotion of such a long, incredible trip being over got to me. But there wasn't much time for dwelling on all that. My graduate school applications were all due in the first half of the month. I had 80% of them completed before I left, but I needed to finalize essays (so many essays!), make sure my last recommendations came in, get transcripts and other materials uploaded... and then get started on finishing my fellowship applications. On top of all of that, I had my biggest month yet of freelance work. And on top of all that, Zan and I were trying to get his place ready to rent so we can move in together. (How's that for burying the lede?!)

The second my applications were completed and my freelance work was done and Zan's place was painted, I felt like we'd won January's race. We've enjoyed being in town, sleeping in later on Saturday mornings than we ever have in two years of dating, trying new restaurants, seeing Oscar-nominated movies, and relishing the most stress-free quality time I can remember. January was a beast, but it was a beast of hope and excitement: the work is done, and in a short time, there will (we hope) be such sweet rewards.

1: We've been spending a lot of time in Georgetown. It was once my least favorite neighborhood in all of DC for its inaccessibility and commercialization. Recently, I can see past the brand names to the backstreets teeming with local shops. And I've fallen in love with the iced-over C&O Canal and Waterfront.
2: This sweet Christmas gift from Zander lights up my desk and my face every morning at work.
3&6: Theo's and my favorite place in the city is Rock Creek Park. No matter how often we go, I can't stop taking pictures. It's such a beautiful respite from fast-paced city life.
4&5: Each time a school sent me a confirmation that my application is complete and under review, I smiled so hard you'd think they had accepted me! To celebrate a new year and new possibilities, I chopped off all my hair. I'm crazy about my new short hairdo.
7: We've been on an Italian kick lately. Dino is closing in Cleveland Park, and even though it will reopen in Shaw, we've been filling up on pork belly and brussels sprouts, incredible wines, and the best bread pudding anywhere.
8: Etto on 14th Street in Logan has the best burrata I've ever had, and this fingerling potatoes and chorizo specialty pizza was downright crave-able.
9: While taking pictures of Zan's apartment to post on rental sites, I couldn't resist snapping a shot of these duckies. He has these three, a gigantic one, and just ordered a Redskins one. "Rubber ducky, he's the one...!" (And if you're looking for a beautiful condo in a great neighborhood in DC, I've got you covered! http://washingtondc.craigslist.org/doc/apa/4308357488.html)

How's life treating you lately? 

from laguna quilotoa to chugchilan | andes, ecuador

Dear Zander, 

When the pick-up truck driver came to a jarring stop in Quilotoa, and we hopped out of the bed, my first thought was, "my ass is numb," but my second thought was, holy crap what are we getting ourselves into? The hike from that blue-green, translucent crater lagoon in the Andes mountains back to Chugchilan, our itty bitty remote village whose name I don't think we ever pronounced quite right, finally began to seem like the big deal everyone had tried to tell us it was.

Uncharacteristically, I was nervous about the hike. My stomach was complaining at 9:00am when we got to the lagoon, and we know better than to second guess queasy stomachs when we travel. We were both exhausted. We'd hiked - what? 15 hours in 3 days up to that point at some crazy altitudes. The clouds were heavy and thick with a coming storm. Our only map was the hand drawn guide Edmundo had given us. What if we got lost? We'd have no way "out" once we started; our way back was our feet.

We voiced all this, and to tell you the truth, I thought you'd be cautious (and smart), and suggest that we enjoy the crater and catch a bus back to town. But instead, you reminded me (kind of indignantly, even!) that we had traveled by way of about 15 different buses to get to this remote part of the Andes, almost lost my hiking shoes but miraculously got them back, and spent a small fortune to stay at the lauded Black Sheep Inn just for this hike. For this one hike. And you said, so we're here, let's do it.

So we did.

...when you started singing, "Gangster's Paradise" as we hiked between sky-high, narrow crevices in the mountains, and you didn't remember all of the words - and neither did I, but we rapped on anyway, I loved you more.

...when you cheered me to the finish of that three hour downhill climb like you were at a Redskins game and RG3 was scoring the winning touchdown with seconds left because you know how much I despise downhill hiking, I loved you more.

...when we started climbing all the way back up right after we had reached the valley, you said, "Uphill hiking is the worst," and I responded, "We're perfect for each other because when you're down, I'm up," and you laughed at my horrible joke, I loved you more.

...when I admitted that to get through the steepest section of the entire hike, I pumped myself up by singing "Eye of the Tiger," but I couldn't remember the tune, so I sang Katy Perry's "Roar" instead, and you stared at me for a long moment before saying, "Rocky would knock you out for that," I loved you more. (Remember that part? It was at the very end, and there were horses, no... sheep? Pigs? Some animals and a "farm" mentioned on the guide, and we weren't sure, but the route was a shortcut?)

...when I started writing and singing - out loud - love songs to the green benches that appeared every time we needed a break, and you never once recorded it to blackmail me, I loved you more.

...when the older man passed us in his work clothes, sweating and thirsty, using the route as so many of the locals do - as their walk to work, and you gave him a full water bottle from our pack, I loved you more.

...when we stumbled back into the Black Sheep Inn dirty, exhausted, and proud with accomplishment, I loved you more.

...and when we silently, telepathically agreed never to talk about how the 70-year-old couple that we befriended and had hiked the route that same day had beaten us back... well. We're not talking about that, now are we?

Love, 

Cyndi

film studies | her

For a week, I've been depressed by Her. I cried. And I cry at everything all the time but I cried sad, sad tears in Her. I cried like it was me, and like my world was devoid of contact and interaction and was artificial, contrived, scripted, programmed. I left the theater dry-eyed but mad with sadness, mad with despair, mad with depression. 

I tried to talk to Zander. We fleshed out the film. I applauded the beautiful script. He agreed - it is sad - the relationships lost in a blink of an eye. I talked to my best friend Melanie the next day. She'd seen it over the weekend and loved it. She'd left hopeful. And id felt that - a rumble of goodness, a spark of pleasure for what comes next, but mostly I felt sad. And she didn't. But she got it. She commiserated, said the lack of human interaction hollowed her soul for those painful moments. 

But for me it was more. Her ruined me. 

And tonight, while Zan and I watched the beginning of Dirty Dancing at 1:00 in the morning, me explaining the plot (because he didn't know that penny was pregnant, and we really went to town arguing over in which decade the film is set and I was right and that was some kind of something!), and us both drinking sparkling wine and laughing at our argument and so in the moment that there wasn't a "moment" at all... Oh that. That explained it all. That cleared it all up.

There's a line in Her, and it has haunted me relentlessly. 

"Sometimes I think I have felt everything I'm ever gonna feel. And from here on out, I'm not going to feel anything new. Just lesser versions of what I've already felt." 

That, that is what killed me. That is a terrifying thought. I don't ever want to be desensitized to life. I'm terrified of feeling like I've had the best feelings already. I'm horrified that maybe that is life and maybe I've felt all the things I'm ever going to feel.

And then tonight happened. And Zan and I bantered like he'd never seen me before and just bought me a drink at a bar. And we talked about boogars and poop like we've been a we for longer than an I. And he asked me what the hell dirty dancing is really about like he cares. 

And I know right now at 2am with Zan asleep and a me strangely wide awake that I have so many more feelings to feel. I'm bursting with the feelings of have been and the ones that will be.

There's so much more to discover. 

Which, ultimately, is he's Her tells us, too. 

the ridge hike | remote andes mountains, ecaudor

I trembled as I straightened my legs. I inhaled deeply, and I caught myself thinking that I could really die up here. As though my fear were a pesky fly buzzing nearby, I shook my head to shoo it away. I placed my hands on my thighs, took in another deep breath, and willed my legs to stand tall and to please god stop shaking. I balanced one foot in front of the other; the trail was too narrow to stand with them side-by-side. The not quite foot-wide trail dropped precariously off on either side. It was sheer cliffs down either. For a moment, when I finally rose to my full height, for one minute the danger gave way to the sight of verdant mountainsides and downright breathtaking scenery. At somewhere between 11,000 - 13,000 feet in the air, with mountain peaks that shrank beneath me, and a heavy sky weighing down on top of me, I felt like I'd reached the top of the world. Like I was standing on the very point where earth and sky meet, and were that the case, I can promise you that it's a sight to behold and worth the death-defying climb to reach it.

Zan bellowed from 40 feet below me, his voice stricken with fear that camouflaged itself as anger. HOW MUCH FURTHER?

My legs started to shake again. I'd taken in the view, and for that one instant of total clarity, my fear had receded, but his voice brought me back into the moment, the physicality of our situation, the responsibility that weighed on me. In search of where the trail led, I made the mistake of looking down.

I'm not afraid of heights. I love the feeling of flying while barreling down a 100 foot drop on a roller coaster, and I learned to rock scramble just for the thrill of jumping off cliffs 30 feet above swimming holes below, but this. This was a different sort of height. To my right, the drop was vertical. To the left the drop was vertical. And all that was between me and those vertical drops was this narrow dirt path and the wind, that was unfortunately picking up.

I pulled the hand drawn trail guide out of my jacket pocket. I unfolded it carefully; it seemed like every move I made in those few moments was calculated, was exact, was more cautious than I have ever been. My heart raced trying to read the map standing on this ridge. I reminded myself that Edmundo, the owner of our guesthouse, had discovered this hike when he was 8 years old. Eight. If he could do it then, I could certainly do it now. And then I thought that 8-year-old feet were much better suited to this sort of thing and got flustered all over again.

But I read and re-read the guide.

You will squeeze through a gap in the rocks and come out on the other side of the mountain. I flashed back to the narrow crevice we'd crawled through 20 minutes earlier. Check.

The path splits, with the left heading downhill. Take the less developed path on the right... We'd seen that and gone right. Zan had been leading at that point. We pointed it out and checked it off the map. But early in the hike we'd thought we'd finished one instruction, and we hadn't. We had to retrace our steps. What if we turned the wrong way?

Continue on top of the ridge. Well, there was no doubt we were on the ridge.

Once you get to the plateau, keep along the left edge. What plateau? I couldn't see any end in sight. The ridge was just a balance beam of dirt.

I thought about turning back. Could we scale down the ridge? That seemed as dangerous as moving forward. I read back through the guide and went with my instincts: we had followed it correctly, and this path would - it had to - eventually come out to a plateau.

I moved onward.

Zan, terrified of heights, followed behind me, yelling ahead every few minutes to ask about my progress, what I could see, and for the love of god to stop taking pictures!

I couldn't. The thrill of the ridge hike paralleled my fear, and every time I found large shrubbery to grasp onto or a skinny rock to squat nearby, I took the opportunity and  kept snapping photos.


I repeatedly told Zan I was stopping to catch my breath and that all was fine, and the trail was great to keep encouraging him to move forward and to stay calm. The truth is that every 10-20 feet I re-read the guide, prayed a little that the plateau was ahead, and tried to swallow the pit in my stomach.

At one point, I laughed at the handwritten note at the top of the guide, Warning: If you are afraid of heights, you may not enjoy this hike. So much for that!

Five minutes later, out of nowhere, the ridge emptied into the plateau. It was a large, open area covered in beige reeds and spindly shrubs. Zan fell to the earth and lay there recovering, practically hugging the security beneath him. When we had reached the ledge, he could have asked us to go back, he could have said absolutely not, we don't even know that this is the right path, and I'm terrified of heights, but he stayed on the ridge. And I think that when you find a person that will walk across a foot-wide trail to stand on top of the world with you, that you have everything you'll ever need.

My legs finally stopped shaking, and the adrenaline-laced euphoria eventually subsided until my heart beat normally again. The rest of the hike was less harrowing but only the tiniest bit less beautiful.

When I look back on Ecuador, it's the ridge - that moment of nothing but the sky and the earth and me, and the adrenaline of hiking a tightrope trail - that fill me with every feeling I could ever feel. That hike... every traveler searches for that hike. Every traveler has those few and far between experiences that, like an addictive drug, keep you exploring to the ends of the earth for another.

welcome to the monster jam

When I saw that Monster Jam was in town at the Verizon Center, I laughed out loud. Giant trucks demolishing smaller trucks and roaring through an arena that suddenly seems small in their larger-than-life presence? Wasting fuel with all that engine revving? And boys upon men upon guys decked out in camo gear and tacky t-shirts repping their favorite truck (and who knew the trucks had names? and personalities?!)? None of it was me - and all of it stirred something in my deep down Georgia roots that made me feel alive, and that's what made it so irresistible.

After the last six months of filling my life to overflowing with applying to graduate school, and the last few weeks of painting Zan's place and writing Craiglist ads and thinking non-stop about how in the world to get it rented for what we need to rent it for... it seemed like nothing in the world would be more satisfying than watching trucks with wheels taller than me crush things. It was kind of my own therapy session.

I drank a vodka cranberry and dabbed wet tissue to the fake ink on my chest and on Zan's neck and straight up enjoyed overpriced drinks and picked a favorite truck -the Crushstation! We ate fried food and filled the lulls in the show with banter with our friends and felt so glad we have the kind that embrace the silly, fun bits of life with all they got.

The Monster Jam was completely ridiculous, and 4 trucks out of the 6 broke down (seeing one stuck on the piles of cars was kind of a highlight?). It felt good to laugh at the antics and aggression of it all, and that was worth the ping of a vodka headache and rawness of a throat that cheered all night the next morning.