Back in mid-June I met two Israeli guys at my first hostel. They were just wrapping up a seven-month journey around South America, and I was just beginning mine. It was a funny crossroads, and, naturally, I decided to pick their brains to get tips and tricks for my own trip.

“You’re going to Cusco?” one of them asked me. I nodded eagerly. 

“Awesome,” he replied. “One of my favorite places. I stayed there an entire month.”

WHAT? Why would anyone want to stay in a single city for that long, especially when you have a finite amount of time? Traveling isn’t about being stationary. 

Cusco chillin’

Well, folks, here I am writing you from Cusco. And while I haven’t been in the city for a full month, at a little over two weeks, I’ve definitely stayed longer than I thought I would. And you know what? It’s actually been pretty nice.

Now a regular at Angelica’s jugo shop…smoothies for a dollar can’t be beat

For two weeks, I was traveling with Maxine and Nick (friends from college and studying abroad). We had an absolute blast—and a big part of that fun was Cusco. For six days, we hung out in the Incan capital … meandering through the cobblestone streets, getting daily juices at the market, experiencing some incredible Peruvian nature, and, of course, seeing the ruins. All of the ruins. Machu Picchu? More magnificent than any picture could ever capture. Sacsayhuaman? Seriously, how did an empire that’s hundreds of years old cut stones with such laser-like precision? Qorikancha? Alright, these people had to be aliens.

Machu Picchu with Thing 1 and Thing 2 (I didn’t get the matching sweater memo) 😊

We had a truly incredible trip, but at the end of six days, I felt like I had maxed it out. Cusco is pretty tiny, and we’d packed in lots of day trips, too. When Nick and Maxine returned to the States, I figured I’d stay maybe three days more—four at the most. I’ve got places to see, after all.

But schedules don’t always go as planned. Before I left Cusco, the one item I had to check off my list was procuring a Bolivian visa. I estimated it would take me a couple hours to gather all the papers and apply at the embassy. Almost two days later, I was still downloading bus tickets and typing up itineraries on a PC that felt like it was from 2003. Needless to say, I extended my stay at my hostel. 

After successfully receiving the visa, I scheduled the bus to my next destination for the following day. On my last night in Cusco, I decided to live it up—and went dancing at the club with fellow hostel-goers until 4:30 AM. The morning after was rough, but soon enough I’d be comatose on a bus. 

Or so I thought. The next spot on my agenda, Arequipa, had been plagued by days of anti-mining protests. People were swarming the major highways outside the city, making bus travel tenuous at best, impossible at worst. My bus was cancelled on Tuesday. And on Wednesday. And then again on Friday. 

After extending my hostel reservation two more times and staying in four different rooms across the property, the workers there jokingly asked me if I wanted to volunteer, so I wouldn’t have to pay for more nights. I was like that grizzled old man who’s been lurking in the back of a dive bar for decades. Except that I was actually just a random mid-twenties girl sitting awkwardly in a hostel courtyard every night for a week. But in the world of traveling, a week is practically an eternity. I made tons of friends who left a day later. I went to more coffee shops than I can count on two hands. I basically became a local, leading new acquaintances around like I’d lived in the city for years. But ultimately, it was nice to feel like I had my bearings. It was nice to take things slow. It was nice to really get to know one place, and know it well.  

Creating our own fun in Cuenca

Circumstances also went awry in Cuenca—a small, colonial-era town that Nick and I visited in Ecuador. After three big cities in a row (Medellin, Bogota, and Quito), I was especially excited to visit a smaller one with classical architecture, quaint shops, and cute restaurants.

We arrived late on Saturday night to a hotel that was much shabbier than advertised. The shower didn’t drain. The light flickered on and off. The room was inconveniently located in a courtyard where another bar was hosting a metal band that played into the wee hours of the night. Solid start! 

No matter—tomorrow will be better, we thought. But tomorrow was Sunday. And Sunday meant everything was closed. Cuenca was like a ghost town. The churches were inaccessible to tourists because of services. The streets were totally empty. The good weather even went on a hiatus, and the sky decided to downpour. Womp. Womp. Womp.

But Nick and I were already there … we had time that was itching to be spent. Even in the midst of blah-dom, we found some fun. We tried guinea pig (NOT pets in Ecuador). We visited a nifty brewery. We went to bed delightfully early. In the end, the day wasn’t a total loss.

C’est la vie

Travel is unpredictable. That’s what makes it so fun. It’s also what makes it frustrating sometimes. But as long as you look for them, you’ll find your silver linings. Whether it’s trying all the teas Cusco has to offer or cheers-ing with a Belgian beer south of the Equator, it’s all part of the process. And, guys—the process is pretty damn good. 

More to come soon! 

Caroline

A few years ago, a new acronym appeared in the lexicon: FOMO. Fear of missing out. Since then, I’ve certainly experienced my fair share. On days when all my friends were busy, I’d find myself looking longingly out my New York City window at the crowds below. On nights where my only plans were watching Netflix in bed, Instagram stories reminded me that everyone else was having more fun and living better. But that was in my early twenties. Now, I’m older, wiser. I’ve grown up. I’ve moved forward. And my FOMO has been forgotten … or so I thought. Turns out, it doesn’t matter how old you are—when you’re traveling, the FOMO is always real.

Medellín

In Medellín, El and I travelled pedal to the metal. There were 9 AM walking tours to do and important museums to visit. There were early-morning buses to take to small, vibrant towns outside the city, and incredible night clubs to enjoy (which we tried to rally for before falling asleep). We wanted to do it all. 

So when El left, my first thought was, “Now what?” I had a full week to myself—and the only item on my agenda was to get to Bogota, so I could catch a flight to Quito the following Tuesday. 

Alone, I could create my own (more casual) agenda. Alone, I could set my own (more leisurely) pace. But when there’s so much to see and so many people to meet, it can be hard to slow things down. During my last two days in Medellin, I spent my time catching up on life in coffee shops and then rushing out to catch up on the rest of the day. I alternated between drifting off in the hostel and then forcing myself to socialize after I heard voices drifting through my window. I was being pulled in two different directions. On one side: my desire to relax, to create a routine, to rest. On the other: a compulsion to plan, to pack it all in, to put myself out there. In between, a travel purgatory. 

Bogotá

But in Bogotá, something shifted. For me, the city was full of creature comforts and familiar faces. I got in touch with Christine, an old soccer friend from Tufts, who’d lived in Colombia for four years. We drank wine at her apartment, caught up on life, and hopped around to different dive bars—the perfect combination of social and low key. 

A day later, I cabbed over to Chico, a residential neighborhood in the north, to stay with my dad’s friend, Chris Kraul, a former journalist for the LA Times based in Colombia. Staying at Chris’s made me feel like real person again, instead of like a nomad. There, I ate vegetables (something that was so, so necessary after weeks of pan, queso, y comidas fritas). I slept in a cloud-like bed and woke up late, without being disturbed by strangers. I took long, hot showers in sparkling clean bathrooms. And, best of all, I went on a run through the loveliest park full of athletes, families, and hundreds of happy dogs. After months of moving non-stop, it was a real gift to stop and smell the roses  in a different way. 

I realize that the little luxuries I experienced in Bogota—the tranquillity, the comfort, and the ability to feel more settled—were special. But these luxuries, however uncommon they may be in the future, offered an important lesson that I’ll take with me everywhere: balance. Because there are always going to be more sights to visit. More restaurants to try. More conversations to have. Especially in big cities, it’s impossible to squeeze everything in, since there’s always something new to explore. So I’m going to make an effort to appreciate an afternoon spent at a cafe just as much as an evening out with new friends. I refuse to be sorry if I want to move slow (or fast). I won’t feel bad about all the things I couldn’t do, but rather focus on the amazing experiences I did have. And I’m saying goodbye to my FOMO, too. There’s no room for it in my backpack, anyway.

Todo mi amor!

Caroline

 ***It’s been hard to gauge how long these are because I’ve been writing them on my phone. This one runs a little long—feel free to skim! 

Most who know me also know that New York is one of the great loves of my life (I may be borrowing a bit from Carrie Bradshaw here, but it’s true!). I love the skyscrapers and the brownstones, the grid of midtown and the winding streets of the West Village. I love the suits on Wall Street and the characters on the subway. I love Union Square Park and Madison Square Garden and, hell, I even love Times Square, too. 

To me, the Big Apple is like the epicenter of civilization—and I like it that way. I like that a run by the river also involves a skyline that can’t be beat and that a picnic in the park can be bought at a supermarket on the same corner. What can I say? I’m a city person, not a nature girl. Always have been. 

So when I announced I was heading to South America for a few months, lots of people asked, “Why?!” From the Amazons to ancient ruins, from salt flats to sand dunes, this continent has a ton to offer … and its cities aren’t always top of mind. But if I had to embrace nature at some point in my life, this would really be the place to do it. 

Part 1: AHHHHH!?! NATURE!

Park Tayrona, Santa Marta

After Cartagena, El (my college roommate and travel buddy for the past two weeks) and I boarded a four-hour bus to the Santa Marta region of Colombia. Nearby, there’s a park called Tayrona that she (and I, albeit more trepidatiously) wanted to hike. It’s about a three-hour trek through the forest to a beautiful beach. But it was too much to do both legs in one day. So, we opted to do the most outdoorsy thing I’ve ever done and get the closest to camping I’ve ever come: sleep in a hammock that night. 

We began our journey bright and early, pulling up to the park around nine. Through jungles, rock formations, and canopies of sea grapes, we made our way inward. With so many different natural environments in one hike, it felt like we’d been walking for days instead of minutes—and the heat didn’t help. But even through the sweat, things were going pretty swimmingly. That is, until El rolled her ankle. I’d nearly forgotten about her soccer injury two years prior that required two surgeries and multiple pins, screws, nails, etc. Shit. She sat to rest a few steps ahead, where another Colombian girl was also nursing a scrapped knee. I had bandaids and Advil on me (just call me Clara Barton, y’all) and started dishing them out—all the while, internally freaking out. What if El couldn’t walk? How would we get out? What would we do? Toto, we’re not in Central Park anymore. Luckily, El was able to power through, and though I was later almost run over by a horse barreling along the trail, we ultimately made it to Cabo San Juan, where we promptly laid out our towels and remained completely inert for the next five hours.

But staying put for so long caused El’s ankle to stiffen. Some broken Spanish helped us procure some ice, which was placed directly in El’s bare hands (a few seconds later, someone gave us a plastic cup sleeve to jerry-rig into a makeshift bag for said ice … innovation!). After dinner with newfound acquaintances, we faced our next challenge: hobbling up an incredibly steep rock right on the water to our hammock in pitch black darkness. We made it, but the experience that followed was anything but celebratory. Because, hammocks? Not actually that comfortable. Unrelenting wind, close quarters (in which I was basically spooning a random Europe man because our hammocks were tied so closely together), and damp, sandy “bedding” (countless people had rested in our hammocks during the day) led to a highly uncomfortable night. 

We awoke the next morning exhausted and in dire need of a bathroom (which felt like an odyssey to get to from our rock). Thankfully, El’s ankle had stopped swelling, so we put on our disgusting clothes once again and went back out the way we came. 

Tayrona is a beautiful oasis…and I’m really glad I went. In the end, it was worth the effort to see such a pristine park. But, if I’m being honest, when it comes to beaches, I still prefer the two blocks to the Boca Grande gulf coast than this two plus-hour walk any day ☺️

Part 2: Ahhhh, nature

Cocora Valley, Salento

The Tayrona hike was enough nature to hold me over for a while. But three days later, we were back at it in Salento—hiking a gorgeous five-hour loop in the breathtaking Cocora Valley. 

By now, I felt like a seasoned pro (does one hike, feels like Bear Grylls, amiright?!). Together with an ankle-braced El, we made our way through rolling hills; past a hidden waterfall; over rickety “rope” bridges; and up steep paths that might as well have been mudslides. It seemed like every part of the hike was one chapter in a greater story. Was this middle earth? Some fantasy land à la Harry Potter? Each hour brought a new awe-inspiring landscape with it. And I was singing the soundtrack to “Pocahontas” in my head the entire time.

After stopping at a “hummingbird house” for some brief birdwatching and hot chocolate, and snacking on a quick lunch at another viewpoint (which involved squeezeable queso and mini bread rolls … the jank is still real 😂), we made it to the main event: el bosque de las palmas. Here, majestic palm trees grow hundreds of feet, right out of the mountainside. Eerily beautiful, these tropical trees seem jarring in their foggy, unfamiliar environment. But that’s why so many flock to see them. Pine trees sprouting next to palm trees. A diverse collection of flora and fauna simply coexisting. To me, it was like nature was setting an example for how the human world might be one day. And fittingly, as visitors from different cultures and countries descended onto this ecological phenomenon, a group of friends started playing a song on their guitar: “One day” by Matisyahu. At the top of the lookout point, everyone sang together—and then took a group selfie. If that’s not natural harmony, I don’t know what is. It’s a moment I’ll never forget. 

I’m always going to love the energy and vibrancy of cities. But over the past week, I’ve learned to appreciate the peace that trees, and streams, and mountains, and beaches can offer a little more. And when all was said and done, I even survived with zero mosquito bites—so this New Yorker is doing pretty well.

Abrazos!

Caroline 

Hi everyone,

If you’re receiving this email, it’s because you either wanted updates about my trip or because I decided you should be in the loop even if you don’t want to be 😜. If you can think of anyone else who would want to be included, let me know. And vice versa—if you want to get off of this list, tell me. I won’t be offended! Also, I’m sending this from an iPad, so if it looks weird, sorry in advance. 

I’ve been thinking about the best way to update everyone about my travels. And that means I’ve been brainstorming blog names. One option on deck right now is “Sweaty Bangs” because Colombia is truly not cooperating with my hair. But I think that’s just one piece of the larger story, which is really all about “The Jankiest Journey.” So, welcome to the blog—true to form, it’s actually an email because I. am. janky. 

A little over a week in, and the jank is already very real. But first, Colombia. I spent about nine days in Cartagena, and it’s been absolutely awesome. Colorful. Captivating. And caliente. Muy caliente. It’s so hot here, you sweat through your clothes in about a minute. I’ve already finished the bottle of sunscreen I hoped would last me until Ecuador. I’m guzzling water like a car burns through gas. And two days into the trip my phone decided it didn’t like the heat and humidity too much, either. 

Amidst all of Maddie’s incredible wedding festivities, including a welcome drinks event complete with a mariachi band, an all-day catamaran boat trip to practically untouched islands off the coast, and a reception that could have been featured on the pages of Vogue, my phone seriously shit the bed. Especially frustrating because I had just replaced the screen after accidentally cracking it (more than it already was) a day before my departure. Now, every time I turned it on, a thermometer icon would pop up with a scary-looking warning that said my iPhone had become too hot, and I needed to wait for it to cool off. (Fortunately, it resurrected itself partially on Saturday, so I was able to take some photos of the big day). 

To complicate matters, I had not yet signed into my iCloud on my parents’ iPad. But having this extra device calmed my nerves. I figured I could communicate via iPad while determining the best course of action to take with my phone. Right? Wrong. Thanks to Apple’s two-factor authentication set up, each time I tried to sign in to the iPad with my Apple ID, the system would send a confirmation code to verify my identity. Where was it sent? To my phone … which I couldn’t access. Cool. 

For a few days, I was on the struggle bus—coordinating with friends like people must have pre-technology (“Meet at this bar at 6, and if you don’t see me, I’ll call you from the hotel’s landline”), and unable to document anything about this beautiful city because my phone (and, therefore, camera), was out of commission.

And it got worse. After cabbing to the nearest mall and talking to an incredibly helpful Mac Center rep, I learned that their team couldn’t repair my phone in the short time I had before leaving for my next destination. And even though almost everything is cheaper in Colombia, Apple products most certainly are not. Roughly $870 American dollars would get me a new iPhone 8 (only one version up) with just half the storage. Since I’ve been trying to survive on $50 a day, this news wasn’t exactly a relief. At Samsung, the prognosis was better, but still not ideal. A new, non-Apple phone would run me approximately $250, and they could “most likely” transfer my data over. But, thankfully, there was one option left. Safid, the lovely Mac Center salesman, had a friend: Alvaro Mendoza, also known as Papi. “Go to the centro commercial in the Getsemani neighborhood on Tuesday,” Safid told me. “Papi has a stand there. He will help you.” 

Ultimately, the story ends positively. A brief window of functionality allowed me to access my phone, so I could sign into my iCloud and use the iPad. (God bless free WiFi). Papi came through, spending a full day testing each part of my phone and reconnecting all of them to the screen correctly, fixing a mistake the original technician had made back in New Jersey. And I emerged with a newfound confidence—empowered after navigating a foreign city alone and without the Internet, and proud of my ability speak enough Español to adequately explain my problems and get them resolved. 

It’s ironic—experiencing this inconvenience so early on was actually one of the best things that could have happened. The jank pushed me out of my comfort zone. The jank forced me to face my stress and anxiety head on. The jank (and Papi, because I’m eternally grateful for that man) set me up for success. 

Less than a week later, I’m back. Back online. Back in action. And ready for more back-to-back adventures. Stay tuned for updates from Santa Marta and Salento, and a few Instagram photos whenever I have enough time to sit down, filter, and think up cute captions (you all know I’m 80 years old when it comes to social media—but I’m doing my best!). And if you read this far, thanks for sticking with me ☺️

Miss you guys mucho, mucho, mucho! Besos! 

Love,

Caroline