LIQUID SUNSHINE.

As I once again climbed the Andes mountains on my big blue bus in route to Cuenca, I slipped out of my dreams to catch the liquid sunshine on the other side of my window. Yes, there was the light peeping through the thick white clouds now engulfing us. I had to chuckle when all of a sudden I thought of Mama Bear, my late grandmother telling me the history of such peculiar weather. When the sun shines and rain falls at once, the Devil is beating his wife.

I left Machala this morning after a sweet interlude with Alexia, a mutual friend from Bahia de Caraquez and her family. What a difference it made to be in a home- I slept so sound after a tipico dinner around the table and an evening listening to her tweenage daughter play the piano. I don´t think they realized what a treat the music was for me- and the company. One day I´m going to focus all of my energy on playing those ivory keys. And painting. The thought wraps me in joy! Only good things happen around a piano.

I arrived in Cuenca this afternoon around 4 pm and lit up when I saw the heavenly white and blue towers of the Catedral Inmaculada that is frequently pictured in magazines and tourist books. They gleamed against the muted, grey sky. After securing the best deal on a room I´ve seen yet, I hit the ground running. Literally. My legs felt good after resting too long at bay with my foot injury. I could hardly distinguish my sweat from the refreshing rain drops cleansing my face. Ah, the good ole days are back. I´m anxious to run a marathon while in South America and be kind to my body that needs physical challenges, daily. Although Patricia and I love to don our Save the World tees, scouted at the neighborhood Tia supermarket in Bahia, and joke that our relaxed, low impact ways on the beach are good for our planet, I know that I need to be moving. I need to be strong in mind, in body and in spirit.

Running is a clever way to get to know a new city. Especially when it is getting dark and you are geographically impaired. I tromped through the enchanting city until I reached its center that was declared a World Heritage Trust Site by UNESCO and that can trace its roots back to 500 AD. I was sure that if I listen and look hard enough I could hear and see its stories in the ancient streets and walls. I creeped in on a couple misas (catholic masses), breathed in the rich aroma of a dozen flower stands lining the sidewalk, and savored a perfect scoop of homemade pistachio helado.

The liquid sunshine has given way to a brilliant night sky. I am off for a romantic night in a foreign town full of possibility. It´s Friday- I am all smiles and

I love y´all.
Catail of Cuenca

JIPIJAPA.

What an appropriate name for a town I had to go through in route to Montañita, this colorful and ever so funky surf town. I have taken a trip back in time to the 70s where this groovy village was a hippy paradise. The roads are dirt, the feet are bare, the beaches are alive! The Ecuadorian coast line is stunning. As I wound around the Ruta del Sol (route of the sun) I absorbed the rocky, winding cliffs and the blue, sparkling water below. There are islands and unique rock formations giving every beach its own, distinct landmark.

I have found a sweet little beach front hotel on the main drag to call home and even have my own balcony where I can watch all of the action from above. It reminds me of my balcony in Valencia but perhaps more primitive and unconventional. Conveniently it is next door to the Machu Picchu Restaurant where I have made fast friends with 4 Dominican Republicans who run the place. Last night I was a guest at their special birthday party for the owners mother. There we represented Lithuania, Russia, Dominican Republic, Sweedan, Spain and the United States. It is truly amazing how traveling brings together cultures. Sharing a couple of days in an exotic place sparks friendships trancending age, origen, language, skin color.

There is a big gathering today for the futbol game between Manchester United and Barcelona. I think I am going to stick around until Friday. Sunkissed and sandy, I am delighted by the artesanias, salsa dancing, fruit stands and firey, ocean sunsets.

Sending so much love.
Wish you all were here to share it with me.

PUERTO AMISTAD.

Pierre and Kim with Brazilian friend on dinghy.

Recess.

Friendly triciclo driver.

Triciclos.

Boys' first day of school in Bahia.

Sending love from s/v Victoria.

Double take.

Sloth hanging at marina.

A beautiful Kuna woman at the market in Panama City.

Lunch outing with some of the crew from Puerto Amistad.

QUITO.

What I remember most about Quito is the sheer immensity of it. Looking out from the mountain-side balcony of Cafe Mosaic into the shining, night city, burning with a million golden lights, I had an overpowering sense of being so small with a whole world before me to explore. I graciously accepted that I could never know it all, not even in a lifetime of devotion, and in a heartbeat, it was settled: Quito was mine for 2 days and I'd use every minute.

At once, I was in the thick of the rolling streets, the lively, ancient plazas and the curious city parks. I roamed in and out of The Old City with no map nor guide book, entrusting the days' surprises to my own instincts. Climbing the steep avenues at an elevation of 9252 feet led me to playfully mock my pitiful altitude-shocked body and work for every worthy discovery. 

On my first day, I must have gone to church at least a dozen times by noon. The colonial iglesias and monasteries were like pillars on a cobbled foundation. Ancient plazas spread around them as open grounds for activity in the midst of narrow and otherwise crowded city spaces. The ever present indigenous people inhabiting Quito added to its magic. My eyes constantly rolled round, catching sights like a woman leading a lamb across the street to Plaza San Francisco and a little boy skipping in a superman costume along Plaza Santo Domingo. My eyes settled on beautifully restored architecture and the arches of Calle Morales, one of Quito's oldest streets. I gleefully picked up fresh churros and other decadent goodies from a local bakery and refueled on juicy, 25 cent pineapple from a jolly and beckoning vendor on the corner. 

Sometimes the best way to know a foreign place is to willingly lose yourself in it. 

Running into 3 crazy Australian backpackers put the cream cheese icing on the cake- or rather the meat in the Stroganoff (our dish of choice with 2 chefs in the bunch). The Quito I know is much kinder for my time shared with Claire, Alice and Michael. Together we became giggling spectators of old men playing competitive games of Coco with silver balls in the park, children singing their hearts out for monedas in the efficient if not roomy city trolleys and the changing light over the snow-capped Cayambe peak from our roof-top balcony at Casa Bambu. 2 days on the road, bussing it to Quito from Armenia wore on me and clever, carefree company was just what I needed. 

My Aussie companions hailing from the "country town" of Adelaide were in their 14th month of traveling in South America. They readily passed on wild stories, advice and favorites from their adventures. I was constantly humored with talk of "fairy floss" and "g-strings". They began their journey in Brazil so our opposite routes made room for speculation. I did my best to prepare them for Colombia and they confirmed my already strong desire to visit Inti Wara Yasi Park in Bolivia- Ironically, they'd spent 6 weeks at this animal sanctuary I'd been told of where volunteers care for pumas and monkeys. 

Quito was like a confluence of many rivers creating an oasis of opportunity. With city perks and wilderness escapes, one really doesn't have to choose. You'll find a little bit of everything in the mosaic of pleasant contrast.

I:

would love to see my family again. 

would love to race into the unknown on the back of wild stallion and scream. 

would love to feel the chill of the cold on a snowey mountain peak before making my first, exhilerating turn through fresh powder on two skis. 

would love to know another passionate kiss. i would love to hold my own, healthy baby in my arms one day.

but really i would just love to wear this silly, stupid grin on my face forever.

i'm so happy!

CANOA.

The name itself evokes discovery and all of the splendor that freedom is made of. Here are some photos from my luna de miel on this enchanted coast. Greg, my strapping, Southern friend living in Canoa invited me to his hotel on a whim and was instantly a new pupil of sheer spontaneity. 5 minutes of packing, 30 centavos for the ferry taxi and 1 bumpy ride in the only Ford F-150-playing-Dixie-in-Ecuador later, I found myself in the Wild West version of Heaven on Earth. 

Imagine having nothing to do except to suit up for morning swims in the ocean or walk for miles acknowledging the beauty of creation. Imagine going out to sea with fishermen to lay their nets or hiking through green highlands in search of the infamous "love cave." Imagine having only to make a bed in the sand to sit all day writing and reading and listening to the wind and seeing the changes of one setting unfold. Imagine punctuality pertaining only to sunsets on the beach with a glass of red wine or a frozen Banana Colada. Imagine singing along to evening jams with serendipidous friends, all strumming guitars or picking a mandolin. Imagine massages, mango mornings and learning the art of cooking Plantains. Imagine a land with only dirt roads for bare feet and horses, surfboards to carry and ceviche for lunch. Imagine the unexpected gift of aprize lobster. Imagine a frozen ice cream on your lips after enduring a hard run on the endless coastline. Imagine being in a perfect place at precicely the perfect time with the perfect people. 

Yesterday Greg referred to our time shared in Canoa as a Midsummer Night's Dream. He invited me back to paint a mural in 2 of his new habitaciones in return for a month's stay. This girl can't resist days full of painting and playing in the sea. I'll let you know how it goes. 

Al Son Que Me Tocan Bailo

"I'll dance to whatever rhythm you play me", goes this sweet little saying in English.  3 Alveros and 1 Jorge taught me this line one sensational night in the small Paisa (referring to the Quindio region) town of Filandia. I've been able to squeeze in the clever "dicho" to just about every conversation thereafter. It's always a surprise to my Spanish companions and the implications shall never stale. There at a pub on the edge of Plaza Bolivar (every town and city in Colombia, Venezuela and Ecuador has one named for Simon Bolivar who liberated the territories from Spanish rule), we enjoyed sporadic conversation interjected with boisterous laughter. Rounds of Aguardiente shots were paired with dainty cups (and saucers) of coffee. Bouts of Portuguese filled the air. Sentences were started in Spanish and then completed in English and vice versa. All of us shared at least 2 languages and we never got around to settling on 1 in particular. This traditional Colombian combination of Crystal and black "cafe" seemed contrary to all health precautions, but on we sipped and each duo got smoother. The night continued with a trip to Alvaro's farm perched on the green countryside and a walk through tall grass to his lake. There we stood mesmerized by "cucullos" (lightning bugs that rest on the ground) and the reflection of a twinkling Southern Cross in the still water. Stars shot across the sky. Only after a roaring ride in Jorge's '83, baby blue Mercedes Benz was the night complete. His capacity to turn anything with wheels into a racecar kept me on edge. I'd joke with Alejo, his son and Daniel, his nephew that we were on a "montana russa" (roller coaster) with no tracks and dodgy obstacles. 

I'm home (away from home, aboard Victoria) from the farm and I'm so thankful that I went with my gut and accepted Alvaro and Jorge's invitation to travel with them to Colombia. Jumping on the back of a motorcycle with 2 men I barely knew from the Yacht Club is one of the craziest and most fruitful things I've ever done. Living on the Macadamia farm with Jorge and his friend, El Negro shines among the most incredible experiences of my life. I'm certain that our time together could never be repeated although I do hope to return to Finca Betica one day. I'll always cherish our toasts to every drink be it coffee at breakfast, wine at lunch or chocolate milk roaming around the grocery store. I'll remember evening cooking lessons with El Negro and to go easy on the oil (over green beans) and ice (when blending Pisco Sours). I'll recall mornings with Sandra, roasting coffee and helping her with daily Macadamia chores over girl talk. Enchanting butterflies in the Mariposario (butterfly garden) and the setting light from the top of the Torre del Filandia (tower of Filandia) shant escape my memory. Nor will a hike alongside thermal rivers and the bathing pools of Santa Rosa. I'll wish for more runs along the outskirts of the farm, winding through pastures and over dirt garnished with fallen, colorful blooms. I'll forever seek out exotic fruits and look forward to my next ride in a Willy's Jeep (the "workhorse" of Colombia, there are millions dating back to the first farming days). I'll giggle when I think of Pilates with Lissette or my debut on a Scooter through the ancient streets of Salento with Jorge swearing behind me (Papa always said payback is hell!). Planting my own banana tree is in the cards thanks to Cezar's generous tour of his Banana and Coffee Empire. 

If I was ever to be "high-maintanance" it would be from the likes of Jorge and El Negro on Betica. Thank you, Colombian friends for treating me as a queen and for teaching me so much while in your kind presence. I felt at home and at ease. I learned that while the world may be in "crisis", we have a choice not to be. I learned that homesickness is easily cured with a slice of home baked bread and a cup of fresh milk (from the neighbor's cow earlier that morning). 

More to come of my world beyond Macadamia Heaven. 

Buena Vista

God is so good! I´m in a constant state of awe taking in the perfect details of the master artist and master physician, our creator. The earth is a beautiful place indeed and filled with so many beautiful people. I just recieved word of some horrific news in Athens, Georgia- the heart of so many great memories since I was a little girl bleeding red and black (Go Dawgs!). In these times of crisis, we´re reminded that there is bad in the world with the good. But without a doubt, I´m sure that there is more good than bad. We must hold on to this truth. That very truth brought me here to Colombia and I´ve witnessed so much more good than bad in this country that has an incredible history of pain. But things are getting better. Colombia´s current President Alvaro Uribe is a man of conviction and stands firm in his good values to bring peace to Colombia. He serves his second term now and the magnificant country has already seen great triumphs over FARC as well as spearheaded free trade agreements with other nations. The Colombian citizens that I´ve met support Uribe and the women even wink and tell me he´s handsome (although they conclude not nearly as good looking as our President, Barack Obama).

I´m still loving life and learning more each day. It´s safe to say that I´m head over heals in love with Colombia and am in the best hands possible for this chapter in my South American Education. Best hands, yes. Most tranquil hands, no. My host, Jorge is quite the daredevil himself and every day he´s got something new up his sleeve. Impossible to recall the past 2 weeks in one update, but I will tantalize you with my perfect day in an effort to inspire yours:
I woke up this morning a little late and fuzzy with the perfect, morning light shining through my white curtains. I rolled around all night long with sweet dreams and slept hard to the steady rain. This morning, as every morning at Finca Betica, I close my eyes and try to fine-tune my ears so that I can delight in the birds´early symphony and the mooing from cows in the neighboring pasture.

I remembered the night before and blasting firecrackers towards the Finca (farm) high in the hills where a wedding was taking place (we´d biked through the mountains all day and actually got to see the preparations for this exact affair). We marveled at their fireworks and of course, the men of the [full] house (Jorge, El Negro, Nando- Jorge´s brother, Alejo- Jorge´s son, Daniel- Alejo´s cousin with a little fuzzy mohawk) get the bright idea to send a couple LOUD ones back to them as a commemorating surprise to the celebration. If only we could have seen their faces. The bands stopped playing and I´ve never heard such booms. I don´t think we can buy those kinds legally over the Georgia state line.

Slowly but surely, I rise up and get tickled with one of my favorite morning rituals: pulling back the drapes and swinging open my heavy door to let in the cool mountain air. I continue outside in route to the kitchen making sure to stop and pay tribute to paradise of green. I´m met with a handful of morning greetings (the custom here is to always kiss the right cheek hello and goodbye- a gesture I learned early on from my Mama) and offered Lulo (one of the many strange fruits that I´ve come to know here) and fresh-squeezed orange juice. I take my time taking down my morning Betica coffee (the best in all of Colombia) and using the smallest spoon (so it lasts longer) to eat my morning granola with yogurt and honey (Sandra, one of the gals who works on the farm helped me to make the batch of granola last week and the honey comes from our bees! EVERYTHING has Macadamias).

El Negro lets me know that he´s ready to go whenever I am. We had big plans for our second day on the road as Team Betica´s newest cyclists. All geared up, we loaded our 3 bikes into the wooden bed of Jorge´s white Ford pick-up and El Negro´s daddy drove us to our starting point in the town of Calarca (named for a brave Indian Cheif who resisted the Spaniards and suceeded in retaining a wealth of golden treasures in the mountains for his people). I was so naive and blissful, I hadn´t any clue what we were getting into. El Negro invited us to his hometown of Buena Vista (Good View) set high in the hills of the Central Range and offering a bird´s eye view of all of Quindio. He wished for us to visit his family´s coffee farm that has flourished for over a century and that is the setting of his youth.

It was easy cruising in the beginning. El Negro´s father and friends started showing up along the way with thoughtful concessions (crispy Bull skin- not my favorite and baggies of macadamia nuts). We had our own squad of jolly, old (young at heart!) male cheerleaders flashing photos and reaching out for high fives. Little did I know that they came along for a reason. We were in for a marathon. UPHILL!!!!! I love biking but never have I ever known the strenuous plight of a cyclist until this very afternoon. We climbed and we climbed and we climbed and we climbed some more. We rounded steep bends in the road that got us closer, meter by meter to the top. I applied the zig-zag tactic that I sometimes use in hiking to alleviate the strain on my muscles and lesson the incline. Somehow it worked. Merrilly we rolled along, up up up. Motorcycles and cars zoomed past us. Somehow this always invigorated me. I knew we were taking the most challenging route, and somewhere in my sick mind this comforted me. I consciously breathed slow, inhaling and exhaling, managing to take some photos (my waterproof camera nestled conveniently in my sportsbra now drenched with sweat) and revel in the buena vista that got more magestic with every push and pull on the pedels.

Every now and then, Jorge´s truck would appear and our support group would hoop and hollar and whistle and call my name, Cah-

tah-reen-ay. It reminded me a lot of my mom who did the same for me when I ran my first marathon. I just smiled, raising my arms and egging them on, posing for pictures on my slow horse (compared to the motorcycle). At one point I even hitched a few seconds, holding onto the rear of their trailer with one arm and balancing my bike with the other (I need to practice this practical art that I´ve seen many Colombians successfully accomplish on uphil highways). I´m certain I was a novice in the eyes of onlookers- Typically Colombian women are not seen on the futbol field or on a bike on the side of a mountian- and this too energized me. I hoped this crazy sight may give the women and little girls a confidence to push their own limits of physical fitness.

A few hours since our blast off (I have no concept of time- it probobly seemed longer than it was), Buena Vista was in view. And my have I never been rewarded with such a pleasing sight. Who knows, maybe the buena vista wouldn´t have been as buena if we weren´t completing a vigerous day´s joy. The small town snug in the mountain top was bustling with color and at least a quarter of its 2,o00 residents. We rounded the plaza and peddled stupid with amazement that we´d reached our goal! It didn´t take us long to park underneath a colored umbrella and raise glasses spilling over with refajo (beer mixed with Colombiana- their orange version of creame soda) to an emphatic, ¨¡SALUD!¨.

Our perfect day was born. We peddled even higher as if taking our victory lap and at last we laid eyes on a 100 year-old home that belonged to El Negro´s family. As if testing my imagination and stretching the limits of my idea of a perfect farm, a tiny white labrador puppy appeared at my feet. Here we stood 1,560 ft above sea level looking out at all of Quindio and beyond and all the while I had a sweet puppy dog cradled in my arms. Winding around porches beaten with time and etched with character, I felt as high as the 200 year-old Caucho tree perched to my right and as light as a feat

her. Naturally we made our way into the home and sat around a table strewn with cigars, shots of aguardiente (fire water! Colombia´s version of pisco in a Peruvian Pisco Sour), cups filled with hot, smoothe home-grown coffee (with saucers!) and mounds of more strange fruits (one of which is near extinction- so the farm has lots of trees and Jorge and El Negro packed some seeds to plant at Betica). Now I was in the company of 6 ¨Paisas¨, or typical Colombians reigning from this specific region of the country. I had to laugh because it seems I´m always with a bunch of men! They told stories and we all chuckled deep from our bellies. Were all days this good in Buena Vista?

If I had to chose a favorite of the lads, which would not be fair one bit, I´d have to say Antonio. He wore my favorite of the typical Colombian hats- white with a black ribbon and molded perfect to his head, it was worn and rugged. I didn´t know until after we dropped him off at his house that he kept a large pistol (loaded with precisely 18 shells) named ¨Niña¨ in his pocket at all times. This detail confirmed my adoration for a happy, army vet who´d called me brava (brave), linda (pretty), amable (friendly) and natural (natural- this is what we Spanish teachers call a direct cognate). Every woman needs at least one man like Antonio in her life (I think of my sweet Papa!).

On we went even further up into the hills to another gorgeous home (belonging to El Negro´s cousins) structured and stiled in ¨typical¨ Quindio fashion. Bright colors, detailed wood work and endless, outdoor covered hallways enchanted us. Every room had windows swinging open to the mountain side. The long house sat amongst steep patches of healthy, green coffee trees and high above the clouds. The fog now far below seemed to dance as it made its way across the valley. Hanging flower pots, blooms of red ¨novios¨ (boyfriends- the name of the flower), fountains and antique light fixtures caught my eye. We were served delicious, hot tapas and sweet guava juice. All I could do was sit back, relax and bathe in the splendor and circumstance. How on earth did I get to this hidden paradise with these incredibly generous, compassionate and colorful people?
I learned that this particular coffee farm is acclaimed to grow the best coffee in all of Colombia (National champion for 5 years straight- although my loyalty is with Betica). You must remember that Colombia has the ¨best¨ coffee in the world and this coffee that touched my very lips is the cream of the crop. Its named San Antonio, and its beans are selected 5 times over throughout process to ensure that they provide coffee of the best quality. The beans that San Antonio doesn´t use are sold at premium rates to coffee buyers around the world. These guys are in the process of building a coffee shop on their land where tourists can come and enjoy their coffee while learning about the art of coffee growing. This is a fabulous idea considering I´ve been inquiring about a coffee ¨tasting¨ (kind of like wine ¨tastings¨ and enjoying a visit to a vinyard) ever since I arrived in Colombia. Millions of people must desire to learn about this world-cultural phenomena, but very few coffee farms offer venues to share and sell the fruit of its labor. The San Antonio Cafe will be ready in 2 short months, so coffee lovers take note and make your way to Buena Vista, Quindio, Colombia.

Dare I write more. I love you all SO VERY MUCH. Thank you for inspiring me to be here and to follow my heart.

Catherine