Cabin Fever - Angel Fire, New Mexico

     Some kind of country music being tuned out by loose gravel hitting the back fender of Ford as we come around the last curve before the end of the road. I immediately notice an abrasive tree trunk that will soon have J & S carved into it. This will require digging through my purse, but I know I have something sharp enough in there to do the job. Joey is taking me to his cabin in Angel Fire, New Mexico. I’ve never been here but he said he wanted to show me his favorite place. 557 miles later we arrive.  We pull up on the unpaved driveway but have to wait at least 30 seconds for the dust to settle. The only things you can hear now are crickets and the hot engine clicking, as it takes a break from its nine-hour drive.  We step out of the car and I immediately look up. I feel like I have been somewhere like this. Somewhere where I stood so close to the ground surrounded by towers that were nearly touching the sky. This was New Mexico’s own version of New York City. Looming tree trunks reached at least sixty feet high, as if they were pulling their fingers as far as they could to reach the clouds. The sky was a shade of blue, that would make bubblegum ice cream jealous. Here I was, this 5’7 creature absolutely dumbfounded by God’s work.

     The first steps of the porch smelled like pine and fresh air.  The stairs creaked as if they had been soaked with rain only to dry up in the sun day after day. Finally the key turned open the lock and boots lined the hallway as you walked through the door.  Spare pine needles covered the floor letting me know adventure was welcome. The inside of the cabin smelled like cowhide. I counted nine windows on one wall, each one looking out towards trees that could double as stilts if you wanted to touch the sky. I have never been to a place that was so quiet yet so alive at the same time.

     By the time I got to the second floor I was already out of breathe due to the high altitude. One word of advice, don’t run up the stairs. The multiple fireplaces told that tonight one of them would be whispering smoke into the atmosphere.  Back in the kitchen I dug through the shelves to come up with something to throw inside of a crockpot that was clearly from the 70’s. The conclusion was chili. A perfect fireside dinner to comfort us after we spent 6 hours playing outside. I sat down by the front door and laced up my black leather boots, tied a flannel around my waist, and jammed a granola bar into my pocket. Joey led me to some of the most photogenic views of my life.  No wonder this was his favorite place. 

     After our adventure it was time for a break. As I sat outside enjoying a glass of earthy Pinot Noir I was entertained by two flirting blue jays. Both extremely camera shy. Even when I tried to sneak up on them with my camera they would whiz past the lens. Absolutely no time to focus. They were busy collecting all the deer food we had laid earlier that day. It’s almost like a game of hide and seek with wildlife. The harder you look – the less you find. The smell of stewed tomatoes amplified my appetite and the glass of wine wasn’t helping with the hunger.

       As the sun was setting we collected firewood from an overly organized pile of logs. Fifteen minutes, an old rolled up newspaper, and a box of matches later we had a dancing fire. Something both of us would eventually stare into like pyromaniacs. It felt almost sacrilegious burning wood. It wasn’t less then 30 minutes earlier that I was looking up into the sky and admiring the trees.The golden embers lit up the room and the crackles filled up any gaps in our conversation. Through a cracked window, a gust of wind whipped around us and invited us outside. The sky was like a black velvet blanket embellished with glimmering stars. We were out in the middle of nowhere but embraced the loneliness. We knew that in less than 48 hours we would be back at work, sitting under stale artificial lights, dreaming of this enchanted playground. We made our way back inside and in perfect sync with the fire, our eyes closed for the night as the flames took their last breath. 

Pura Vida. Real Living in Costa Rica

     A surfboard, motorcycle, and monkey would become my three closest friends while I spent a month living in a tree house in Costa Rica. Manuel Antonio was the perfect place for a 22 year old to escape after a tumultuous breakup.  The people there are what helped me restore my faith in humanity, while the land helped me regain a sense of direction. They locals had the kindest smiles paired with the simplest gestures, and oh my - what an appreciation for the American dollar! On this trip, I learned the importance of keeping a journal when a phone call to your best friend would cost almost as much as a one night stay in a 4-star hotel. I also learned that simple is always best. Not only because it’s the easiest, but there is so much more time to enjoy things, rather than let them pass you by.

     I would spend numerous mornings trying to catch my stride as I walked down a loose, gravel paved, steep mountain to get to my favorite “writing” rock. That’s where I would crack open the spine of a leather journal and take note of all of the things I was grateful for. At that moment, those consisted of hot wind whipping my hair, the tempo of crashing waves, sun ripened mangos, and a pair of dusty sneakers. Other mornings I would sit on the patio of my tree house, hiding my human food from the property manager, as he would always shake his finger at me for feeding the animals. He may not have agreed with this, but my monkey friend and I had an understanding. In exchange for his scheduled belief of my innocence, I would let him eat banana muesli out of my hand.  Much like the people there – my daily visitor embraced a simple and peaceful composure about himself.

     A few hours on my surfboard with the locals and I was famished. The blistering sun wasn’t being shy by that time, so hiding underneath the red and yellow, beer promoting, Imperial printed umbrellas at the local grill became a safe haven. The daily fishplate was brought to my table like clockwork. Paired with sweaty glass bottle of Coca Cola, nothing could be more satisfying after being tossed around in the ocean. I threw my salt soaked and sun streaked hair into a ponytail and it was buen appetite for me.  After lunch, I would jump on my motorcycle and brave the curved roads of the mountains. Stumbling upon my next adventure was never difficult. I found that my open days did not challenge me with boredom. I had been so busy before this trip with work, that I was completely satisfied finding a random mystery novel on the shelf at the local bookshop, and hammering it out in 2-3 days.

     The sunset was made up of colors from a palette that could be called “paradise.” If you were to take the sky and pour it into a cup, you’d end up with a tropical drink, and the sun would be a slice of lemon hanging off the rim.  Once the sun sank into the ocean, the beach bars would fill up with loud salsa music and enough white linen to fill up a department store. By the time I was done, I had salty sweat creeping onto my lips and a craving for a late night snack. Back at the tree house, I had a stash of vanilla butter crème cookies called Cremas. To the locals they were just cookies – but to me they were gold. I’d wake up the next morning with golden crumbs in my hair but a dip in the ocean would solve that.  On my bathing suit clad journey to the beach – I would stop by the local coffee shop for a raspberry latte followed by a quick email update to everyone back home.  It would be too American of me to send emails while I drank my coffee. Pura Vida meant enjoying every sip of the brewed foamy concoction without any interruptions.

     I swore to myself this would always be the place I would go if I ever happened to stumble upon a mid life crisis. The air, the ocean, and not to forget, the food, all brought me back to life. Four weeks later and I was healed. The saying “Pura Vida” will always be tattooed on my heart. 

Pure Life. 

If Only I Was French..

Fresh crusty baguettes plastered in the windows of each bakery on my walk to Notre Dame made me realize that maybe some statements are indeed true.  Keep your friends close and you enemies closer.  For many American women, carbs indeed are the enemy so during my stay in Paris, I’ll even keep the crumbs close.  Food, fashion, art, and how can we forget, romance, surrounded me as I make my way around the city of love.

Rather than be mesmerized by the season’s latest handbag at the multi-level Louis Vuitton, I chose to be the typical tourist.  That meant in a week I would become completely familiar with Champs’ Elysees, get lost on the avenues near Notre Dame, try some escargot, and have an affair with my new camera. Of course I also told myself I would be spontaneous. Gaining 5 pounds because I had learned how to inhale croissants was completely unplanned and impulsive. Living life on the wild side is what I like to call it. 

The first few hours of the each day began by plopping down at a coffee shop, pulling out my map, circling everywhere I wanted to go with a fat red marker.  How French of me, right? I should have at least invested in a sleek, crystal encrusted, ballpoint pen? If only I were French. 

I managed to do everything I wanted and more. I had a chance to explore Shakespeare & Company – an independent bookstore in Paris right across from the Notre Dame.  I was most excited to learn that Fitzgerald and Hemingway spent much of their time in the attic there. It’s quite dusty and vintage, but paired with the endless amounts of coffee at the café next door, it seems like the perfect place to write a great novel. That wasn’t on my to-do list – but the beauty of getting lost is the places and things you can find. 

I walked more stairs in one day than I have in a year.  I had one-sided conversations with skulls at Les Catacombs. I made Champagne a part of every meal I had, and I even filled my camera with around 600 photos.  I knew I would be back some day but who would ever think I would find the place I would one day want to retire in. Pinkies up.