Good thought. Poor execution.

Disclaimer – I tried to take a vacation. I tried to leave my raccoon-esque fatigue look behind me in Munich and run away to Colombia. This is the story of what happens when I try to take a vacation.

Out of respect for the newlyweds, I have taken some distance from their enchanting wedding before diving into the story of how I ride a horse. It is a charming story of sweeping Colombian panoramas drenched in hues of chlorophyll and topaz and a cotton candy sunset.

But first – two introductions.

First, the Cabalgata (read: cavalcade to Southwestern Americans and awesomeness to anyone unfamiliar to it). A slow meandering ride on horseback throughout villages – in our case through the Cali valley – filled with music, celebration and enough Aguardiente to kill a horse.

Second, Freckles – my trusty steed and fairytale white horse flecked with brown spots and of a stature that negates both the bit about trusty and the bit about fairytales. Up I went on to Freckles with a bit more experience than most of the group, but far less than I would need.

Off we went in a group of 60 people, most on horseback, some wisely wedged into a wagon illuminated by club quality disco lights and speakers shouting out Latin hits ahead to the next village, alerting them of the shenanigans of which they would soon bear witness.

From the outset we had a few horses that were listening intensely when the group of inexperienced riders was called to the front to mount. Itching to take advantage of inexperience, a group of eight horses set off for an impromptu Kentucky Derby whisking away frightened faces and dotting the field with newly acquired hats that a local boy promptly collected with a business model brewing in his head. One rider down.

The horses returned, the hats were reacquired and the group set off for a definitional Cabalgata. For the next hour, the fresh air was welcomed with open arms from the depth of our lungs. The winds slid down the mountains and through our hair with such innocence and abandon that it seemingly scooped out reality and the burdens a continent away. A sudden flurry of excitement and we lost another rider…but this one upped the ante and was tossed aside onto the contrasting reality of asphalt.

The sun began to set and we added more music, permanent smiles so effortless a beauty pageant contest would kill for, more Aguardiente and more photos of this epic adventure to complement the candid selfie I took with a donkey. Clouds dissipated in the sky slowly, but left behind enough strands to grab hold of the bubble gum pink of the fleeting sun. It would have been breathtaking if we were not on the move, but alas, Freckles charged ahead and I needed to breathe. One place Freckles steered clear of however, was the kicking horse.

There is one in every group – in this group the one horse that just had to stand out and make his mark, did so with a coy sidekick that would rupture any ankle that came in his path. Someone must have woken up on the wrong side of the stable that morning or had a stick in his horseshoe, because he was on a role. Any horse nearby and wham!, he would have a go at them. Comically (or less so for our Beloved Belgian after yet another selfie to add to his Instagram collection and a lucid conversation) kicking horse simply kicked and our poor Belgian sprung back to his feet after bouncing his head on the ground and lucid was no longer applicable. A hospital trip would be required and we had lost another good man - a direct victim of the kicking horse.

Assuming I had survived the worst of it and with my injured friends safely and gently tucked into the party wagons, I confidently took a mental timeout and handed over control to Freckles. We had made a good pair for four hours, I was on holiday and everyone was having a blast – what could go wrong now?

It is poor foreshadowing, but it was also poor decision making – so why call it something it is not.

I have a general propensity for pretending / thinking / convincing others I am the offspring of Otto Lilienthal or Evel Knievel with a serious shortcoming on execution. This night was no exception and Freckles knew it.

The little guy – remember not some formidable steed, more like an oversized pony – decided he wanted to run and I decided to let him, but just for 100 meters. We had covered more than that previously in the night – for safety sake and companionship, we asked the local Cali friend to join in our jaunt. The world's general propensity to remind me that I am good at planning, but should execute my life from within an air filled resilient bubble, kicked in and the jaunt was a full sprint gallop and the next thing I felt was the shift of the saddle.

Fine, I will come clean – I am basically an expert horse rider – hell I even took a lesson once in Hyde Park AND I watched at least three Equestrian events during the last Summer Olympics. A controlled exit from this situation was clearly required. I needed to finesse my way off the horse before the saddle was on his hip…Freckles was less than impressed by my decision, lack of skill at such a maneuver and lack of grace, so he seemingly hit the eject button on my behalf. Another rider down.

The experience was amazing – without sarcasm it was epic – even when you take a look at the scorecard – Freckles 1; Andrea 0.

Damages tally:

- An evening that became a blur & suspected concussion

- Lost mobile phone into the darkness holding precious enough photos to remind me that a photo is powerful, but doesn’t replace an emotion or experience

- A blocked mobile phone due to attempts to communicate injuries as I had failed to alert O2 that I was traveling beyond the German border

- Hole in my hat rendering it useless even to the aforementioned young local entrepreneur

- Designer espadrilles detached at one heel

- Sleeve that decided to part ways with the rest of my shirt

- Enough scrapes and bruises to serve as a pain compass for the subsequent parade of doctor's appointments

- Aguardiente-a-plenty to survive the wedding ceremony

- Last minute Business Class upgrade for a 9 hour overnight flight that included eight hours of five minute massage cycles from the deluxe seat selection and one hour of sleep

- And bleeding ears….wait….what…

So those cost me…

- A round of x-rays and a CT scan to eventually diagnose perforated ear drums from the impact to my head

- An MRI to uncover a handful of hemotomas down the length of my back and my liver decided to get involved too 

It is difficult to defend myself when people tell me I should probably forego the notion of holiday and just sit safely in my office and work. I am 0 for 2 on vacations this year – I never did get around to writing about the exploding juice bottle.

But man, it was pretty spectacular and did I mention the selfie with a donkey!? 

Parking Lot Volcanoes

Disclaimer – I tried to take a vacation. I tried to leave my raccoon-esque fatigue look behind me in Munich and run away to Colombia. This is the story of what happens when I try to take a vacation.

Think 'Volcano'…

Things that come to mind are gaping craters in the earth requiring helicopters to traverse their grand scope. Also, images of month long plumes of smoke from merely a minor eruption halting European travel and life as we knew it (read: Eyjafjallajökull circa 2010). 

By definition a volcano is a rupture in the crust of planetary mass. 'Planetary' itself suggests an image of grandeur.

Imagine our surprise when we arrived at the El Totumo – Colombia's most underwhelming 15 meter glorified termite mound, nestled neatly next to the lagoon and tidily fitting into a makeshift parking lot.

Ok. Ok. That is a bit harsh, but we didn’t know what to expect. After an amazing three days of activity planned for us by the bride and groom, we threw together a last minute group of 12 to venture an hour outside of Cartagena in search of geographic wonders. Guide book photos showed smiling faces within what was once lava now turned to healing mud by priests many storyteller generations ago, but mentioned nothing of the 'grandeur' of the external structure and its rickety staircase that ascends to the top. Volcano – I beg to differ.

We had a briefing from our host as she basically told us 'take off your clothes, get in the mud and nothing is for free. So either learn to chant 'No. Gracias.' or be prepared to pay'. After we exchanged skeptical looks at each other from the corner of our eyes, we stripped down to our bathing suits and with a bit of blind faith took the walk to the open top of the crater. The first 'No. Gracias.' moment for me was when two little boys charmingly tried to take my shorts and flip-flops from me. They smiled in a manner that took me to the Taj Mahal as adolescent Jamal and Salim stole tourists' shoes in Slumdog Millionaire. No. Gracias. But they were so cute.

Arriving to the top at the front of our group, I peered bravely into a crater about half the distance back down an even less convincing ladder. I shot a not so brave face to my friends looking forward to me with anticipation and hopes for adventure. Beer in hand, I slid down the ladder while the guide outstretched his arms as if he were my grandfather welcoming me home from summer camp. 'No. No. No. Gracias!' The buoyancy of the mud was shocking and I fearfully put my feet down and let go of the ladder curling instantly into a precariously balanced ball. 'Grandpa Guide' took control of my shoulders and positioned me before sliding my thru the mud narrowly dodging the backpackers already bathing themselves in a thick gray pudding. I slid across the pool of mud at an intended angle and speed to my position. I have never felt more like I was in a game of Tetris – clearly 'Grandpa Guide' knew what he was doing. Then one by one my friends were twisted, turned, flipped and slid over to my side. Level cleared.  

After a few failed attempts to stay balanced (I apparently have extremely buoyant feet), we made our way up what was once a sturdy ladder to the top and now was merely a well worn pile of wood, caked in mud. We waddled down to the lagoon as the mud dried and cracked with each step. I smiled to see that little Jamal and Salim had only taken the pesos from my pockets and my flip flops still remained.

Following the rejuvenating mud bath, your only hope for cleaning was the lagoon with ten local women standing in the ready with bowls in hand and pesos on their mind. We uttered our way thru many attempts for assistance and so began the chant of 'No. Gracias'. I opted for the less than seductive massage by my Indian friend as he yanked my leg into the air to scrub the mud off, subsequently dunking my face under the water quite unceremoniously. After what I believed was a thorough and systematic cleansing, I left defeated and carried a thin layer of mud from head to toe back towards our bus.

Now it was payday and in a flurry of activity I had to remember how many times I owed someone 3000 Colombian Pesos. I negotiated with the camera man who promised he took 'many, many, super special photos – many – 5000 Pesos many'. Unconvinced I surrendered our contracted sum. I hopped on the bus and watched with appreciation as little Jamal and Salim took a left over pizza that was gifted to them, split the remaining pieces and sold the what remained to the twenty-something backpackers that were too high on young love and adventure to notice they had been swindled.

And back to the city walls we went. Cartagena had been good to us. A group of strangers connected by a couple in love, in a city of charm, had become friends united in awkward adventure. We packed our bags and left Cartagena for Cali the next day. We traded in the coast for mountains, humidity for wind and the gentle buzz of energy for a cadence of city life. It was time to get these kids married – but first we needed to conquer horses and pool sticks – a seemingly tricky task. 

South of the Border

Disclaimer – I tried to take a vacation. I tried to leave my raccoon-esque fatigue look behind me in Munich and run away to Colombia. This is the story of what happens when I try to take a vacation.

  

Growing up the phrase 'south of the border' stirred up uncontainable amounts of anticipation...first, it meant we were going on a road trip. Secondly, it meant maybe - just maybe - Dad would let us stop at the redneck, rat trap that was (and still is?) ‘South of the Border – the Highway Oasis’ on Interstate 95 at the border of North and South Carolina. Thank goodness parental discretion reduced my visits to a minimum over my lifetime.

As I grew taller, the world grew bigger and my definition for 'south of the border' transformed from a petrol station/firework haven to the Continental border. The same juvenile desires awoke as I yearned, weakly I will admit, to join my friends for graduation parties, spring breaks and summer vacations in cheaply decorated, all-inclusive (bad decisions included) Mexican resort towns. Thank goodness for parental discretion, athletic commitments and personal discretion.

And so it became that the days of my life continued and my passport(s) took me right across the globe, but never ‘South of the Border’, until recently. My first trip to South America was a well timed break from my routine to attend what turned out to be a nine day wedding celebration of two glorious humans I proudly call friends. My trip to Colombia included a comical sequence of transportation blunders, a wealth of new cultural adventures and a charming cast of characters - old and new.

Destination 1: Bogota

I was to visit for an evening but as fate would have it, I got an early start to the transportation ‘adventures’ as the flight crew fumbled their way through three different technical failures on the tarmac in Munich - we cut our losses and returned to the gate. Different flight path, different airports and Bogota and I met only for a much anticipated nap at an airport hotel.

Destination 2: Cartagena

A four day retreat awaited me on the other end of a short flight from Bogota. I picked up a few friendly faces in the airport and we dove into the steam room like coastal Colombian town. I was immediately in love. We pierced the city walls of the old town and sauntered along narrow streets with bits of shade cast by charming wooden balconies that jettisoned from the sides of Caribbean colored walls. The town was buzzing with activity of the daily routine and it was merely seven am. Reconstruction here, house painting there, I absorbed it all thru my half opened eyes. Refurbished doors were garnished with the most ornate knockers of Gods and Iguanas that promised me equal charm and elegance from their neighbors if I just came back in a few years time.

They called it jet lag therapy, so our globally sourced group willingly suffered from the side effects and napped at all the wrong times, stayed up late and sipped cocktails before lunchtime. Our planes had arrived from countries oceans away and we shared war stories of our 20+ hour flight routes as our bodies tried to determine what time zone it should be in. The sun chased us under cafe umbrellas where we lingered over coconut drowned in lemonade, ignorant to the beads of water that dripped from the glass with each sip staining our Western garb. The locals pushed carts of limes down streets lined with beaded jewelry, coconut juice carts and local hats. We weaved in and out of a life that had an unfamiliar rhythm to it, a rhythm that my body yearned to adopt. So I napped again.

While the theme was relaxation, we also mixed in a little adventure...of the transportation and volcano variety. We were coerced into taking a boat to nearby islands to lounge in hammocks, eat fresh caught lobster and snorkel around the reef. First stop: a 'not in the brochure' Costal village when engine failure plagued our boat of forty. We disembarked on a group of poverty stricken locals carrying out their daily routines. One man lazily brushed his teeth in a doorway that opened into the sea – a thorough brush and then ‘pteh’ a stream of minty white foam right into the water – I secretly envied his freedom. Children splashed in the water as their younger siblings were washed by mothers and fathers. I wandered a bit, bought warm drinks from the market that wasn't running the generator that day and snapped photos of empty sports courts and dilapidated homes that displayed rusted 1980s Coca-Cola signage that once held promise of prosperity.

We were merely disrupting their day and when boat number two, with as many engines arrived, we left behind a scene of innocence and headed towards our haven. We swam, we ate, we napped again and I snapped a few photos and bargained with Elvis for a handful of local handicrafts. I know a little about winds and currents and I positioned myself accordingly for the boat trip home. It was extraordinary! We skirted around the major waves on the hour long trek home and my partners in crime snickered when I promised them roller coaster like experiences if we threw our hands in the air like ten year olds at Space Mountain. The captain and I both knew he couldn’t avoid the big waves forever and we got sufficiently wet and a few freefalls between sets. I wanted to do it all over but the glum faces of those weary of wild boat trips told a different story, so I tucked my head, wandered home and took yet another nap with a smirk on my face only a boat can bring.

We dined on the city walls, sang to a make shift karaoke machine and consumed more umbrella accented cocktails. We had an impromptu bar setup poolside to taste the local spirits from Peru and Brazil so that we could survive the heat. We tucked ourselves into an air-conditioned bar to spend a very tense and rewarding two hours cheering on the Germans as the captured the World Cup title then proudly walked thru town in our Red, Gold and Black to cheers of ‘Alemania’ as it seems no one in Colombia was supporting Argentina. We quickly seemed to acclimate to the energy of the locals – a perpetual relaxed buzz of life.

So it is only Day 3 and I managed this with only a small cold and moderate fever. The ‘consultant’s flu’ that will sneak up on every over-confident consultant that tries to escape from the grind of daily work, but a little penicillin and more than my fair share of naps and I was surviving – after all – at least I was not in the office.

Next up: Termite hills and Freckles

I am the person I warned myself about...

I cannot quite put my finger on exactly when the tides turned against me. Perhaps it was the caviar breakfast on my flight back from Australia. Maybe it was watching the sun rise over the chocolate fountain at the breakfast buffet. Possibly it was when I danced around my hotel room in my underwear surrounded by enough pink to take me back to the youthful days of Barbie-mobile and hair ribbons. Whenever it turned, it is safe to say, it definitely turned. I think I became a little high maintenance with this whole travel thing..

Damn.

Isn’t it charming to read my own words that proudly announced I merely require hair conditioner and ironing boards? I warned myself about this and yet, here I am. Oops.

It has been one heck of a ride!

As my passport inches closer to its 8^th birthday, I suppose I can say I worked for it and had enough moments of utter hell often combined with sleepless nights that this eased the pain a bit. Work or not, it has been an exciting, exhausting, exhilarating, eclectic and humbling sixteen months...

Flying to Australia for 2.5 days and Singapore too, to kick-off workshops in 4 continents over two weeks time, eight countries in five

Showering in airport business lounges & hotels more times in 16 months than my own home

Looking forward to the two homemade cookies in a darling silver tin in my hotel room tucked into the countryside of England

Hugging my mother with the innocence of a child and my feet firmly planted on the front step of my home in the States

Drinking cheap champagne in a hat and heels at the Royal Ascot then teeing off for a round of golf with clients discussing acquisition business the very next day

Straddling the Greenwich meridian, eating Chinese food with my fingers and laughing for hours with my father in London

Running in the textured heat of summer time Madrid and drinking cheap boxed wine with friends to rehydrate

Donning a mask to experience a night anonymously, retracing cherished steps of adventures past and stopping to enjoy the acoustics of New York City without a single word

Walking a bridge in Louisville no American would walk, but every European would, to meet a cherished ex-roommate

Eating grapes and muffins homemade with so much love I cried alone in my hotel room

Giving my heart permission to go see about a boy

Pausing. Breathing. Long enough to watch storm clouds nibble away at a summer day just before the sun retired for the night

Celebrating love in Italy, London and Spain with faces weathered by too many smiles and laughter

Mourning expectations gone awry in the cruelest of ways so briefly as to not miss the kiss of new life from an easterly wind

Helping my feet catch up so I look up and ahead at what’s to come with baited breath for the first time in forever

I also collected enough miles and hotel points to go toe-to-toe with the stereotype I emphatically swore to avoid! Sadly…or even pathetically…I am that business traveler that forgets the room number of the 4^th hotel I stay in within a week. The seasoned professional platinum flyer that sits in the wrong seat because the last flight was 17F, this flight is 4A. I wake up to a note-card with the name of the city I am in and require an app on my phone to remind me the time difference back at ‘home base’. My relationships with hotel staff have extended beyond cordial greetings at check-in to voice recognition when I call to change my reservations last minute. And while I loathe it, I can pack for any occasion, for any length of duration, in the dark, in ten minutes flat.

With the hint of a grin on my face, hard work and good fortune on my side and these memories in my back pocket, I will take it and kindly acknowledge I have become a bit of what I warned myself about…