alone in paris: settling in


you hear so much about the city of love. and for me, it lived up to every word. a lifetime of expectation entirely exceeded. ten days to soak in the french and their palace of a city…

when i arrived at the airport, instead of being welcomed with a hug from my auntie, i was greeted with a text message telling me to pop on the train. that the terrorists (i arrived days after terrorist attacks.) were being seized in a neighborhood near the airport and that traffic was a nightmare. so, i figured out how to get a ticket to the country and stared out the window for an hour or so, doe-eyed.

straightaway my cousin-in-law swept me up from the train station and started his tour guiding role. a stroll around the castle of la madeleine, a beautiful medieval fortress overlooking chevreuse.



a quick stop for lunch at an all frozen food store, then home to their cozy house in saint remy.


after the chaos of china, it was so nice to settle into family life. meal times and routine were a welcome change.

despite jet lag, i rallied and joined my aunt for a night out in paris. a delicious vegan meal with some longtime expats followed by a truly french musical performance in the small one room basement of a small one room bar.


it was the sort of thing you’d imagine reading about or seeing in an old film. in my overly tired, dazed and confused state, it all felt so surreal. i wish i could have stayed awake and soaked in more, but alas, after the first performer (a friend of my aunt’s friend) i could not manage to keep my eyes open. but i had heard and seen enough already to know that i could easily fall in love with this city.

and on day two, i fell a little more.

despite a little rain, we strolled down near a canal and fantasized about owning one of the homes hugging the water’s edge.


there is so much history in paris and its surrounding towns. my imagination was in overdrive flashing back to what it must have been like back when people hung out their windows to wash their clothes in the canal. or seeing the opening scene of beauty and the beast come to life before my very eyes. bonjour. bonjour. bonjour, bonjour, bonjour…


we escaped the rain into a cute restaurant that apparently gets overrun by motorcyclists on the weekend, but today it was just us. i indulged in the traditional duck confit for lunch and profiteroles for dessert.

i had not yet gone into the city, but my family time in the country was just what i needed. every meal was filled with abundant conversation and rolling laughter. since my aunt, cousins, and second cousins have lived in france my whole life, i don’t get to see them nearly enough. and yet, it was evident upon arrival that we were indeed related. once a schneider woman, always a schneider woman (regardless of last name).

with jet lag dissipating and a good night’s sleep ahead, it was time to finally head into paris and see what the fuss was all about…


12 signs you were born and raised in the Chicago suburbs

In honor of heading home for the holidays… 12 signs you were born and raised in the Chicago suburbs:

1. You have a photo of yourself being knighted at Medieval Times.

Or crowned princess on your birthday, in my case. Nothing like slipping back in time and investigating ancient torture methods before cheering on the black and white checkered knight as he conquered the evil green knight in an epic jousting match. Let’s not forget the whole eating with your hands element, either.

2. The last Metra train determined when you had to close out your tab. 

And missing that last train meant a very expensive cab ride home from the city. You also knew that open containers were totally cool aboard the train, and necessary since Chicago cocktails were triple the price of your local Main Street bar. Let the train pre-game begin!

3. All your major life events were celebrated at Colonial. 

Or whatever your local diner happened to be. Dance recitals, school musicals, graduations, etc. all ended with a Kitchen Sink at Colonial. Not only did you get to celebrate your accomplishments with a 6-scoop ice cream sundae served in a miniature kitchen sink, you also got to walk away with a bumper sticker to prove you’re a fat ass.

4. You have at least one photo of yourself crying at Six Flags Great America. 

All right, maybe not every Chicago suburbanite hates walking around amusement parks in drenched denim as much as I do, but they definitely have made the trek to Gurnee at some point in their lives. One ride on the Viper’s 25-year-old wooden track (forward or backward) and you’ll be doubting your sanity for years to come.

See the rest of this article on Matador Network!


hong kong and beyond.

from tsim sha tsui to central, from lamma island to shek o, from macau to kowloon, i soaked in as much of hong kong as i could before departing china for my impromptu reroute.

tsim sha tsui is made up of rows and rows of “mansions” filled with tailors, money exchanges, massage parlors, and other random shops. most cheap lodging is found in guest houses that really are just apartments morphed into hotels. small and sketchy. cleanliness is optional but slow elevators are required.

the streets are bustling in this tourist district. you can slip into sync with the masses and march down one of the main drags to the jade market. although kitschy and overpriced, it is an excellent space to browse and take in old chinese men eating noodles over their suitcases of jade and antique wares. the surrounding area offers other food and knickknack markets to further fuel a truly intriguing people watching stroll.


first and foremost, tsim sha tsui visits need to include crowding down on the water’s edge to take selfies in front of hong kong’s central skyline situated across the bay.


then, come back around 8pm to take in a spectacular of lights. electricity dancing over the metal giants and shooting across the foggy night sky.


a few museums make their home upon this promenade as well as the ferries. by the end of a week, we had mastered the ferries. by the end of a week, we were over tsim sha tsui.

across the water, central hong kong stands tall packed with bank buildings and business suits. double decker street cars move 9-5ers from point a to point b and back.


an endless vertical incline of escalators takes pedestrians up through the mid-levels, full of trendy bars, health food stores, organic restaurants, and spas.


at the top, signs direct you back down through a sad excuse for a zoo.

but the real treat in central is victoria peak, or the peak as it’s called. don’t buy a roundtrip ticket for the tram that takes you to the top. take the tram up and the bus down. after spending hours looking down upon hong kong’s jungle of skyscrapers in amazement, you won’t want to wait in the massive line to take the tram back down. the view from the top is epic.


go right before sunset and watch the city shift from blue skies to fireflies. it’s like your own time-lapse…in real time.


head to happy valley at some point and bet on the ponies. every wednesday night it’s themed. we went on james bond night. figuring out how to bet in chinese took me at least an hour, but in the end i won $18 and got to watch a couple ridiculously ripped men flagpole off each other. all in all, a win. plus ryan made friends with a swiss banker, plastic surgeon, and yacht salesman. rubbing elbows with the upper class at the races (and getting ready for the boob job i might need one day).


after a few days of city life, we were ready to escape. a quick ferry ride to the outlying island of lamma island offered a pleasant change of scenery. within minimal, if any, roads, this little island is green and lush. one end of the island has a small town housing hippie boutiques and quaint apartment complexes.


“the family trail” takes you for a 4k walk to the other side of the island, a strip of seafood restaurants on stilts above the water.


tanks and tanks sit on the sidewalks filled with sea critters of which i have never heard.


after a leisurely walk (and a few days in hong kong), a delicious seafood meal overlooking the sunset was a much needed recovery.


you always see more interesting things when you know a local, and when our friend patrick arrived, we discovered shek o. his friend lived there and was living the good life. steps from the beach. steps from town. this cute little area sits away from central and feels like an entirely different world. the beach atmosphere. we drank through an entire cocktail list at their local beach shack pub and then headed to the next, on the backside of the town.


it was nice to be away from the tourist scene. a night with home cooked food, too much spirit (in all senses of the word), and wonderful company. i spent the evening attempting to drunkenly learn turkish, and boy did i feel it the next day. but, not as bad as ryan. as we piled into a taxi in the morning, poor ryan sat shaking armed and ready with a plastic bag to puke in. windy roads did him in, but not a drop made it into the taxi. what a champion.


however, our itinerary for the day involved taking an hour ferry ride over to macau, the vegas of china. we returned to our hostel room for a brief regrouping, only to find that someone else was in our room, and all of our luggage was missing. the receptionist informed us that they had switched our room. that our stuff was “downstairs.” all i could do was laugh.

turns out our stuff was not downstairs but just moved to the room across the hall. we regrouped and rallied. by lunchtime, we were riding the luxury boat (free upgrade) to macau with hopes to win big. we studied the possible casinos and decided to start at the venetian.


after pat lost a quick few bucks on the roulette wheel, we filled our bellies with dim sum and headed back to plant ourselves at the cheaper roulette wheel.

turns out ryan hasn’t gambled much and had quite a bit of beginner’s luck. as he quietly hoarded his chips in the corner, looking surprisingly well after his morning of looking like death, patrick and i rode the waves of wins and losses. zero never did hit, but twenty-two did!


it was our last full day in hong kong. as we headed home, i was tired. i was ready to head to paris. since china would not let me in, i would go to the city of love. alone. i would not let terrorist attacks stop me. fear should never dictate.

the next morning, ryan boarded a train and started an epic journey into rural china, ready to rock climb. pat and i wandered around kowloon after checking my bags in at the station. (yes, apparently you can check your bags before the airport so you don’t have to take them on the train. how great!) we found our way up to sky100, a 360 degree viewing lounge 400m above hong kong. another place to stare out over this monster of a city.

hong kong you are a beast.

that is all.

meant to be a city trip.

“don’t you love cities at night?” a friend said to me, visually overcome, as we drove into salt lake city a few years ago. growing up near chicago, i was used to seeing rows upon rows of skyscraper windows glowing like stars in the sky, but it wasn’t until that moment that i really understood just how beautiful these collection of human creations could be.

now take that experience and multiply it by a thousand.


as i flew into hong kong last week, my comprehension of “city” was shattered. in the dust of its dissipation, i pressed my face against the taxi window and strained my neck as i gazed up in pure amazement. column after column flickering in a sea of structure. surrounded and intertwined with the green giants standing tall in the distance.


what was this place?

i was only supposed to be here for a few days. arrive sunday night, leave thursday morning. just enough time to secure a visa to mainland china. a brief stopover on the way to yangshuo, a popular china climbing destination. it was not meant to be a city trip. it was meant to be a climbing trip.

but if this week has taught me anything, it’s that things don’t always go as planned.

on monday, i filled out my application for a ten year multiple entry tourist visa to china. i wrote down my name. i wrote down my address. where it said occupation, i checked the box for “self-employed.” where it said company name, i wrote down “saradipity media.” i filled out everything effortlessly and honestly.

that night as i returned to the hotel, i was handed a message. the visa office needed me to contact them as there had been a problem with my application. my heart sunk deep into my stomach, and i instantly knew what i had done.

prior to traveling to mainland china, i had done a lot of research. running your own online-based marketing company from a country that bans the use of facebook and other such websites, requires a bit of pre-planning. i had surveyed all my chinese connections and read every article regarding the “great firewall of china.” i was all set to get around the communist control of the internet.

and then i let my guard down.

i was in this city. this chinese city. this magnificent chinese city where i could still check my gmail and facebook and wordpress. surely all would be well and good.

“sensitive” is what they deemed me. when i asked the travel agent why my visa application was rejected, she pointed to the word “media” and informed me that that was the only reason.

one. fucking. word.

our brains tend to slip into what we know. we forget that words have different meanings and connotations for every individual. what means one thing to me, means another to you. i have never been the best at picking the right words. at consciously choosing the appropriate syllables for the occasion. but this is an instance where i really wish i was.

a month long climbing trip foiled by one word. a puzzle piece of my travel itinerary lost forever under the couch. after deciding that ryan would still head to yangshuo and meet back up with me in america in mid-december like we had originally planned, i was left in my least favorite place…the land of choices, conveniently located near the land of questions.

did i go home? where was home? portland? chicago? should i leave tomorrow? stay in hong kong? visit family? visit friends? see a new place?

it’s been the first time in a long time where i’ve needed to make a decision purely involving me. what did i want to do? where did i want to go?

well, to start with, i wanted to be present in hong kong. i wanted to learn how to say thank you in cantonese and not just mandarin. i wanted to haggle over some jade jewelry.


i wanted to stare down from victoria peak at this beast of a city.


i wanted to experience the ponies.


i wanted to get lost wandering its busy sidewalks.


and i wanted to eat all the steamed buns i could find.


so i did.

a day or two in puerto princesa.

we slept most of the way to puerto princesa. six hours in an ice cold toyota van jam-packed with as many passengers as seat belts. you pay extra for air conditioned anything in the philippines, a luxury that we rarely opted for. this trip, however, we didn’t have a choice.

i bundled up in my blue patagonia puffy and tucked my freezing feet under ryan’s thigh. it’s so silly to think about being so layered in warmth when it was 100 degrees outside.

there is one surefire way to recognize where you are, traffic. as we pulled into puerto princesa, all the sudden there were cars again. lots of them. back in a city. a city named due to the sudden drop in its ocean shelf making it the perfect port for large ships. the princess of ports.

people come to puerto princesa to see palawan’s international treasure, the underground river. voted to be one of the new seven wonders of the world.


we had been warned that we might not be able to book a tour to see it because of its popularity, the weather, and our limited timeframe.

pshhh. don’t always listen to people. that is one lesson travelers should learn. always try.

we hopped off the van with no plans. luckily, our tricycle driver had all the plans we needed. when we said we didn’t know where we needed him to take us, that we had no accommodation, he pulled out a small flyer advertising a local hotel. sure, why not.

we pulled up to the relatively cheap hotel close to the airport that he had recommended. it was probably the shittiest room i have ever paid to sleep in, but it had wifi, and it was just for one night, so we checked in too lazy and hungry to drive around town looking for a better room.

next, our tricycle man took us to book our underground river tour. i saw the hotel was offering the same tour.

“why should we book with your guy when we can book it here?”

he smiled and ensured that we would get a better deal. and indeed we did. we booked our tickets for 200 pesos less than everyone else. and, with proof that we were flying out the next evening, we were able to get on the early tour.

done and done. good thing we didn’t listen to those people telling us we wouldn’t be able to see the underground river.

the rest of the day was eating and napping and working and eating and sleeping. we had to be up at 5am the next day, ready for the tour van to pick us up and drive us the two hours to the launch point for the tour.

it’s a shame that you can’t experience the underground river without an organized tour. we arrived at the boarding dock with hundreds of other tourists. the tours had been closed for the past four days due to the weather. the day we went was the first day the water was calm enough to make the journey. this meant even more tourists than usual for the low season.


vendors peddled their knockoff sunglasses, wide-brimmed hats, and waterproof sacks to the sea of foreigners crowded together waiting for their turn to climb aboard a rickety old outrigger-esque boat and head to the mouth of the underground river.


we waited for our turn and then set out across the ocean waves. after we docked on shore, we climbed out onto the sand and walked the wooden, monkey-streaked path to the tour entry point.



hurry up and wait. hurry up and wait. hurry up and wait. it is the way of all tourist activities.

but after we waited, we stepped into the front of a canoe decked out in fluorescent orange life vests and construction helmets. ryan held a car battery powered spotlight as our guide paddled us into the cave.


if you’re like me, you’ve probably been wondering what the hell it means to have an underground river. well, it’s basically a river that runs through a massive natural cave tunnel, and it is spectacular.

the ceiling is lined with bats and epic stalactites. they warn you to keep your mouth shut when you look up, and when bat guano landed on my hand, i was glad i had listened.


there is something magical about caves. even when several canoes of tourists are floating within their walls, you can feel their power. this whole world existing in darkness, away from it all. the spotlight, our only means of seeing behind the black.


i tuned out the tour guide as he pointed out different features and what they looked like. yes, that does look like the three wise man, but i really don’t care.

i care about the dank air coating my nostrils with every inhale and the echoing of the hidden waterfalls just waiting to be found. if only we had our own canoe; i would paddle the whole 8km of that underground river…

wet tourists in el nido

if all airport experiences were even remotely close to flying the ITI private plane to el nido from manila, i would be a much happier traveler. a private terminal with assigned tables, snacks, and wooden boarding passes. wait staff that know your name and politely tell you when it’s your time to check in, which means no line waiting at all.


i haven’t ever been in an airport airline lounge, but i’d imagine it’s something like this minus the wooden boarding passes and lineless check-in.

the booking process is not quite as smooth though. email some random tourist shop in el nido five days before your desired departure date (and no earlier). they’ll let you know if there is space for you. might take a day of back and forth before you’ve secured your seat and paypal-ed the funds to them via internet still living in the 90s.

the small resort-owned plane is the only one that flies directly into el nido. you are welcomed to palawan with native lyrics singsonging into your ears as you once again indulge in free snacks.

well, maybe not free. the two hour flight costs about $100. if you live in america, this is pretty standard, but the other option is a $50 flight into puerto princesa and a dirt cheap six hour bus ride to el nido.

however, we stepped outside our cheap ass, dirt bagger ways this trip. we flew the fancy way. we paid $40/night for an ocean front view and a private bathroom and an army of ants to keep us company.

they warn you about monsoon season. we didn’t listen, and after a week of glorious sunshine and foreigner-free streets, we thought we’d totally lucked out. the slow season was treating us marvelously.

enter el nido.
our dose of reality (if you can call it that).

the earth was wet when we landed. it was still drizzling as our tricycle slowly navigated through puddled potholes the 15 minutes it took to get into town. into the small beach town on the northeast section of palawan. we checked in at rosanna’s without prior reservations, but not without a minimal amount of prior research.

he wanted beach, so i found him beach. immediately the hammock went up, and we were home for a few days.


el nido is known for epic island hopping, decent scuba diving, and even some deep water soloing for us climbers. it is nestled between ocean and mountain. towering cliffs that teased us with their possibility and the smell of salty sweetness.


we went for a wander and had a moment of shock as we passed tourist after tourist strolling the beach, aimlessly gazing at the bars and restaurants promoting their happy hour deals. we were no longer the only foreigners. we were one of them. we were one of many. i can imagine this tiny filipino gem gets pretty hopping in the busy season.

but that was not now. and i’m glad that was not now.
now was the monsoon season. and we soon found out what that meant.

beautiful afternoon thunderstorms that came out of nowhere and knocked over your “it’s five o’clock somewhere” seashore cocktails.


perfectly timed sprints back to your hotel room that inevitably end up being unperfectly timed. shaggy wet hair dripping onto bare feet and framing our smiles.

we loved it.

rain pounding so loudly it made you listen. to nature. to each other. to nothing, and everything.

and then, we wanted to scuba dive.

as you might imagine, this weather doesn’t really lend itself to good diving conditions. we curled up in the hammock and read our course theory only to be told that we’d have to wait another day to go out on the boat. and another. and another.

since no boats could set sail, we rented a kayak to do a bit of our own island hopping. we (and by we i mean mostly ryan) paddled through the choppy waters from one island to the next. we rested on a small beach.

“i could live here.”
“look at all this treasure.”

i love this man. this man who sees a semi-deserted island covered in washed up trash and thinks he’s struck gold. this man who climbs up the first tree he can find and scopes out the lay of the land. this man who carries a giant piece of wood in from the waves and imagines what sort of furniture he can make from this waterlogged masterpiece. this man who can paddle us past the break and against the current and get us safely back to shore.


safely back to local seafood and filipino fun.


the people of the philippines are genuine. they smile and laugh. they are welcoming and accommodating. they tell us where to eat and what to see.

but we decide we must go.

i had it in my head that i wanted to complete my open water diving certification. no more looking in awe and envy at the photos from ryan’s latest pier dive. however, the weather really wasn’t participating in this endeavor. doesn’t mother nature care about my wants?!

i looked at a map. where could we go to escape the rain? north, south, east, west? the locals told us that it would be raining everywhere in the philippines.

but malaysia looked close. what about the weather in borneo?

on a whim, we booked flights. we spent our last evening strolling through corong corong (el nido’s neighbor) and enjoying beachside ceviche under a streetlamp… until the power went out.


we walked home along the dark street. we took a tricycle to our door. we packed our backpacks.

today, el nido.
tomorrow, puerto princesa.
then, onto malaysia.

manila, zambales, bolinao, and buses.

IMG_8016we spend a lot of our time on buses. right now, we are on a 7-8 hour journey from bolinao back to manila. this time we have air conditioning, but we’re not picky. hop on the first bus we find going to our desired destination. sometimes crammed with locals. sometimes a flat tire. sometimes televisions playing cheesy action flicks. they all will get you there eventually.

for a dollar or so, we get a panoramic view of the lush green landscape surrounding us. the rolling hills. the sprawling fields. the weaving waters. homes and food stands built a few feet from the main road just strong enough to withstand the weather. maybe.

it’s “monsoon season” in the philippines right now, but we have only experienced the occasional afternoon shower and evening lightning show. it’s generally about 90-100 degrees with humidity that makes it absolutely useless to shower.

we embrace the heat. we embrace the solitude.

the low season has made this journey rather tourist free. my tall stature and fair skin stands out amongst the filipinos. i am an anonymous celebrity. famous only by association with a faraway land. all i can do is smile and keep going.

i try to learn the language. i always try to learn the language. there are broken bits of spanish mixed into their words, leftovers of the spanish reign. this makes it easier for me to understand, but still the only phrase i’ve mastered so far is “thank you,” that is enough. enough to show an effort. enough to acknowledge that i am a visitor. enough to appreciate this beautiful collection of islands. salamat.

there are over 7,000 islands in the philippines. we have three weeks.

since the main airport is in manila, we start there. on the island of luzon. we head west to zambales to chase down some surf. it’s not exactly surf season, but after a solo adventure, ryan managed to find a decent beach break off a nearby headland.


we quickly moved from our crystal beach hut in san narciso…


…down to another beachfront hut in pundaquit, but not before taking a few photos with the filipino soap opera stars filming at our accomodation. be sure to check them out in “pangako sa iyo” (i promise to you) on ABS CBN. #nextbigthing


without any preemptive planning, we cram into a tricycle (the preferred local means of transportation) and rock up to pundaquit to find most hotels closed for the low season.


one local points our tricycle driver to one place. closed. another local points our tricycle driver to another place. closed. we eventually find a sleepy resort with an open hut awaiting us. perfection.


with electricity, a fan, and decent wifi, i am all set. my mobile office has found its new home. for two days. just enough time to catch up on work and track down a couple longboards to give “magic left” a go.

back in our element. away from the city chaos of manila. away from the mall of asia.


away from all day rush hour traffic. now the only traffic was about ten other surfers waiting for the next set to roll in.

the days are short here. i rise early to get unpopulated wifi and take in the morning’s coolness. soon the sun will burn bright, and the next adventure will begin.

three buses later, we reach our next destination, bolinao. had it not been for my mother’s timeshare points getting us a cheap weeklong stay in this quiet fisherman’s town, we probably would never have ventured this far north. but we did. and it was breathtaking.

an empty all-inclusive resort with comfy beds and mediocre food. have you ever had 20 staff members there just to wait on you? someone to bring you towels. someone to bring you purified drinking water. someone to give you a massage on the beach. someone to make you cocktails. someone to prepare your meals. it’s weird.

but we took advantage of our resort stay and soaked up the local sights. walked along the beach and took a dip in the enchanted cave.


hired a boat to tour the 100 islands national park near alaminos city. snorkeled with giant clams and swam into a bat-filled cave.



kneeled in the saint james the great parish church built in 1609 and whispered salamat.


sipped down some chicken lomi at adora’s restaurant. and of course, lounged by the pool and ordered a ton of room service.


then we decided to leave two days early.

we are not resort people at heart. we are adventurers. we are bus riders. and so we ride the bus back to manila to board a puddle jumper to fly us across the sea to our next island, palawan.

becoming an ocean girl, one surf at a time.

i have never been an ocean girl. i grew up heading north for summer getaways. to an oasis that i always considered better than any pacific or atlantic coastline. i waterskied and wakeboarded. i swung from rope swings into icy waves rolling onto forested beaches. i had never seen point break, and the words kelly and slater were just characters from saved by the bell.

sure i’ve always idolized the blue crush chicks and dreamed about the day when i would look as cool in a bikini, but i accepted long ago that yoga pants and sports bras might be more my style.

but adventure breeds adventure.

you submit to the mountains, and suddenly you hear the sea calling.

so i went.


if we wait for the volume to get louder, sometimes we miss the message and go deaf instead.

a month of attempting to become that ocean girl.

waking up early and walking down to the beach. the air was often cool in the morning, before the summer sun rose over the tree line and burnt through the clouds. the streets were quiet, which meant a less dusty stroll from the hilltop to the shore.

nose to tail, rail to rail, waxing up with intermittent coffee sips. then heading to the sea with a zinc nose and bikini clad body.

unsure of the ocean’s rhythm, i sat on some driftwood and watched the locals pick their waves. it takes time. to read the water. to feel the pulse. to understand the power.

after a month, i was just starting to sense the unspoken words she was saying.

shuffle through the shallow sand with board in hand. the water is warm. a big set rolls in and quickly reminds me, this is the ocean. full of salt. a mouth full of salt.

i often forget. i walk into a giant body of water and just assume it will taste like lake michigan. here it tastes like tears and sweat. it dries a thin layer of seasoning on your skin. it clears out your sinuses with every accidentally inhale and leaves your eyes softly burning.

will i ever learn to love that feeling?

paddle paddle paddle past the break. then i always need a rest. legs dangling straddled on either side of this floating extension of self. sting rays, fish, and a whole world living beneath you. each trying to remain unaware of the other.

for most surfers, satisfaction comes from catching the wave. but what about this moment? this special space where you are peacefully waiting to see what gift she will give you. looking out over the horizon tuning into her rhythm. the sun warming your skin. the salt drying on your lips. i could wait there all day.

but when you sense something good rolling in, it’s time to move on. paddle paddle paddle paddle and pop up. turning down the face and staying just ahead of the break. letting your legs inform the movements. splashing back into the waves with the biggest shit grin plastered across your face.

or maybe not.

paddle paddle paddle paddle and pop up. get slammed into the tumbling circle of angry h2o that has no care for your well-being. breath held and body avoiding injury. panicking to surface and find safety, if only for a split second.

her beauty only intensifying as you slowly swim back out for round two.

i will always be a lake girl, but the sea has left its mark. found its way into my soul. testing the limits of my fear. reminding me that i am powerless.

12 reasons you should never date a rock climber

Another Matador Network article of mine to enjoy…

IF YOU HAVE AN OUNCE OF ADVENTURER in you, you’ve probably felt the pull of the muscled rock climber parking their van next to you at the campsite. But, if you truly have any ounce of sense in you, you’ve learned why to stay away:

1. A “10 Year Plan” is not a thing.

Neither is a Five Year Plan, or even a One Year Plan for that matter. Unless you’re talking about which routes or problems they plan to send this season, most climbers have no clue what the future holds. All they know is that they are oh-so-close to finally finishing Twinkie, so you’ll most likely find them in the Red River Gorge this spring.

2. There is only one thing they’ll splurge on: new gear.

If you’ve got your eye on a partner who will treat you to fancy dinners and expensive gifts, you might want to rule out climbers. To them, a nice meal involves concocting a unique mix of whatever treasures were scored during the last dumpster diving excursion to Kroger. But don’t confuse this thriftiness with necessity — they are probably just saving up for a new pair of La Sportiva Solutions and a set of C3s.

3. Words and numbers have never felt so foreign (and vulgar) to you.

“Did you stick the crux on the roof of Hillbilly Gang Bang*? You really gotta shove a hand in the crack. There’s no way it’s a 5.12d.” Climbers have their own lingo and unless you plan on double backing your harness and learning to tie in properly, good luck understanding them. One of these YouTube videos might help.

*We know this is not the real name of a climb, but just for the record, Hilbilly Sex Farm is.

4. Showering becomes a luxury.

Two weeks without a shower? Pretty standard. Don’t think for one minute that the state you met them in will ever change. Greasy hair, dirty clothes, and that unmistakable climber musk are all points of pride. Learn to love it.

5. And so does a bed.

Dating a climber means getting used to the fact that most of your nights together will be spent without freshly-washed sheets stretched across an expensive Sealy posturepedic. Instead, you’ll find yourself snuggled uncomfortably upon a couple of Therm-a-Rests, or if you’re lucky, an old futon mattress thrown across some plywood in the back of their van.