As is always the case, it was sad to leave my new compadres behind, but I had to continue making headway down this deceptively massive continent, and wine country was on my mind. While there are several regions in both Argentina and Chile producing exceptional wine, Mendoza is certainly the epicenter. Being relatively close (in Argentina terms) to Buenos Aires, it is a staple in any Argentina visitor’s itinerary, no matter how brief. Aside from sampling the local export, Mendoza also boasts some incredible hiking in the nearby Andes, including Aconcagua, the highest peak in both the Southern and Western Hemispheres. Since Aconcagua requires months of training and about three weeks to summit, I opted for the more leisurely Mendoza program, the highlight of which was Mr. Hugo’s bike tours of the surrounding bodegas. 90% of everyone I had spoken to that had been to South America had done Mr. Hugo’s, even my cousins who traveled the continent some five years ago know about the man, the myth, the legend.

Essentially, Mr. Hugo’s is a bike rental shop where you rent a bike for cheap for the day to go up and down the main road of one of the wine regions in Mendoza, visiting whichever wineries you please. There are several other companies to choose from that offer the exact same services, however, it is Mr. Hugo himself that has enabled his company to build up such a renowned reputation among travelers. The keys to this large jolly man’s operation are both his gregarious personality and the unlimited pours of free table wine he offers his patrons before and after they use his bikes. He refills his pitcher and circles the table, refusing to stop refilling your glass until the third or fourth time you adamantly insist you can have no more. What a wonderful job Mr. Hugo has, getting visitors to his homeland drunk each and everyday and sending them off on a magical bicycle ride… I asked him a little bit about the history of his operation and he seemed genuinely and equally both dumbfounded and grateful as to how he had become so popular. I reassured him in my best inebriated Spanish that it was all because of him and his tipsy baloo-the-bear-like nature. He smiled, gave me a pat on the back and a hefty top-off into my glass. Although I was expecting something a bit more involved from all of the raving reviews I had heard, I was just as pleased to discover that the whole draw of Mr. Hugo’s Bike Tours was just as simple as the gaiety of its owner, Mr. Hugo.

If you make it to Mr. Hugo’s, be sure to stop off at Tempus Alba. We sampled everything they offered and the Tempranillo was the group’s consensus favorite.

While in Mendoza, I had to conduct some serious strategery about where I would head next since I didn’t have any concrete onward plans. I had places in mind I wanted to visit before going to Buenos Aires, but I had no idea where I would actually go or how I would get there. At my hostel in Mendoza I met an Irish couple who told me of a ferry they had taken for four days down the southern coast of Chile, docking at Puerto Natales, a place I was certain I wanted to get to in order to trek in the nearby Torres Del Paine. The ferry left every Friday and the cost was reasonable so I figured this was a good way to give me some direction and I booked it. That gave me about eleven days to get down to where the voyage embarked in Puerto Montt (a shit hole of a town). I did the logical thing and bused across the border to Santiago, a place I unjustly had no real desire to see, and thus, I only stayed one night and continued south to a surf town called Pichilemu.

More often than not it is the people you are with that make certain locations more memorable than others. For me, Pichilemu was not one of those places. Not to say that I didn’t meet lots of great people while I was there, but Pichilemu was just a special little town. I think what makes this place so rad is that it still feels relatively undiscovered, like what spots along the California coast with world class breaks might have felt like fifty or sixty years ago. There are no large hotels and homes, fancy restaurants or even well paved roads near the coastline. This rawness coupled with its natural beauty and amazing surf enables Pichilemu to still maintain its captivating charm. Just a couple kilometers south is Punta Del Lobos, (Point of the Wolves) which produces massive swells and makes an appearance in a number of well known surf videos. It was incredible watching the ballsy effort it took the surfers just to get out to the point, traversing narrow jagged rocks to reach one of the most famous breaks in South America.

The days in Pichilemu started off with breakfast and a coffee on the deck admiring the waves and playing with the local dogs who were the friendliest I’d met on my trip so far. Next up, I would hop on a cruiser and bike around town before paddling out and being happily humbled by the relentless surf. After scarfing down the best burrito I had found in South America, I’d enjoy a few sunset beers with the other lucky few who had also discovered this off the radar spot and then powwow around the fire on the sand. All five days in Pichilemu were spent exactly and perfectly the same. While sipping on a Stella and watching the sun dip below the horizon, I remember thinking to myself that this is somewhere I will definitely be back, a great place to spend a whole summer. I seriously contemplated blowing off my next destination, Pucon, to stay and soak in Pichilemu and Punta Del Lobos for a few more days, but certain that I would return, I moved on.

Onward I went to my first border crossing by foot. There is something very exciting about walking across a border to a new country, especially, when your life is on your back, you have no plans in the world and it is the day before your birthday, as was the case this brisk sunny Sunday morning. It was also Argentina, the country and culture I had been most looking forward to getting to know. After the mission it took to get there, booking it across most of Bolivia and back again within a few days, it was tremendously gratifying to finally step over that border line. I wouldn’t go as far to say my excitement was on Martin Lawrence’s level after he realizes he just unintentionally escaped across the Mexican border at the end of Blue Streak, but you get the idea.

Once in La Quiaca, I went and sorted out a bus to Salta, the biggest city in the north of the country, and seven hours later, I was ringing the bell at the hostel front door. That first night out I received a crash course on Argentinean nightlife and quickly learned that the rumors regarding the late hours in which it takes place were facts and not rumors. I got back at sunrise and, consequently, spent the bulk of my actual birthday asleep until about 5PM.

When I woke up, I introduced myself to the only person in the room, Davide, who was 35, traveling by himself from Italia. He asked if I had had a big night and I told him yes, indeed, it’s my birthday, and we soon had plans to go to out for a parilla later that night. Then entered Nicolas, 21 from Brazil, who opted to join and the three of us strolled out to the main strip in downtown Salta.

Quick note: in Argentina they pronounce the “y” and “ll” sound as a mix between our “j” and “sh.” So, where we learn parilla to sound something like parreeya, here it is pronounced “parreesha.” Not “me yamo Jose,” but me shamo Jose,” etc. Also, the word chamuyero (shah-moo-sher-ro) is slang used to refer to something like a bullshitter.

Los Tres Chamuyeros

Both Nicolas and Davide are fluent in Spanish and since my Spanish was better than their English all of our time together was spent speaking the language I had hoped to improve upon, which was a welcome change after hanging out exclusively with gringos during my four weeks in Bolivia. Davide’s espanol, or castellano as it is called in Argentina, was especially entertaining to listen to because he spoke it with the same rhythm and demonstrative hand motions that you would expect an Italian to speak with.

When we sat down at dinner, I hadn’t the slightest idea what a parilla was, but the two of them seemed to know what they were talking about so I just followed suit. It turns out a parilla, when ordered at a restaurant, is basically a massive amount of meat in some variety. It can include several different animals, different cuts of steak (as we are accustomed to seeing), or, as we enjoyed that evening, all different parts of the cow. I tried several cuts I had never indulged in like tongue, blood sausage and other parts of the body to which Davide would just laugh and point to when I asked what I was consuming. It was all surprisingly delicious, if not a bit barbaric. That night was also the tail end of Carnaval, so we had an impressive parade of festively dressed dancers and musicians pass by while we enjoyed our cow and a few bottles of red. Alas, I was in Argentina.

After an amazing meal, we stumbled upon a local dive bar and proceeded to entertain and confuse groups of local girls with our peculiar trio of origins and accents. I couldn’t have asked for a better way to bring in 24.

The next couple days we spent exploring Salta and having parillas of our own back at the hostel, inviting whoever was around. Davide is a diehard fan of Inter Milan and they had a big match vs. a good French team one of the days so we all gathered in the TV room to pull for the Italian. I didn’t realize, but I guess the Italians and the French have a long running feud, so this was an important match. It went on back and forth and looked like it was going to end in an acceptable 0-0 draw until the French team scored 3 minutes into stoppage time, literally on the last play of the game. Davide flipped over one of the lawn chairs and frantically paced around momentarily cursing in Italian, but we were all laughing within minutes at how the whole thing panned out.

Early the following morning, we set out to Purmamarca, a small one-horse town famous for its “7 colored mountains,” about 3 hours north of Salta.

We hiked around the surrounding hillsides with an Argentinean girl, Micas, that we’d met at the hostel and returned to have my first instruction in mate. Not mate like a Brit or Aussie would say, but mah-tay, the herbal tea drink that local people of all ages are sucking down all hours of the day. If you didn’t know it, you’d think they were doing some sort of funny drug because of both the appearance of the device used to drink it and the communal manner in which it is shared. They drink it out of a round gourd made of pumpkin or butternut squash with a metal straw called a bombilla and pass it around in a circle for hours on end, pouring a new fill of hot water for each person next in line. While there are believed to be many health benefits to drinking mate and although it gives you a nice little buzz and heightened focus, its cultural importance far outweighs any physiological reasons for its mass consumption. From the responses of the people I’ve asked, they start drinking mate when they are two or three years old, in very small quantities to start and by the time they are a teenager they each have their own setups and drink multiple mates a day with their friends and family. Micas explained to me, when you’re young you see your older family members enjoying mate together and it makes you want to partake in the ritual even more.

Learned quickly not to ever move the bombilla

The whole thing fits in perfectly with the Argentine culture, and that of all of Latin America for that matter, in which time spent together, especially with family, is much more valued than in most other Western cultures. In the U.S. we become impatient and even angry if our server does not bring us our food out quickly and then the check immediately once we are done. In Latin America, it doesn’t work like that. There isn’t this inherent sense of urgency to quickly move on with your day and get to the next task at hand. You usually don’t get the check right away, not because the servers are lazy, but because they don’t expect that you want to get up and leave as soon as you’ve taken your last bite. Instead, meals are one of the, if not the, most important parts of the day, and they often last hours. Instead of cleaning the dishes and turning on the T.V. and tuning each other out, here, in Argentina, they enjoy long meals together and then pass around some mate, and I love it.

I spent three out of the next four nights on overnight buses, getting down to my final stop in Bolivia, Salar De Uyuni, or the Salt Flats. The three-day tours weren’t running because the roads to the other lagoons you usually go see after the salt flats were closed due to bad weather. I didn’t have a problem because I was only planning on doing the one-day anyways, but the fact that it wasn’t even possible helped appease my omnipresent FOMO. (Fear Of Missing Out, for the less hip)

My bus arrived just in time to make my tour at 10:30 and I hopped into my jeep with a couple tall cans and a huevo y tomate sandwich, excited to meet my fellow tour-mates. I had been lucky thus far in having mostly English speakers in my groups, but my luck had run out here in Uyuni when I discovered my group consisted of two Japanese couples and two older German guys, who I’m still not sure were father and son or partners. None of them spoke very much English at all and neither did our driver/guide, so I had to play translator between the driver and the other six in the jeep, which consisted of more hand signals and nods than words.

As soon as we drove onto the terrain that eventually became the salt flats, it became apparent that any language barrier was insignificant. I could have been with aliens, Eskimos, zombies or kangaroos and it would not have made a difference because the chilling feeling you get when you see something this breathtaking and the ensuing open-mouthed, wide-eyed expression your face takes is the same in every language. The beauty of Salar De Uyuni cannot be understated. It is truly out of this world. I don’t know what it is like year round, but when I was there in late February during the peak of the rainy season, there was a thin layer of water that rested atop of the seemingly endless plains of salt that served as a mirror for the blue sky and dramatic clouds whose puffy white matched perfectly with the ground that day.

The result was a jaw-dropping spectacle in which the earth and the sky seemed to blend into one blue and white heavenly image that left me dumbfounded and unsure if I was still on the third planet from the sun. The most common question I am asked by people is some version of “what has your favorite place been?” While warranted, this is still a frustrating and impossible question to answer because each day and week reveals new stunning scenery, an amazing group of friends, a hilarious evening or an awesome excursion, each unique in its own. However, I can answer one version of that question with conviction. Some will ask, “What is the most beautiful thing you’ve seen? I will tell them Salar De Uyuni.

(Many people have inquired about this picture, let me explain. I simply did a big push-up, launched myself as high as I could off the ground and my Japanese friend was skillful enough to get a decent shot. The thing hanging below me is the scarf I was wearing that has been recurring in a lot of my pictures.)

After a few hours taking pictures and admiring one of our world’s true marvels, it was time to head back to catch my overnight bus to the Argentinean border. Our driver, however, was nowhere to be found and we were now the last group out with no clue where he was. An hour later he came stumbling out of the little “salt hotel” some people opt to stay at, blatantly hammered. Every one of my guides in Bolivia had gotten drunk at some point, so this was nothing out of the ordinary, except that this time the guide was also the driver. Seeing as though we didn’t really have a choice besides freezing to death we all hopped in and buckled our belts, hoping he could pull it together for the thirty minutes we had ahead of us. Sure enough, he thought it would be fun to go off-roading and one of the German guys actually had to shake him awake at one point. I eventually made it to my bus and after four amazing weeks capped off with Salar and that jeep ride, I felt good and ready to leave Bolivia.

Sleepy time

Finally, it was time to go see my monkeys. I showed up to the bus terminal ready to get my Rafiki on, and was blindsided by the news that the road to Santa Cruz was blocked due to protests and no one knew when it would be opening. Feeling deflated and intent on getting to Argentina by my birthday, I considered just getting the first ticket south to either Uyuni or Petosi and sadly leaving the monkeys behind. While I was pacing in debate, I saw a girl sitting on the stairs that looked like she spoke English so I asked her where she was heading, reaching out for some direction or sign to help make my decision. It turned out she was from Wisconsin and trying to head to the exact same little town I was and had bought an overnight ticket to Cochabamba where she hoped she could get a ticket to Santa Cruz the next day. I had my doubts if this was a wise move by her, but, still wrapped up in the spirit of success of my last spontaneous decision, I decided to jump on board with her plan. Luckily, we were able to catch a bus heading to Santa Cruz as soon as we got to Cochabamba. However, once on board we soon realized we were literally the only two non-locals on the entire bus and coupled with the janky seats and week old KFC smell I began to have inclinations that this was a going to turn out very badly. My suspicions worsened after the first two hours consisted of a strange man giving a painfully obnoxious sales pitch for some snail cream lotion in which he persistently gave each passenger a large dollop on the hand to prove it would really make you look “diez anos mas joven.” My seatmate, Allison, and I took bets on how many he would actually sell (in my optimistic state of mind I wagered 0) and we were shocked at how many people actually took him up on his offer.

Hours later, after looking at a map and seeing signs of towns out the window, we realized we would pass by Saimapata about 3 hours before arriving to Santa Cruz, so we asked the driver a few hours beforehand if he could drop us off there and he said yes. When I walked up to remind him with a little tip when we were 30 minutes out, I was surprised to find a completely different driver in the cockpit. I scratched my head, wondering momentarily where Houdini had escaped to, and delivered the message to the new driver who assured me “no hay problema,” a favorite phrase of theirs whenever you express any degree of concern, even if there actually is a problema. When we jumped off the bus and opened the bottom luggage compartment to grab our bags, we found the original driver fast asleep using them as pillows. Ballsy move by him seeing as though we had just finished 10 hours of hairpin cliff-side turns on a gravely dirt road. These are the types of fun surprises you discover when traveling through Bolivia.

Pumped that our gamble had paid off, we went for a nice dinner and stayed the night at a seemingly benign hostel. To my chagrin, when I went to brush my teeth in the morning I looked in the mirror and saw that my left eyelid was swollen shut and the only explanation I could come up with was that I was mauled in the night by some angry jungle bug. I popped a couple benadryl, threw on the blublockers and woozily walked my way to the animal refuge. Thankfully, one good eye was all that I needed that day. Within two minutes of walking into the refuge, one of my lifelong aspirations was fulfilled when I had a playful female howler monkey chillin’ on my shoulders with her tail curled around my neck.

Allison had a matching little youngin’ on her head and we spent the next few hours hanging on a jungle gym with those two and a couple others watching them play together and tangle themselves around us.

Mine loved a good tummy scratch and whenever I would take a break to grab my camera or swig some water she would immediately grab my hand and bring it back to her black belly. I’m sure our dogs would all do the same thing if it weren’t for the whole opposable thumb debacle. At one point, I put my iPod camera in reverse mode to try and snap a picture of her resting calmly in my lap and she saw what she had to think was either herself or another monkey and became intensely interested in it, popping up and grabbing the iPod strongly with both hands, staring right into her own eyes. It was fascinating. We saw the little one, who had just arrived to the refuge one week prior, grow up right before our eyes. He was initially a bit apprehensive, but as the morning continued on he began behaving increasingly like an annoying younger brother should, pestering the older and much bigger female, pushing his luck until she would eventually put him in his place and then proceed to clean him. By the end of our time he was swinging around everywhere, acting more like you would expect a young monkey to.

As silly as it all sounds, it really was a cool experience for me and worth all the crazy traveling and detours that had to occur to make it happen. Special thanks to Allison, had I not asked you where you were heading at the bus terminal I honestly wouldn’t have made it.

I was excited and feeling good about my decision to finally get moving and walked into the bar around 8 to have a beer and see who was there to bid farewell too and sure enough I ran into three of my old dorm mates: Daisy from England, Mary from St. Louis, and Harry from Australia who seemed to be in kindred spirits. We all thought the other side had already left and were happily surprised to see each other. After exchanging Jungle/Mountain stories from the last 3 days I went to grab another beer and when I returned I got a coy, “so Joey what do you think about Copacabana?” I had skipped Copacabana and Lake Titicaca originally because of my detour to London and had ruled it out as something I would go back and do because it was in the complete opposite direction I was heading. At first I was pretty resistant, as I had already been stuck in La Paz for much longer than I intended and I had my bus ticket for the next day and was keen on getting to the monkeys. The days prior, Mary had been pretty vocal about her drinking abilities and even hinted that she could beat me in a chugging race. To all my SAEbros, the only 3 people I had ever lost to in my life were Dan Kennedy, Shea Buckner and a big ol’ Dinosaur named Barrett, whom you know are pretty formidable opponents. So, I told the 3 of them, fine I’ll race Mary now and if she wins, I’ll go with you guys, thinking that there was no way in hell I was going to lose and I could put the thought of another detour to rest. Right from the gun I could hear in Daisy and Harry’s voices that I may genuinely be in trouble. I buried the second half and slammed my mug down, just a fraction of a second after Mary’s. Dumbfounded and a little embarrassed after I had been pretty cocky about the whole thing, I conceded and returned my bus ticket the following day and the four of us would head off to Copacabana two days later.

When I woke up I thought long and hard to make sure I wasn’t being overly spontaneous as I tend to be after a couple cervecas, but the way everything panned out it just didn’t seem right to fight fate on this one. I’m so happy I didn’t because that week of time may have been my favorite span of days thus far. The four of us (dubbed Team Tetris by Harry because everything we did seemed to just always fall right into place) all got along great. I hadn’t laughed consistently like that over a span of days in a long time. We spent two nights in Copacabana enjoying fresh trout, a couple bottles of wine on a pedal-boat duck and commandeering some other dragon watercraft before we hopped on the afternoon boat to Isla Del Sol on Lake Titicaca where we would spend two nights as well.

Isla Del Sol was much more beautiful than I anticipated. We stayed on the south side where you could see both sides of the Lake when standing at the top. Snowcapped mountains emerged from the clouds that hugged the water along the horizon. It was surreal. The first night we enjoyed what was my favorite meal of my trip so far at a pizzeria outside on the grass overlooking the lake for sunset. It wasn’t just any pizza though. We created our own item on the menu and asked the chef to make us some trout pizza. It may not sound normal, but it’s damn good. Look out for Joey and Harry’s Exotic Pizzas coming to a neighborhood near you.

After dinner we made a makeshift fire and hung out for the night playing Musical Stones shifting around our rock couches, trying to balance the need for warmth with the tolerance of smoke. One of the best (and sometimes the worst) aspects of Bolivia is that there aren’t really any rules. There are no lanes on the road, people pee wherever they please and I’m pretty sure if your wallet was big enough you could do basically whatever you want. If I would have started a fire on the grass outside of a hotel near home I would have security and probably the cops and firefighters on the scene within minutes. In Bolivia, instead we had two local girls about four and six wander on over and demonstrate their pyro skills for a half hour until we finally had to stop them before they burned that mother down.

The next day we lounged by the lake until we were able to finagle a rowboat in the afternoon and ended up getting towed to a remote cove where we skipped rocks and discovered that our champagne was really sparkling cider, which was still delicious. We spent one more night out in Copacabana for Team Tetris’ last hurrah and sadly parted ways the following afternoon.

It’s funny how it all works out sometimes, so many variables had to align just right for me to end up there, but it turned out to cap off the most fun times I’ve had yet in South America. I’m thankful the wifi didn’t work at the other hostel and, more importantly, that Mary knows how to drink a beer.

After a great week in London, I was ready to get my trip back on track. Thankfully, I breezed past customs and got to the Wild Rover in La Paz at 8AM Friday morning. La Paz is the highest capital city in the world standing at about 3700 meters. The whole city is basically carved into the cliff side and it makes for an impressive drive in from the airport. The main hostels are also only 3 blocks down from the president’s palace, giving your stay a nice regal feel. My favorite thing about La Paz is that it is, unequivocally, the epicenter of the Gringo Trail. Whether you are continuing on through to Peru and further north or heading down to Patagonia and Buenos Aires, like myself, La Paz is the halfway point of most everyone’s trip. You run into people you’ve seen along the way in other countries and exchange stories and tips for wherever you may be heading.

The day before I arrived was Australia Day (their 4^th of July) and the hostel certainly had signs that the Aussies had themselves a good celebration. Lucky for me, the celebrating at the Wild Rover in La Paz seizes to stop. I had been warned by travelers along the way that the majority of people get stuck in La Paz, specifically at the ‘Rover, for much longer than they intended, and I, shockingly, was no different. I don’t regret it at all though. I had an amazing time there and made a ton of great friends at that crazy place that began to feel like home after awhile.

After getting to know the area and making some friends for a couple days, I decided to do Death Road the next Tuesday. Death Road (aka World’s Most Dangerous Road, Yungas, La Calle de Muerte) is 60km of bumpy dirt road that weaves along the mountainside through the beginning of the Bolivian rainforest with no railings and sheer drops around every turn. It is nicknamed so because more people die on that road per year than any other, so it is believed. Just a couple years ago, Bolivia finally wizened up and built an alternate road for cars and buses to take and now Death Road is primarily used for tourists to bike down. Although I would say the fear factor is a bit overplayed now, I can imagine biking down while buses and vans were driving up would be an entirely different animal and it makes sense that so many people died each year. Nevertheless, it was still awesome and a beautiful ride down. I only had one sketchy moment where I just about bailed the bike over the cliff after skidding on a big rock but I was able to save par and the rest of the way was relatively smooth sailing.

Two days later I flew to Rurrenabaque, which is the launch spot for Jungle and Pampas tours in Bolivia. I opted for the Pampas tour because you see a lot more wildlife along the river, whereas the Jungle trip is more plant based. Bolivia in its entirety is a bargain, but all of the tours you can do hold especially good value. For 3 days/2 nights in the Pampas, all meals included, it cost me 550 Bs, or about 80 US. To go whale watching at home for one afternoon it costs about $35. On the flight to Rurre, I picked up a newspaper and realized that that day was the city’s biggest festival of the year, celebrating its anniversary. Bolivians have a reputation for getting pretty intoxicated and partying in the streets for their festivals, particularly in smaller towns like this, so I was excited to see what would transpire. It did not disappoint and by the time we landed at 2PM there were already tons of people in traditional dress dancing in the street with bands behind them playing what seemed to be the same song on repeat. There were also plenty of groups stacking beeramids alongside the road and stumbling out to the middle of the street for a pee or a slumber, and in one fellow’s case, both at the same time.

Sure enough, the next morning our guide showed up obviously still drunk, laughing his head off at everything while the eight of us (kiwi couple, two south Korean guys, a Belgium couple, and a Dutch girl from the Rover and me) laughed right along with him. At the midway point of the jeep ride to the river after about two hours, we had to pull over for the guide to spew after the booze wore off and his hangover kicked in. We all were convinced he was asleep after that, but about thirty minutes later, he jumped up from his seat, “Toucan!” The old boy came through and spotted a pair of toucans that looked exactly how you would imagine. After this, we knew we were in good hands and he proved to be an excellent spotter in the ensuing days.

The whole Pampas tour was an incredible experience. You spend the days cruising down the river in a motorized canoe spotting animals with plenty of breaks for meals and cervecas along the way. We saw heaps of monkeys, one of which jumped onto our boat, tons of cool birds, turtles, caimans, (‘gators) and pink dolphins. We got to jump into the river with the dolphins, which was amazing, but seemed a bit dodgy after we had been fishing for piranhas and spotting caiman just around the bend. The guides know all sorts of tricks to get the animals to come close, and be playful which made for some awesome photos that will hopefully be up soon. Our group all got along really well and at night we’d play spoons, mafia, and some other hilarious games that the Korean dudes taught us. The trip was definitely one of the highlights of my travels thus far.

I got back to the Rover Sunday night just in time for the Super Bowl. I took a much needed shower and got a quick bite before I scanned the bar hoping to find some American brethren to watch the game with. I found the single table of Americans and settled in for the 2^nd quarter. As had sadly been the case with the majority of fellow countrymen and women thus far, I was not really digging their company. They were perpetuating every bad stereotype about loud obnoxious ignorant Americans and after one quarter I did not want to be associated with them anymore. I opted to watch the game with a German couple I’d met and tried to explain the rules to them along the way. In doing so I realized just how confusing American football is, especially when compared to soccer and rugby. Nevertheless, that was a crazy game and I’m glad I made it back in time.

After the Super Bowl, I woke up the following day with the feeling that it was time to get moving and went to the bus terminal and bought my ticket to Santa Cruz the following evening to go to Saimapata where I heard there is an animal refuge that you can play with monkeys. Anyone who knows anything about me knows that this was an obvious must-do for me. Feeling the cumulative effects of what was now 6 nights at the Rover, I went to check out a couple hostels and hotels nearby to get a single room with a TV to just chill out for a night before I took off. I was all ready to get a room across the street but the wifi was too spotty and since I had already paid for my room at the Rover I thought, alright, I’ll just hang low and get out of there the next day. Next up was Saimapata and onto Argentina, so I thought…

Written 1/27, I’m lazy and having too much fun, lo siento, *comments in bold

Well mates, I’m currently on my flight from London to Miami enjoying a Brie, tomato and rocket baguette and a canned Newcastle, watching the Office and browsing Sky Mall. Once down in Miami, I’ll be hopping on another flight to head to La Paz to spend the next few weeks in Bolivia. That is, if the assholes in customs at Miami allow me to get on my flight, which, based on my experience last week is a big if. (If they confiscate my computer and have a look through my recent documents, I reckon this post won’t be too beneficial to my cause) they didn’t

Last week, the guy in the customs line says, “So you were just traveling in Colombia? By yourself?” and hastily directed me into room #8. At first, I wasn’t quite sure if this was just standard procedure, but the fact that room #8 was behind closed doors and the other way people in front of me had gone was through clear doors, I had an inclination of how things were heading. After I entered and saw that all the officers were carrying the same expression as the other dick cops I’ve encountered in the past, I quickly realized that room #8 was not a happy room. One stern guy initiated the interrogation and began digging through all my stuff while another walked away with my passport, wearing a suspicious look of disapproval. Then guy #2 returns and asks me the same questions that guy #1 just asked. (e.g. Q: Where are you coming from? A: Colombia and Peru; Q: What were you doing there? A: Traveling; Q: Do you have friends or family there? A: No; Q: What do you do for work? A: Nothing at the moment) I suppose my answers, disheveled appearance of beard and flannel, and the fact I was by myself and mysteriously flying to London for a week before returning to Bolivia would strike anyone as a bit odd, but these people were being jackasses and weren’t very smart. Guy #1 ends up mixing up what I just told him I was doing and he and guy #2 conference and decide that I’m being shady, giving them different answers, when in actuality, they were both just wrong and unable to follow a simple chronology of events. The two of them and another woman continue to repeat their questions, thinking that I am going to change my answers and somehow talk my way into admitting I am the supposed drug runner that they must be taking me for. After I show him all of my pictures with dates on each one that verify my explanation, I figure I will be allowed to try and make my flight, but they still aren’t satisfied. So, they call both my parents, and luckily, my Mom answers even though it was about 4AM London time and they eventually let me through. I would’ve missed my flight had it not been delayed (the rest of the airport sucks as well) and I will now be forever avoiding connections in Miami whenever possible. Fingers crossed for round 2 in a few hours… all was well

Now that I got that off my chest, back to the fun stuff. I’d like to give a quick special thanks to my Dad for both spoiling my sisters and me in Peru and helping me get to London for Maria’s wedding. Both were amazing experiences in their own right.

More importantly, congratulations to Dave and Maria! It was an awesome weekend and I’m so happy I was able to share it with them both. Dave and his family could not have been a kinder group of people and I’m glad we are now all part of the same clan. It was great to have finally met them and the rest of Maria’s friends in London. It’s comforting to know that she has such wonderful and caring people surrounding her while she’s away from home. Hopefully you will all make it to California sometime in the near future!

Onto Peru…

Peru began after a lovely sixteen hours of travel on New Years day with an overnight layover in Lima where I unexpectedly and happily ran into my Dad and Alida. We attempted to sleep in some café booths for a bit and made our way to Cusco where we met Maria shortly thereafter. Cusco is the city you stay at for a few days before you begin your Machu Picchu trek to acclimate as the city lies at about 3,400 meters which is higher than the majority of the hike, itself. (the highest point in the trek, called Dead Woman’s Pass, is 4215) Cusco is the former capital of the Incan Empire during the 1400-1500’s and was since conquered by the Spanish, retaken by Latin America, and is now, by my estimation, the tourism capital of Peru. Every single person I had spoken to, spanning all ages, had loved it, so I was eager to check it out.

After just five nights there, my opinion is no different. There’s something magical about that city. You could easily spend at least a week before your trek walking around, popping into the endless textile vendors, sampling the local cuisine, and checking out the Sacred Valley nearby. For you party animals, I didn’t make it out too late at all while there, but, from the conversations I’ve had with fellow travelers, it seems that Cusco, La Paz, and Medellin may be the three biggest party destinations in the northern half of South America.

The Inca Trail trek to Machu Picchu superseded my expectations on a number of levels. First, it was much more difficult than I anticipated. I guess that since nowadays so many people of all ages do it every year I expected that it must be fairly easy, but I was wrong. Aside from Day 1, there are very few flat stretches and the downhillls quickly become just as bad as the up’s. The altitude also comes to play a role for everyone at some point and the sleeping conditions take their toll. Nevertheless, it is by no means insurmountable, just more difficult than I thought, and I reckon that everyone reading this could certainly do it. Each day presents its own challenge, and the whole experience of hiking there is truly equally as meaningful as visiting the site of Machu Picchu itself. Actually, the two go hand-in-hand because, as with most things in life, the harder you have to work to accomplish something, the end goal becomes even that much sweeter.

There are a variety of options you have to make your way to Machu Picchu: the Inca Trail, Salkantay Trail, Jungle Trail, finding your own way, bussing there, and probably several more. However, to anyone considering doing it, I’d highly recommend doing the full 4 day Inca Trail. The entire hike is seriously beautiful and much more green and jungly than I expected. In addition, it’s also a lesson in history and culture. As you pass different landscapes and ruins along the way, your guides will teach you of the surrounding mountains and vegetation, Incan history, and current Andean culture as you make your way to Machu Picchu. It’s cool how meaningful the mountains are to the Andean people, both the Incas and also the current people who live there. Many people living in the region and the majority who work as guides and porters all speak Quechua, the language of the Incas. Although it has been developed a bit more and has some Spanish intermingled, it’s still interesting to see the direct ties the current inhabitants still have with the Incas who came before them.

I won’t do a day-by-day recap of the trek, as a recount of 8-12 hour days of walking can only be so riveting if you weren’t there. I encourage anyone considering visiting Machu Picchu to do so soon. The interest in the site has grown exponentially the last few years and our guides (Percy and Juan, both legends) told us that it may not be long before the government begins to regulate the trails and ruins even more than they already do, possibly limiting visitors to just an hour on the site, decreasing the number of people who can enter each day, and tacking on additional tourism fees, which are already plentiful in Peru.

The next day after the hike, we said goodbye to Alida, who had to get back to work and real life in LA from Cusco, and Maria, my Dad and I headed to Arequipa for a few days. Arequipa is just an hour flight south of Cusco (most people take a 4-5 hour train or bus, but we wanted to save time) and is the second largest city in Peru behind Lima. The main attraction is the nearby Colca Canyon which you can hike through in a couple days and also test your luck to see some condors, Earth’s largest bird. Unfortunately, I, and later Maria, had gotten pretty sick while hiking and the days following Machu Picchu were spent in bed consuming Ritz crackers and Sprite and watching MTV and CNN, which were the only two English channels in our hotel there. Not feeling entirely keen on hiking just yet, we opted to hire a driver for the day and headed out about 3 ½ hours up and through the snow-capped mountains and volcanoes to the canyon to see if the condors felt like flying that morning. Lucky for us, they certainly did and we saw a good number of them, mainly off in the distance to start. Then, after about thirty minutes, two enormous birds ascended up to the top of the viewpoint and put on an amazing show for us, literally flying in circles just directly over our heads. It was one of the coolest wildlife experiences I’ve ever had, and definitely the best of my trip so far. (Monkeys ftw) Seeing an endangered species in its natural habitat, and the largest flying animal alive, right above my face with the canyon in the backdrop was truly spectacular and something I’ll never forget. The guides at the site said they hadn’t even seen a single bird in over a week, much less the number and proximity that we had experienced that day, so that made it even cooler.

The next day my Dad and Maria took off and I moved into a hostel down the street called the Wild Rover, where I planned to pass some time until leaving for the wedding. There are three Wild Rover’s. One in Cusco, Arequipa, and La Paz, and all are Irish owned and known for being very “social.” (La Paz is locoooo) The Arequipa one had a pool and daytime bar where they played whatever sporting events were taking place around the world, and, thus, my next four days were spent right there making friends with whoever was passing through. I hung out with a couple hilarious Irish lads from Cork, some Brazilians who were in a band and killed it for open mic night, and, finally some of the first cool Americans I have spent time with. We had a few memorable nights there at the hostel, and before I knew it, I was heading to London. I was bummed to leave the Wild Rover, but luckily I’m heading to their hostel when I land in La Paz Friday morning, where things are known to get pretty crazy. (if I only knew)

That’s all I got for now. Since the time I began writing this I’ve unenthusiastically given up my window seat for a couple who wanted to sit together; gotten switched afterward to a better seat with no one in the middle; and been given two free drinks for my original willingness to swap.

Positive energy makes the world go round…

With any luck, the next time you’ll be hearing from me will be from somewhere in Bolivia after visiting the Amazon. (was awesome)

Much love until then,

Joseph

I have 2 more days in Bolivia and will be arriving in Argentina on my birthday 2/20 if everything goes to plan. I’ll hopefully update Bolivia once I’m settled in Argentina. Hundreds of pictures from Bolivia on the way as well.

P.S. Sorry to anyone that is or has family and friends who are police officers, I just needed to vent.

Well, amigos, let me apologize for the lack of correspondence these last 5 weeks. If you don’t hear from me, take solace in the fact that that means I am having a blast and have had trouble making the time to sit down and update this and reply to emails. Also, the wifi at the hostels has been a lot worse than I was hoping for. Although I’m winding down my time in Peru, this post is only on Colombia. Look for Peru’s recap in a couple days.

Let me back up to the beginning for a quick second…

I have developed a new travel rule for myself: No Swedish House Mafia concerts within 72 hours of departure for a foreign country, no matter how many members of the Mafia are present. Although my send off party was, indeed, amazing, that night coupled with my inability to sleep on airplanes definitely slowed me down a bit my first week as I was struggling to catch up on sleep and get healthy. In typical me fashion I saved too much to get done those last couple days before I left and was racing around up until the minute before I left for the airport. After not sleeping a peep on the redeye from LAX -> Boston and feeling the sickness creeping, I knew a couple hours of shuteye on the next two flights would be paramount. After the airport drug cocktail (Nyquil, airborne, advil pm, 17 sore throat drops) had failed, I walked back to the store and took a long look at my other options, namely those neck pillows. Now, I don’t know about you guys, but for some reason I have always held some deep contempt for the people that use those neck pillows. I don’t know what it is. Maybe I’m jealous they’re sleeping and I’m not; maybe I think they’re being soft; or maybe I just don’t like the way they look. It’s like the kids with the rolley-backpacks in middle school, you just didn’t like them, but you weren’t quite sure why. Anyways, I circled them distrustfully once more and finally took the plunge. End to a long a story: I will never travel again without one, that pillow has been attached to my backpack my entire trip, and I take back every ill-conceived notion I ever had toward you fellow neck-pillowers.

Now, onto Colombia…

What an incredibly beautiful country, both the landscapes and the people. Colombia was difficult to plan for because it has so much to offer, kind of like California. From the jungle to the beaches, big cities to small fishing villages, coffee farms to deserts, you could spend months in Colombia and still feel like you’re missing a lot. I only had three weeks and wanted to see as much as possible but still allow myself enough time in each spot to be able to soak in the culture. Talk to anyone that’s been there and they will all tell you the same thing: the people of Colombia are what make this country so special. For me, they are the friendliest people I have ever encountered. They are so prideful of their country and eager to share it with travelers. They seem so happy and grateful that you were able to look passed the stigma they have been fighting to overcome since the Pablo Escobar years and go out of their way to talk to you and help you in whatever way possible. My favorite memories of Colombia are undoubtedly the long conversations with my seatmates on buses and planes, and interactions with the waiters, taxi drivers and other locals. I’ll try and just stick to my favorite parts of my time from here on out.

As my plane got ready to land in Bogota, thunder and lightning began to surge, to which the guy behind me yelled out, ”welcome to Colombia!!!” Everyone laughed and I was fired up I had finally made it. I had no idea where I was going, it was late and raining and when we were in the neighborhood of my hostel my taxi driver kept yelling, ”peligroso! malo! peligroso!” which helped subdue any nerves I already had. It ended up being where most all of the hostels were in the neighborhood of La Calendaria and seemed safe enough as long as you weren’t wandering alone at night. I didn’t do a whole lot in Bogota except walk around and get a feel for the culture and how things worked. My last night, a Swiss guy staying at my hostel had a local friend, Julian, who took us out to a really fun bar and introduced me to the local cheap drink Aguardiente (tastes like sambuca) and accompanying cheer, ”arriba..abajo..al centro..pa dentro!” which we would end up rehearsing a dozen times.

The next morning I nearly missed my flight and groggily made my way to Medellin. (I’ve come to learn that in Latin America you need to double whatever time the locals tell you to be at the airport by) Medellin is actually pronounced ”Meh-de-jee-in” or ”Meh-de-jean.” Not sure how the Entourage guys overlooked that one. If you do any research on Medellin, you’ll find that what was once the murder capital of the world during the Escobar era, is now one of Latin America’s most promising and blooming cities. The turnaround it has made in such a short time is truly remarkable. That being said, there are still plenty of areas that are not safe and still a lot of evident poverty outside of the part of town most of the gringos stay, but, nevertheless, it is definitely on the upswing. A waiter told me that former president Uribe passed a law that requires all University students to serve on the police force for 1 year after graduation, and thus, there is an abundance of young men and women in uniform all around the cities. There are literally at least a couple officers on each and every block, many of which are holding machine guns, and who are a great resource if you get lost often like I do.

If you are a gringo looking to party then Medellin is definitely the place. The poblado district is completely safe and has a ton of good restaurants and bars all within walking distance of the hostels. The local women here are also some of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. I, again, got lucky and got taken out by some Aussie friends I met at the hostel who had a local friend, Sebastian, who brought us out to some local spots just outside of the normal string of gringo bars for a fun night that ended in a Burker King barage. The next day I navigated my way through their public transportation and went paragliding, which was one of my favorite things I’ve done so far. From the time you show up at the office to the time you are in the air is honestly no more than 5-7 minutes. You sign some janky waiver and the next thing you know you’re strapped in, the flight instructor is yelling ”corre! corre!” and you’re up flying with the birds gazing out for days.

The next cool thing I did was take a 2 hour bus to a small lake town called Guatape, where I stayed for a couple nights. My intent was to relax there, but there was a local girl working and staying at the hostel who brought me and a few others out the first night and we joined in on some birthday party where everyone was wearing masks and dancing and it ended up being a blast. The next day I rented a mountain bike and took on the path to the main attraction of Guatape, ”El Peñon, or La Piedra,” which is a giant rock at the edge of the lake that, when climbed, gives you an amazing view of all the surrounding lakes. The bike ride was much tougher than I had anticipated, but my blublockers and the Black Keys new album coming out of my headphones made it a fun ride. Along the way I saw a sign that said ”Jugos Naturales” and a little tree house looking place next to it so I decided to go in. Probably Colombia’s best culinary gem is it’s fruits and juices. They have some of the most bizarre and delicious fruits I’ve ever had, and on this hot day, I was craving some jugo. Sadly, the jugo was by far the worst I have had thus far, but the conversation I had with the young girl who served it was one of my favorite moments of my trip. I sat down in her tree house, exhausted, and we ended up laughing and talking in spanish for over an hour about all sorts of stuff. She was two months pregnant and told me she really wanted a dog but didn’t want to be tied down in case she wanted to live elsewhere, something I could very well sympathize with. She gave me some tips of her favorite places near the Panama border to see that aren’t well discovered yet, which I plan to visit someday. Still thirsty, but feeling happy, I made my way to La Piedra and hiked up the stairs to what was truly the most beautiful view I had ever seen in my life. The pictures frustrate me because they don’t demonstrate even a fraction of how breathtaking it was up there. Everyone at the top was having there own little moment of zen gazing out over the splatter of water and trees that stretched as far as the eyes could see. Spoiler alert: this was as, if not more, stunning of a view as the first time you look down on Machu Picchu, for me at least.

After Guatape and one more night back in Medellin, I flew to the Carribean coast on Christmas Eve where I would spend my last week in Colombia. The next few days were my favorite string of days thus far, and it is definitely due to the people I met at my hostel. I got there around 9pm and by 10:30 I was on a Chivas bus with 40 people from the hostel and a slew of beverages. A Chivas bus is basically a party bus that is all open, kind of like a trolley car, with music and lights that drives you around to different spots and drops you off at a disco. Paul, you would love these. I’m starting to realize after talking to people from around the world, that Americans are the only ones who have party buses, and among my friends, use them regularly. So while most everyone timidly stepped onto the Chivas bus, unsure how to behave, I was already standing on the bench pumping my fists and got the whole party going after the first song. The next day we hopped into a van with our legend of a driver, Johnny, and spent Christmas on the beach drinking beers, eating fresh fish, and playing soccer with some little Colombian and Brazilian kids who were unbelievable with the ball. While I seriously missed all of my family and all the good food, my first Christmas away is one that I will never forget. (sorry for not skyping guys, the wifi at the hostel was down and their computers were rubbish! Love you all!)

After Christmas was Tayrona National Park, which is a two hour muddy hike through the jungle to some pristine beaches and relaxation. I met up with a couple Dutch girls from my hostel and I later found out it was one of their birthdays so we bought the last two bottles of red wine the campgrounds had to sell and did our best job celebrating. (Hi Teisje and Nikita if you’re reading this! Hope sailing to Panama was a blast!) After a surpsingly good snooze in the hammock, we made our way back to the hostel and went to Taganga for the night. Taganga is an awesome little fishing village 10 minutes from Santa Marta that has become a backpackers haven so it’s a great place to meet up with fellow travelers. The next morning I took a bus with another girl from my hostel to Cartagena, where it seemed everyone was heading for New Years Eve. Cartagena is a unique colonial city, and it’s awesome just walking through the streets checking out the vendors. It is extremely touristy, however, and the most expensive city in Colombia, but its architecture and colors enable it to maintain its charm nonetheless. The city was alive on New Years Eve, and walking around was great, but I actually had a lot more fun on the 30th at rocking discoteca, where I randomly happened to run into almost every gringo I had met the last 3 weeks and had an awesome time dancing the night away with a bunch of the people I had spent Christmas with. My flight to Peru was 16 hours on the 1st so I tried my best to get to bed early on NYE, but ended up getting convinced by a couple Brazilian girls to watch the first sunrise of 2012, for which I was thankful when it was all said and done.

If you’ve made it through that you must really love me or be very bored at work. After writing this right now, I will definitely try and break it up more as much as possible. Also, if you are genuinely interested in reading this blog, please click the follow button at the bottom of the screen and enter your email address and you will automatically be emailed whenever I update it. I’m going to stop posting the updates on facebook soon because as I become facebook friends with more people I meet along the way, it feels a bit awkward writing about them and the times we shared. Please, please email me directly at joey.garcia13@gmail.com if you want to hear some more detailed stories or just want to chat, it’s a lot easier for me to correspond that way and I love receving emails from you guys. Even if I don’t respond right away it really makes me happy to hear from you. Colombia is definitely on the up and coming and I strongly encourage anyone who has the opportunity to travel there to do so before some parts become too touristy. It’s pretty cheap, there is tons to do, and it’s relatively close to the U.S. It’s a great alternative to your typical quick trip to Europe and your money will go three times as far, so go! Here is the link for my Colombia pictures: https://plus.google.com/photos/105369803721680610594/albums/5697501579326557153?authkey=CMmm2ODB-NKDtwE

Peru’s update should be in just a couple days. Hope everyone had a great New Years!

-Joseph

Familia y amigos!!

I am set to take off for a tour of South America and have started this blog as a way to keep those of you posted who may be interested in my adventures and hopefully give some insight to anyone who is thinking of doing a similar trip or is interested in the culture and sights of this region of the world. I won’t have a phone or a computer with me, so I don’t know how frequent the posts will be at this point, but I’ll be sure to update this whenever I get the opportunity and am not lost chasing monkeys through the Amazon.

Allow me to quickly clarify the name of this blog. Although I certainly will be exploring some of Mother Nature’s most pristine settings, I am not embarking on some ecological research project like the name may lead you to think. Rather, the word “gringo” is a ubiquitous term used in Latin America to refer to foreigners, specifically Americans and other Westerners like myself. Naturally, gringojoe was already taken, and so here we are.

To those of you who are still wondering why I’m doing this …

On par with my steadfast belief that USC was the only school for me and equal to my affirmation that I will not be breaking the 5’ 7’’ barrier in this lifetime, I have been certain for a couple years that I wanted to do a trip of this sort now while I am young and free from life’s ever increasing restraints and responsibilities that will inhibit me from doing so in the future. Not submitting my application to study abroad is the single major regret I have in my life. Seeing the faces of friends and cousins light up whenever they talk about their extended time in different countries made it obvious that I really dropped the ball on this one. So, in some way this is me making it up to myself. (Thanks Joe!) Beyond that, like many of you, I certainly had no idea in hell what type of work I wanted to pursue after college, and after a year of working a relatively uninspired 8-5 at a private mortgage lender, I certainly have no idea now. I hope that getting away from the familiar and spending time on my own amongst new cultures and people with backgrounds much different than mine will help give me some fresh perspective. After spending almost all of my 23 years and counting on a 60 mile stretch of land I figured it was time to get out and explore different parts of the world. If nothing else, this will all be a valuable learning experience that I will always be able to draw upon throughout my life, and I will be seeing some amazing things along the way.

Some quick facts:

• I depart from LAX Tuesday December 13 and arrive in Bogota, Colombia at 10:00 p.m. the following night. My arrival will cap off 24 hours of traveling so I reckon I will be growing increasingly delirious by this point. However, I’m confident the adrenaline from stepping foot onto a foreign continent I will call home for the next few months will be plenty of fuel to make for a memorable first night with my hostel mates at Destino Nomada.
• I have no set time or place I will be returning from, but, gun-to-my-head, I’d say Buenos Aires or somewhere in Brazil next summer
• The only espanol I know is what I learned in high school, but I’ve been taking a class once a week for the past couple months to try and refresh a bit. I’m confident I’ll pick it up pretty well once I’m down there.
• I’m hoping the money I have saved this year will last me about 6 months in itself as long as I don’t go overboard on the tribal gear and trinkets along the way, which you should all know by now will be no easy task for me. I also intend on doing a couple things I’m stoked about that will help stretch my funds. One of which is to do some WWOOFing on a vineyard or animal farm in Chile and/or Argentina. The other is to find a bar tending job or something of the sorts once I get to Buenos Aires, where I plan on stationing up and renting an apartment for a couple months until it is time to come home.
• I’ll be living out of a Gregory baltoro 75 L backpack for the duration of my travels. It was a bit of a shock when I realized just how little I would be able to bring with me. However, once I narrowed down what I was actually going to take, it was pretty liberating to realize that we really don’t need that much stuff to carry on from day to day, despite what we are accustomed to thinking. If you’ve never tried to fit 6 months of your life into a backpack, I’d highly recommend it. You may find it to be an enlightening exercise.

Countries and major destinations I’m planning on visiting:

Map of motivation hanging above my alarm clock

• Colombia: Bogota > Medellin > Caribbean Coast
• Peru: Cusco > Machu Picchu > Arequipa > Lake Titicaca
• Bolivia: La Paz > Amazon > Salar de Uyuni > Oruro for Carnival
• Chile: Atacama Desert > Santiago > Valparaiso > Pucon > Torres del Paine
• Argentina: Salta > Mendoza > Bariloche > El Bolson > Patagonia > Trelew > Iguazu Falls > Buenos Aires
• Uruguay: Montevideo

And definitely much, much more..

It has been a long road getting to this point and I could not be more pumped that it is finally here. I set a goal at the beginning of the year and made a budget to try to stick by each month that would allow me to set myself free for a bit while I contemplate my next move. As you are all aware, I love going out and having fun and self-control has never been a strength of mine, so staying disciplined week after week was not at all easy. Along with living at home the last year, the most difficult hurdle was continuing to honor that 6:45 a.m. alarm every morning and reluctantly make my way to a job that was less than thrilling. However, I knew it was a means to an end. Whenever I seriously contemplated quitting early, I forced myself to reread articles and blogs about the incredible places I was headed and reminded myself why I was there, enduring the painful sounds of my co-worker’s pop-radio that laid siege upon my cubicle each and everyday. Although my feelings toward Katy Perry are forever tarnished, it was undoubtedly worth it.

I have never been out on my own quite like this and I know I will miss you all like crazy while I am gone. I hope you continue to enjoy your lives to the fullest and pursue your passions and interests in whatever forms they may take.

To those of you who are well on your way to doing what you want to do, I salute you and I envy you. I hope to come out of this with a greater understanding of what is most important to me in life and inspired to pursue personal and professional endeavors I am passionate about.

If any of you crazy kids get the travel bug and want to come down, let me know and I’ll try to reroute to make sure we check out some stuff you’d like to see. If you want to get at me, email, skype, and facebook will be your best shot. I’ll do my best to respond whenever I’m around Wi-Fi. My skype name is joeycgarcia and I’ll be able to video chat via iTouch.

I wish all of you and your families a happy holiday and bitchin’ new year.

Hasta la proxima!

Con mucho amor,

Joseph