Dancing with the Devil

by Cathy

"Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter's honor."

“There are only three sports: bullfighting, motor racing, and mountaineering; all the rest are merely games.”

 "Bullfighting is not a sport; it is a tragedy."

-- Ernest Hemingway

The above three quotes are all attributed to Ernest Hemingway. He refers to bullfighting as an art, a sport and a tragedy, respectively. For the purposes of this post, I'll take the unbiased, middle ground and refer to it as a sport. For me, bullfighting has always been synonymous with Hemingway. He made his love of Spain and Cuba evident via his novels, but specifically first brought attention to bullfighting in his novel, The Sun Also Rises.

While on vacation this past summer in Mexico, our trip coincided with a bullfighting tour. For years my husband had tried to time our visit to Mexico for this, but it wasn't to be the case until now. He eagerly, happily, excitedly plunked down his pesos and got tickets for our entire family to attend. 

I hadn't given specific thought to bullfighting. I just knew it involved a matador (or torero, as they chanted in the arena), a bull and a fight between the two, which may or may not result in the death of a bull.

The fights we saw were held in an all-season arena, in the evening, so there was no sun/shade seating to be chosen. The Plaza D' Toros was not an overly intimidating arena but there was a foreboding light within its walls and the faint smell of metal and animals. Interesting Fact: Bullfighting arenas are always round so as not to give the bull an opportunity to corner the fighters.

The performance began with a welcoming parade; basically a two-horse buggy where the horses have elaborate headpieces and the buggy holds two young, beautiful girls waving to the audience as this chariot makes a few laps around the arena. Obviously, geared towards a male audience, although the audience boasted a healthy female attendance. The two women seated behind us were louder and more demanding than most of the male spectators.

The bullfighters enter the ring to the sound of a live marching type band and gracefully yet firmly walk over to the side of the arena with the President's balcony. They are colorfully and elaborately dressed in their heavily embroidered capes, black hats and flamboyant garb of a unitard and a bolero jacket. They raise their hats in a salute to the President and the crowd. The arena empties, the band stops playing and there is an eerie silence. All eyes are on the huge, wooden, bolted door that leads to the bullpen.

In the midst of the dead silence, the sound of running hooves is heard before the door swings open and we see a 1,000+ pound bull charge blindly and ferociously into the arena. It's oddly quick for its hefty size. The expert spectator sitting in front of us, upon learning that this was our first bullfight, was more than eager to explain to us the process, the meanings, the traditions and reassure the children to not be afraid. This was a welcomed comfort for us. "These bulls are bred to be vicious," he explained as he watched my girls' faces. "They are bred to be fast, strong and to kill."

The first fight was with a bullfighter on horseback. I will spare you the details of this, but all I can say is that he did such a terrible job, he broke down in tears afterwards due to the dishonor he brought forth to the sport, got booed by the audience and left us traumatized. I was this close to taking the kids and leaving. Our fellow spectator guide explained: "This is not the way this should be done. For bulls to be killed in the ring, it should be an honor. He dishonored this bull by killing it the way he did. It should be clean, effortless and honorable." Let's leave it at that.

The remaining fights were with the traditional matadors. Watching these, when done right, I understood what our guide was trying to explain. Much like witnessing the proverbial car accident, at times I found myself not wanting to look away.

I realized that during each fight, I would go through a whirlwind of emotions - at first rooting for the matador when the bull charged out with such might that he could easily gore anyone in its path; then twinges of nervousness and sadness when the bull was weakened by the banderilleros as they pierced darts into the bull's spine; then mesmerized by the "dance" between the matador and the bull - my favorite part - whereby the matador "dances" with the bull, standing within inches of it as it charges into the muleta, or cape. One matador bravely "hugged" the backside of the bull as it twisted and turned in circles around him. It was a beautiful, artful display of man versus beast, this dance with the flowing red cloths and the matadors standing steadfast, poised like a ballet dancer, yet leaning in towards the bull, feet firmly grounded like an athlete.

Lest we forget, bullfighting is an extremely dangerous sport. We almost witnessed the death of a young matador-in-training during our event when his nervousness caused him to trip and fall backward, causing the bull to charge directly into his torso. Were it not for protectively padded horses and the banderilleros coming to his aide, he could have died. That is the point when I realized that this is real. That this was more than a sport. That anything can happen. That we can be witness to someone's death.

This is why the final act of the killing of the bull left me conflicted: it's kill or be killed. It's just a shame that it even needs to come down to this. But therein, my friends, lies the controversy of bullfighting in general. Interesting Fact: Banderilleros can only lance the bull head-on and a bullfighter can only kill the bull directly from the front. Depending on how honorable the kill is, the President decides the prize for the matador, usually in the form of one or two ears from the killed bull.

"I am not going to apologize for bullfighting. It is a survival of the days of the Roman Colosseum. But it does need some explanation. [Bullfighting] is a tragedy. A very great tragedy. The tragedy is the death of the bull. It is played in three definite acts. The entry...the planting of the banderillos...[and the mastering of the bull with the muleta which leads to the death of the bull.]"

- excerpted from the Toronto Star Weekly, columns by Ernest Hemingway, 1923

http://ehto.thestar.com/

As I thought about what I had seen that night, I couldn't help but recall Jack Nicholson's famous line as Joker in the 1989 movie, Batman, asked by him of all his prey, right before killing them:

"Ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?"

Some prefer to call this a blood sport; others call it an art. There are many advocates and critics of this sport alike, for obvious, respective reasons.

It's the fight fought since the beginning of time itself: man versus beast. I will leave it up to you to determine who's the devil in this delicate dance.

Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter's honor.

Ernest Hemingway

Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/e/ernesthemi400630.html#6kW9mt22MI5qhe71.99

Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter's honor.

Ernest Hemingway

Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/e/ernesthemi400630.html#6kW9mt22MI5qhe71.99

Rocky Mountain High

by Cathy

Colorado has long been on my bucket list; this summer, I got to cross it off!

We landed in Denver. I had envisioned the Mile High City to be just that - a city sprawled across rolling hills, mountains, peaks and valleys. But alas, it was disappointingly flat. With my hand placed firmly over my eyes like a visor, I squinted determinedly past the buildings into the horizon in an attempt to spot those famous landscapes. After a few minutes, I made out the vague outline of mountains against the setting sky. My heart leapt! We were on our way to Vail and my eyes couldn't wait to get their fill of mountains.

You may think that it doesn't make sense to take a trip to Vail in the summertime, but for us not-so-avid skiers, this was a perfect time to check out this famous spot without the overwhelming madness that ensues when snow, cold, and throngs of people lugging heavy ski equipment are descending on these mountains.

Our family settled in to our rental car and for the duration of our almost three hour trip, we marveled, pointed and clicked away at the Colorado mountains and the countless, endless sea of trees that covered them, the snow-capped Rocky mountains situated behind them in the distance, the uphills and downgrades of the road that forced even small trucks to snail along with blinkers on, the clouds rolling in and out of view, shading the mountains black. Before we knew it, the quaintness of Vail, nestled at the base of these famous mountains, came into view and into our hearts.

We spent two days at the Arabelle in Lionshead, one of two main towns in Vail, where we swam in rooftop pools with the ski lifts dotting the runs on the mountains behind us;

We biked, walked and explored the cobblestone streets which could essentially resemble any quaint European city (and which are heated in the winter, as are pretty much all pool decks),  lined with stores, restaurants and galleries.

We rode gondolas and ski lifts up to the tops of mountains for rides that lasted up to 10 minutes. That's a long time when you're traveling "just" to the top of a mountain. 'How could we possibly go any higher?' I thought to myself as my ears popped. I literally expected that we'd be entering the clouds and I would fully expect to touch the sky when we eventually got off.

Then we were off to The Osprey at Beaver Creek, just fifteen minutes west of Vail and apparently, a much more vigorous skiing experience than Vail. In fact, two world ski tournaments are expected to be held there in the coming year, where hopeful Olympic athletes (and medaled ones as well) will be participating. There we did some more mountain-viewing swimming.

Our condo (much more popular in these parts than hotel rooms due to the advantage of the room size with respect to ski gear) was literally within arm's reach of a ski lift - the only hotel in the world that boasts this access.

We took a pass on the year-round ice skating rink in the town's center but only because we were busy taking jeep tours into two neighboring mountains and dining on some of the most innovative cuisine in the state while deer pranced across outside our windows. Oh, and the Aspen trees...I simply couldn't get enough of the Apsen trees.

Despite the altitude - at our highest point, we were at almost 13,000-feet above sea level - we were lucky to experience no altitude sickness, except for the occasional shortness of breath when we walked briskly or uphill/downhill. We kept hydrated with tons of water and took things easy, taking in magnificent vistas and panoramic eagle-eye views. We purposefully took in more clean mountain air than our lungs could handle, as if storing up for the long Chicago winter ahead. And speaking of winter, who knows? We may be adventurous and make the trek out there for some skiing - bunny slope style, of course - on the mountains of Vail. Just for the thrilling high of it.

Aruba (not Jamaica) Is Where I Wanna Take Ya

by Cathy

Bon Bini to Aruba!

One of the best perks about my job is getting to travel. I'm not talking about seeing the inside of airports and conference rooms business trips here; I'm talking about experiencing these destinations as potential getaways. So when the opportunity arose for me to fly to Aruba, I cannonballed into it. Granted, we had to take notes, jot relevant stats, info and details down, meet the right people and ask the right questions, however it's all done in a casual, very non-business like setting. In other words, as many friends described it complete with airquotes: "work"

The start of my trip started off a bit frantic, thanks to an hour and a half delay with my connecting flight, which pushed into my scheduled itinerary once on Aruba. I literally had 10 minutes to check in, change into a fashionable-ish outfit and meet the rest of my media group in the hotel lobby. Once at our event, I eased into the DJ's drumbeats and slowly melted into my Vodka Mango concoction created especially for this press event, which took place on the pool deck of the swanky Renaissance Hotel across from the turquoise waters of the Caribbean Sea. Aahhh...this "work" was more like it.

Part of my "work" included covering this:

2nd annual Aruba InStyle Fashion Week

This is when designers from Latin American, the Caribbean and even the U.S. showcase their new collections. As I eventually found out, there was press coverage from all of these places: Argentina, Brazil, Venezuela (which we were only about 18 miles off the coast of), Curacao, Columbia, Costa Rica, Barbados and even from Spain. Combined with the diverse cultures already present on Aruba (the national language spoken is Papiamento and are taught Spanish, Dutch and English in addition to this in school), I was in for a multi-cultural treat. And as I also found out, Latin Americans are NEVER on time for ANYTHING. Let's just leave it at that, shall we?

Needless to say we attended some fantastic open-air fashion shows/club parties:

Ronchi de Cuba show at the famed Versace Mansion. This is someone's house, y'all.

Swimwear show while dipping my toes in the water? Why, thank you.

We had an amazing island tour on the Kuckoo Kunuku party buses:

Turn up the music and shake your maracas!! (Famed California lighthouse in the background).

Walked through natural boulder formations a la 127 Hours.

 We visited Gold Mill ruins on the rocky northern coast of the island and came across these stacked rock piles. Island folklore says that you must stack five rocks (any size), make three wishes and in three months, given your stack is still intact against high winds, your wishes will come true.

Wishes, wishes everywhere, as far as the eye can see...

Me with my wish stack. Fingers crossed!

We were refreshed from the hot sun with fresh coconut juice, macheted open for our drinking pleasure.

Tasted some amazing local cuisine like Keshi Yena

Went on a tranquil catamaran/snorkeling excursion. Anyone want a gander at a real, live shipwreck?

And of course, no trip would be complete without a shopping excursion. Just FYI, Aruba has 1.5% sales tax and boasts every luxury brand store you can think of, so ladies, this is the place to get that Gucci purse. Speaking of which, while in that store perusing the handbags - I have my eye on one or two I'm salivating over - another woman comes in and the sharp-dressed suit asks, "Hello, what can I show you today?"
Her reply was my favorite: "Oh, nothing. I'm just here visiting my purse."
Ladies, can we relate or what? Loved that.

Instead, I chose to shop in a little Gingerbread-looking outdoor "mall" that clearly evoked the Dutch architecture the island inherits from its owners. 

Little pink houses - for shopping!

Our media group. And, oh, that amazing, fake-looking sea.

My visit there was quite the sensory and cultural experience to say the least. I will always cherish the sights, sounds, flavors and company. Until the next time...

(Oh, and nothing against Jamaica. Been there, done that. Just keeping with the flow of that breezy Cocktail theme song.)

When Mom Is Away, Confusion Is at Play

by Cathy

I was recently away for five days (much more on this coming soon). This meant that I left the girls in the care of my husband. Aside from the hours they were at school, he had to handle the A-Z of everything that involves them, school, food, homework, activities, baths, and basic home upkeep so that the rooms and hallways are walkable - essentially, everything I normally tackle while present.

Now before I go on, I must be honest here and say that my husband helps out A LOT. His work schedule is extremely flexible and for this, I am very thankful. We are respectful of each other's time and schedules and pitch in accordingly when the other cannot. His main tasks are preparing breakfast, shuttling the kids to school and back and forth from activities and pitching in around the house with homework and basic household upkeep.

I have been away once before for several days this year to Mexico. Upon my return, I didn't have time to assess how things went down here since I was saddled with a bout of the stomach flu and was out for a couple of days. By then, the follow up got lost in the shuffle. This time, 'twas a different story.

I knew things were going to be a little tough when I received a text from him while I was about to board my flight out of Chicago, around 7:30am. "What do I pack for lunch? PBJ?" It would be a long several days for him. Here are a few of the highlights:

- "Papi got my snack bag all mixed up," my six-year old offered up at breakfast the morning after my arrival. "What do you mean?"
He gave me the wrong snack bag and I got confused and forgot what it looked like so I think I lost it at school."
"So you didn't have your snack on that day?"
"No and I still can't find it!"

- As I busily fell back into my routine by preparing lunches during breakfast, I opened the fridge to find my reflection staring back at me. There was nothing in there except a loaf of sliced bread, a carton of eggs, some random yogurt drinks, a gallon of milk and some other odds and ends.
"You didn't go to the grocery store at all while I was gone?"
"Yeah," Joe mentioned smoothly. "We got bread and milk. The basics."

Our refrigerator now doubles as a mirror.

- I opened my kitchen cabinets to reach for a plate and noticed that my entire cupboard had been rearranged. No one apparently knew the storage system I've had in place for the last 15 years in those cabinets so stuff was stacked upon other random, breakable stuff and completely out of place. Whose house was I in?

- That same evening I announced that I was going to take a quick shower before bedtime. Upon entering my bathroom, I tripped on a giant, plastic, pink hula hoop that had taken residence in there during my absence. Just then, I hear my husband say, "Ari needs a bath too. She's pretty funky."
"Didn't she take a bath while I was gone?!"
"I tried, but she just wouldn't listen so I said, 'Forget it.' I had so much to do with work."
I verified this after I forced Ari into the bathtub and scrubbed her scalp and body raw.
"Honey, why didn't you take a bath while I was gone?"
"Papi didn't give me one!!"

- I unpacked my suitcase and opened the washing machine to throw in my vacay load and saw that there was a load, already washed and wrung, still sitting in there. Crossing my fingers that it hadn't been in there too long, (it didn't smell bad at the time), I threw the clothes into the dryer and hoped for the best. The next night, while looking for her PJs, Bella screams down the hall, "MOM! Our dryer smells like butt! And so do all of our clothes in it. Everything smells like butt!"
"What are you talking about?" I asked.
"Smell this!" she said, and practically shoved her pants up my nose. "This is from the dryer."
"Ewww," I said, twitching my nose. "Yeah, papi forgot the load in the machine and I thought it would be okay but I guess it's not. I have to re-wash the whole load."
"Lemme smell it," countered Joe. "It doesn't smell. I don't smell butt. I don't smell anything," said the man who cringes at every towel he dries himself with, convinced they all smell like mold. Maybe it's because loads need to be immediately put in the dryer rather than chilling out in the washing machine for a day or two?

- The day after my arrival, the girls were dropped off at home after school by my neighbor as I was busily preparing food.
"Mmmmm," said Bella taking off her coat. "Smells good! I'm starving!"
"What did you guys eat when I was gone?" I found an opportunity to ask without Joe around.
"Frozen chicken nuggets, frozen fish sticks, frozen pizza, frozen potatoes..." Bella rattled off exasperated. "I want some real food!"

I smiled an ear to ear grin, knowing that there is nothing like a woman's/mother's touch. Although fathers may provide the basics necessary to live and get to places on time, mothers provide the little creature comforts that make a house a home.

Up in the Air and They Just Don't Care

by Patti

Did you know that the airport bar is jam-packed at 7 am? Yes! It is! The morning lushes are getting their drunk on, waiting for planes, their beers and whiskeys golden in the morning sunlight, their collective heads bobbing.

Don't get me wrong: I love me some booze. But I am not and cannot be a morning drinker. I can barely function as it is in the morning, and the thought of booze trickling its way through my already nauseous veins sends me into hurl mode.

Disclaimer: I did take a shot of Makers Mark in an airport bar once at 9 am with some girlfriends as we waited to board a plane to Vegas. But waiting to board a plane to Vegas is living in some sort of suspended reality bubble. It doesn't count. What happens in the Vegas Bubble of Suspended Reality stays in the Vegas Bubble of Suspended Reality. But in non-suspended reality, a drink accompanied by the morning chirp of birds feels way to Whose Afraid of Virginia Woolf to me.

But that's just me. Because in airports, strange things happen. All the time. People regularly stumble out of bars and onto planes at 7 am..... and then carry that crazy right onto the airplane and 30,000 feet up in the air.

Apparently, farts don't count on planes. Did you know that? At least, that is what those who are farting out the farts seem to think. I spent four hours in a metal tube of farts the other day. I don't know if it was the girl next to me, the man behind me, or the girl in front of me - or, who knows, maybe the entire planeload of passengers had plane gas (and I ain't talkin' fuel) - but whoever it was was clearly operating on the Farts Don't Count in the Air theory. And my LORD can I just point out right here and right now that farts DO count up in the air? They really do still smell. I promise. So, please: Hold it in.

Also: About reclining that seat. Yes, I know that there is absolutely nothing comfortable about sitting in an airplane seat - unless you are legless (in which case, you're probably already uncomfortable, so enjoy the extra room - you deserve it) - or one of those First Class People that have the luxury of hurtling through the air in a Lazy Boy recliner. But us Regular People? We are crammed into those seats with our knees assaulting our chins. So when you try to create more legroom by reclining your seat, you are inevitably instantly stealing away somebody else's already dangerously low legroom.

The other day, I had the distinct pleasure of sitting behind the Extreme Seat Recliner. Not only did she recline her seat, but I'm fairly certain that hers was of the Deluxe Recline variety, because as I innocently sat there reading my book, I suddenly found the girl in front of me in my lap. The tray table I had pulled out to support my book was now jammed into my sternum, and the girl's head was practically between my legs.

 I passively-aggressively shoved the seat, hoping she would get the hint. Instead, she settled more deeply into her seat and into a nice, long, nap. A fidgety one. Because that bitch would not. stop. moving. for four hours. And each time she did, she didn't just shift her body into a new position; she FLUNG her body into a new position. And each time she did, the entire chair would shake further into my lap, and the tray into my sternum.

Let's talk food. Airlines no longer feed a passenger unless that passenger wants to purchase a mysteriously dry-yet-soggy turkey and cranberry sandwich for $15. So most savvy eco-travelers have started bringing their own food. But may I ask whatever happened to the sandwich? Because people no longer bring such simple fare to tide them over on a plane; no - they bring BUFFETS. And most of the time they are either drowning in garlic, smothered in curry, or slathered in fake, melted cheese. I love all of these things, I do - but NOT TOGETHER, and most definitely NOT within the confines of recycled air at no-oxygen heights. Combine that with farts and snoring drunk breath, and please, just please - let me just strap on a parachute and jump out.

Have you had enough? What is that you say? You don't want to hear about the man who falls asleep with his mouth open, his oblivous-to-the-world head bobbing and weaving on his airplane-pillowed neck? Because all planes have those, you know. And that man will inevitablly fall deeply asleep the VERY second you realize that if you don't go pee now, but right now, bad things will happen. So you will sit there, calculating whether or not holding it for three more hours is possible, and then you will conclude, that no, it is not, and you will carefully tap him on the shoulder, and he will snuffle and snort himself awake, his eyes bleary and confused, and then he will sigh heavily as you APOLOGIZE FOR HAVING TO PEE, and he will get up very slowly and barely move out of your way so that your ass might just brush his chest as you work your way by so that you can go pee for crying out loud. And then you will come back from the bathroom, and he might be asleep again, and you will have to wake him up, and this time you will apologize for having to sit down - the nerve! - and your ass will once again brush against his chest as you work your way by back to your seat. And then, amid the farts, the drunks, and the head between your legs, you will pray you don't have to pee again.

But since you don't want to hear about it, I'll stop here.

Happy Travels!

Zipping to the Extreme

by Cathy

As you may have read in my last post, I was off in Cabo last week on a "business" trip. In the midst of what turned out to be more leisure than business, checking in first at this hotel for two days:

Sheraton Hacienda del Mar Golf & Spa Resort, Los Cabos

 Then at this hotel for the final two days:

The Westin Resort & Spa, Los Cabos

 I did something EXTREME.

Of all the words I can think of to describe me, "extreme" is definitely not one of them. In fact, my middle name should be  "middle-of-the-road" or "medium" or "moderation" or "non-extremist". I don't do anything in extremes - I like being right smack dab in the middle. That's where I feel comfortable; that's who I am.

However, my whole Cabo trip was about stepping outside of my comfort zones - traveling alone; being comfortable alone; exploring new places; meeting new people; trying new things - alone. So wouldn't it be fitting that I did something I would not normally be prone to doing within my comfort zones? Yes, it would. So, I did. And what did I choose to do? Zip Lining. Yes, I willingly signed up for the Costa Azul Xtreme Canopy Tour. (Notice, the word Xtreme.)

The funny thing is that I didn't even realize this was an Xtreme sport until I got there and the instructors rigged us up in our harnesses, secured the clips that would support my weight as I dangled hundreds of feet in the air above cacti, burning desert rock and slithering rattlesnakes -  and ran through the drill. That's when I went into full-on panic mode. You see, since I landed in Cabo, where I was trying so hard to take in the beautiful scenery and revel in the ocean air, the looming zip lining activity kept nagging at my vacation state of mind, not allowing me to truly relax. I was so stressed about how I would handle it, I surveyed everyone in my path about it: the guys sitting next to me on the plane, our tour guide, our host, all 12 of the other folks on our tour, the hotel bar waiter, the unassuming couple from Minnesota baking next to me on the pool deck, swimmers wading past me in the pool...

I took diligent note of all the feedback (all of it reassuring and positive and FUN!) and wrestled back and forth between zip lining or just sticking with good old kayaking (I had done it in the past, albeit it was on a river, not the Pacific Ocean) and it seemed "moderate" enough. After conducting my thorough, unscientific focus group,  I decided to just stick with it. This trip was all about pushing my boundaries after all. 'Just buck up and do it, Cathy, dammit.'

On the morning of, I was surprisingly calm. The decision was made and I was at ease with accepting it. Once we got there, I applied my 30th coat of 50 SPF. (I started applying this the minute I woke up that morning because the thought of being up high in the Mexican hills with the Mexican sun beating on my pasty Chicago ass for three hours straight terrified me. In fact, I almost wore a long sleeve and long pants - a tunic and scapular shy of becoming Cathy, the flying, zip lining nun.) I'm sorry, I've gotten some crazy ass looking sunburns in Mexico - painful, ridiculous looking sunburns that could pass for geographical maps and airport runways. Thus, the fear. Not. Good. So I slathered to the point where I could slip right off that zip line. Also, not. good.

What seemed to calm my nerves somewhat is when I spotted grandmas, grandpas and two children (a nine-year old and an 11-year old) in the crowd. Yes, I did ask them their ages. Okay, if they can do this, I can do this. I took the pulley by the horns, stepped onto the platform on the mountainside, crossed my ankles, lifted my knees to my chest, leaned back in my harness and let the guide push me off the edge into the wide open air. I shut my eyes and screamed like a baby...for about 10 seconds.

This was taken by our tour's "Paparazzi" guy. That' me being Xtreme!

Then I realized that the speed was not as zippy as I thought it would be, so I opened my eyes and and took it all in. I thought about what the instructor said: "This is the closest you'll ever get to flying." I saw the Sea of Cortez off in the distance and the turkey vultures (no joke) tauntingly hovering overhead, waiting for me to plunge to my thorny death on that cacti and do what they do best. But seriously, by the end of that first zip line, I was hooked. Literally and figuratively speaking. I wanted more. I wanted higher. I wanted longer. I wanted faster. There were eight zip lines in total and I took in the sensation and exhilaration to the fullest.

All was great until our instructors said there would be a rappelling portion of the tour. Rapelling? Where you dangle off a platform on a rope that you, yourself are controlling and releasing to drop you - or shoot you - down 150 feet onto the ground below all while bouncing yourself off of a jagged rock wall lest you cut up your knees, a la SWAT team style? Too much to think about but since I was on a high from zip lining, I thought, 'What the heck.' But when I saw those go before me and how they were shaking, and pushed off that ledge and saw one lady come back with a rope burn on her hip, my 'What the heck' turned into 'What the hell??'

I was the first one to unclip myself from that wire holding me on that platform, turn on my heel and say, "I'm out. I did what I came to do. This is a vacation. I don't need the stress." Unbeknownst to me, there were twenty others from our group sitting this one out. And wouldn't you know I started a trend. Three more walked off that platform, one by one, after me, while an over-confident dude checked them off, "Another one bites the dust."

Well, that was my point. I didn't want to literally bite that dust waiting for me at the bottom of that cliff. Too much of this activity was left to my physical abilities and sporty know-how, and I was in no position to be fully left in charge during this Xtreme sport.

Overall, I can view this experience as "I chickened out on rappelling" or "I went beyond my comfort zone to the point where I was so proud of myself and felt content at trying something so out of my league."

In my eyes, I chose to fly.

Cabo? I'll Go.

by Cathy

"A journey of a thousand miles begins with a simple step."  -- Confucius

I have a very good reason for being M.I.A. on the blog this past week... I was off on a "work" trip to one of the places I've been wanting to visit most - Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. I heard it was a haven for jetsetters and celebs alike (evident from the fact that I counted no less than 28 learjets on the tarmac when I landed) and that it was probably one of the most picturesque places in Mexico.  So when the opportunity came for me to be whisked away by these fancy hotel chains and corporate resort companies for the sake of wedding research to follow through on my editorial obligations to inform the local wedding demographic of what Cabo has to offer, I was all in. Well, all except for my conscience, whose guilty side kept rearing its ugly ass head. Guilt, for being the only one in my family able to experience such a beautiful place and take some much deserved time off.

First off, I have never gone on a vacation solo; I have visited my friend Sue in London once when Bella was two years old but this is the first trip I was taking completely alone. Sure I would meet others in my group while I was there and I have no problems with my social skill set, but not only was I going "alone" but without my family. Here I would be in these beautiful, beach town resorts, watching other families enjoy their time together, smooching their spouses while doting after their flotation-deviced kids in the infinity pool overlooking the Sea of Cortez. And I?  I would be...with a bunch of strangers, (some of whom DID bring their significant other) and the latest issue of Glamour. This was going to be quite the test for me on many levels.

Once I got there, checked in, explored, had some goodies laid out for me in my room and took in the scene, I relaxed - I felt more at ease. I was starting to slowly let go - of the need to constantly be with someone, of the stress, of the guilt and most importantly, of the boundaries I set upon myself in many ways.

Notice the TWO wine glasses and TWO coffee mugs.

As I met new people (I discovered that even those traveling with someone felt the need to chat people up, and that it wasn't just me wandering aimlessly around the pool trying to mask my 'I'm starved for conversation' look) I discovered that there are pluses and minuses to traveling without your family - traveling alone.

The pluses:

- No one is snoring/farting/coughing/tossing/turning you awake at night or crawling into your bed and pounding you with their little fists and feet. I slept like a champ for the first time in a long time my first night there.

- You don't have to be on anyone else's schedule except your own; well in my case, we did have an itinerary that we had to adhere by but all the activities were spaced out perfectly that allowed for a nice amount of free time.

- I was never late to anything because I didn't have to wait for anyone else to get ready or help anyone else get ready except myself. 

- Because of that last point, I looked fresh and fashioney every evening for dinner and tequila tastings. No accessories were missing, no outfit was stained or mismatched and hair and makeup was perfectly in place.

- You get to be alone - truly alone - in a place other than your day-to-day environment, which gives you a whole different perspective on life and everything outside your "little world." I wrote some thoughts down. I allowed myself to take things in and feel. My five senses were alive. Because of this, I found myself being moved to tears on more than one occasion: when I slid open that giant balcony door and took in the ocean view from my room for the first time; 

when I went for my first walk on the beach and admired the overwhelming awesomeness of the sea while the frothy waves crashed at my feet; when I looked up at night from my balcony and saw the night sky lit up like a Christmas tree with seemingly all the astronomical formations in the cosmos; and when I awoke one morning to find this expression of love for someone in the sand below:

 Now, the minuses:

- Until I got used to being alone, and even then, it was hard to not want to share such a beautiful place with someone I loved. Like I emailed to Patti on my first day there - torn between feeling sad because I was alone, guilty because my family couldn't join me and tingling with curiosity as to what the upcoming experiences would bring - "even the most beautiful place in the world can be lonely if you have no one to share it with." But the goal was to feel comfortable with being alone and enjoying the freedom of that - and that's what I tried to focus on.

- You have no one to rub suntan lotion on your back. I blindly sprayed back there and prayed it took in all the right places. Then I relied on my long hair to do the rest.

- I don't mean to be ungrateful that I get to sleep in an ocean view room right on the beach, but those waves crashing haphazardly in no rhythmic fashion whatsoever (isn't that what they're supposed to do?), actually kept me awake at night rather than lulling me to sleep. This is not my life; it needs getting used to. I know, I know, I'll cry you a river.

- All of your pictures are of scenery. Except for the ones you try to take by turning the camera on  yourself (thank you iPhone for making this super easy to do now with the reverse camera angle feature!) Here, the results:

Me, posing for me, on the Sea of Cortez. 'Am I doing this right?'

or

Me, posing for me, on the (romantic) sunset cruise at Land's End Arc

Of course once I got to know the people in my group and realized that they were interesting, fun and funny, things got even better. We went shopping, had gourmet four-star dinners every night, went on tours, and even karaoked. We had drinks at the hotel swim-up bars, exchanged industry stories and gossip and had some great laughs. We saw whales spouting and flicking their tails in the shimmering sea as we had sushi and cucumber margaritas during a sunset cocktail hour. We saw iguanas, sea lions that swam up to our catamaran in the Pacific, turkey vultures hovering overhead, dolphins, fly fish and even sea urchins. 

Even though I technically wasn't "alone" I felt as though for me, I was. I used this trip as a challenge for myself - to push my boundaries, to go outside my comfort zone, to "Do It Anyway" like Patti and I say. And I am so glad I did.

Stay tuned for my next post about how I pushed my physical boundaries while in Cabo!