One month later, after a fabulous journey that lead us from Cartagena to Santa Marta, Taganga, Tayrona, Medellín, Guatapé, Salento, Cali, Popayán, and Silvia, our appetite for Colombia was not quite satisfied. One of us read something, or heard something, or saw something: how the seed was actually planted to visit San Agustín, I can’t remember. Somehow, however, we decided to leave our heavy packs in our beloved Popayán and travel for a few days to the centre of the country, to the place of the ancient megaliths: San Agustín, Colombia.
"why i love"
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I’ve done a few other winery/vineyard tours, and they often end up being the same: here are the barrels, here’s some information about the wine/grapes, and here’s some samples. London Cru felt different, though, much more personal and much more hands-on. Being a small space, we were able to see each piece of equipment and stand in the very room the wine was made. As their website says, they wanted to create a “hands-on, informative, and entertaining experience”. This, combined with their passion for wine, leads me to believe that they will be very successful in their endeavour.
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When I walked out of my hostel in Rangoon all those years ago, I couldn’t stop whirling around, taking in all of my surroundings. I felt overcome by my senses: the jangling of the sugar cane man’s bells, the smell of frying vegetables, the air so thick and humid I could open my mouth and drink it in. And the colours, too, drip-drying at the laundry and splashed across markets and swirled on the faces of those around me.
But what about in London?
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One hand is over my face, sprawled across my mouth and nose to hold my mask and regulator in their places. The other hand is at my waist, gripping my weight belt. I feel that familiar sensation in my stomach, the ambiguous churning that could be excitement or fear. My breathing is already rhythmic, meditative, the heavy rasps of the regulator audible over the waves lapping against the boat.
“Go when I say go, and have a wonderful dive,” the divemaster singsongs. “One, two, three, go!”
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Four days ago, in Zurich, Switzerland, I found my way to my hostel without consulting my map; I had stayed there once before, in the summer of 2006, and I let my feet and my intuition guide me there from the main train station. The trip started off well, and I spent the afternoon with mulled wine and lulled steps, slowly and deliberately making my way through the cobblestoned streets and their Christmas markets. Around 8pm, I went back to the hostel. That was my goal – every night, through Switzerland, Liechtenstein, and Austria, I’d spend at least a few hours writing.
I opened my MacBook Pro, my fingers still slightly numb from the cold. I turned on the computer, its familiar grey screen popping up before me. The little circle spun, spun, spun. Spun. And spun. Nothing.
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Maybe I don’t think about a wedding very often, but the honeymoon? Oh, I’ve thought about the honeymoon. Some secluded little island where the water is turquoise and the sky so big, where there are as many stars as grains of sand. Somewhere where fish are plentiful, where the fruit drops out of trees, where we can spend our days underwater and our nights tangled up in each other. I don’t know where this island is. Bora Bora? Seychelles? I don’t know.
What I do know is, for someone who has spent the majority of life as a single woman, and definitely as a single traveller, I’ve been to a hell of a lot of honeymoon destinations already. Some of these places I’ve been to alone, some I’ve been to with family, and some I’ve been to with a friend. Despite the lack of a romantic partner, I’ve certainly had some very memorable experiences. In fact, one could say that these experiences were even romantic. Because who says that romance can’t be experienced solo, or that romance can’t be experienced between a human and a place?