juicy juice

One of my favorite things about Venezuela is the prevalence of fresh juice. Not just fresh squeezed orange juice, but fresh name-almost-any-fruit-you-can-think-of juice.

Blackberry. Watermelon. Peach. Cantelope. Strawberry. Papaya.

Mmm. Delicious.

But my favorite fruity beverage of all was the Cocada. Delicious sweet coconut flavor. Not everyone is a coconut fan, but if you are, you should beware of its entrancing qualities.

Sweetened coconut milk, tiny chunks of coconut, a touch of shredded ice. Heaven in a glass. Addiction ensured.


all the things i want to tell you

I want to tell you about how unscary the Caracas airport was because a stout red-haired man picked us up and a lovely lady behind the ticketing counter practically held our hand on the way to security.

I want to tell you how crazy smooth all of our airline travel went despite the warnings and expectations to the contrary.

I want to tell you about the beach and how I managed to not get burned despite being the WHITEST PERSON ON THE BEACH. I haven't felt so white since I walked down the streets of Ningbo, China with tall blonde people nearly causing bicycle accidents.

I want to tell you about the deliciousness of cocadas.

I want to tell you about how I thought I was going to be in the middle of an angry bus station riot after standing in the sun for 5 hours only to get on a bus where my friend pretended like she was sleeping to avoid being subjected to the Latin air-lap dance going on in the aisle. Its a true story that deserves to be told in full.

But for now, all I am going to tell you is that lying on my bed, listening to a spring thunderstorm is the best place to be and I am going to go enjoy it.



Since the collapse of the sun into the winter abyss sometime in November, the gym and I have gotten much cozier. It has nothing to do with New Year's Resolutions and everything to do with the misery I experience in the winter months. The only respite from the cold is to simulate rain forest levels of personal perspiration. And so I hit the treadmill three or four times a week, attempting to trick my internal organs and hormonal balances into summer bliss mode. They are easily duped.

Since my semi-failed half-marathon days (okay, so they weren't at all failures, I just quit running them because I love not feeling my left hip when I walk), I haven't had much in terms of goals with running. With the exception of "don't get fat," which is really a whole-life goal and not actually specific to running.

Goals in running are surprisingly problematic for me. I have spent too much time in yoga practice and have become totally okay with challenge but not with forced effort. I don't like racing because of an aversion to competition. I am terrible about wearing stopwatches and using them appropriately. Treadmills sidestep the stopwatch issue, but only kind of because I like to pause to drink water, but my time should really be paused and they can't pause time without pausing distance traveled. Grr. Weight goals don't work either because I haven't weighed myself in years. (In my mind, so as long as my clothes fit and my doctor doesn't say anything at my yearly check-up, I don't need to be worried.) Increasing distance is somewhat out of the question because of aforementioned affection for not feeling the left hip while walking.

And yet not having a goal seems to be tantamount to quitting before stopping. I don't do much in my life without purpose or reason. So, dearest Internet, after hours and hours of thought over an appropriate goal for running and even a pitiful attempt at wit, I can say to you in total confidence that I am running just to run. Because it feels good: old-school hedonistic style.

Goalless activity is a whole new type of accomplishment in my life.