Brenna Holeman

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.

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.

Some of you are brand new to This Battered Suitcase, and some of you have followed it for years, maybe even since Livejournal (hi, Naomi). This is just a thank you for being such a supportive, creative, incredible group of people. As a small thank you, I have a copy of Jon Krakauer’s Into Thin Air to give away; fitting, perhaps, because of my last post. I haven’t read it yet, only Into the Wild, but I’ve heard it is absolutely amazing. I will also throw in some treats from London (I hope you like tea and chocolate). I have some other exciting giveaways coming up in the future, but, on this slightly cloudy day in London, I felt I wanted to do something right now.

“There she is.” The pilot’s finger, held up against the window of the cockpit, nearly obliterated the very thing I had come all this way and paid all this money to see.

“That one?” I put my own finger to the cold glass, aware that the propellers on the small airplane were swallowing my voice. Each mountain seemed roughly the same, barely varying in shape or height. I looked to the pilot for confirmation. He smiled with big, white, snowcapped teeth.

“Yes,” he mouthed over the whir of the propeller’s blades. “That’s Everest.”

The sun was shy during my stay in Paraty. One moment it would come out, round and inviting, turning the waves blue and the sand yellow. Just as your skin would warm, it would retreat, the ocean turning a black snarling thing again, the sand gritty and brown. Still I liked this place a lot, liked its charm and its maze of cobbled roads. I found a group of backpackers I had met in Rio and we sat on the beach come rain or shine. We drank sweating cans of beer and threw our barbecue scraps to the stray dogs who’d scratch and whine, driven crazy by the wafts of meat.

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!”