In Argentina, the local steak restaurants (parillas) for which the country is notorious, serve their house wine in upright penguin-shaped ceramic pitchers. In fact, you literally order the house wine by the “pingüino” (1-liter pitcher) or a “half pingüino” (a ½-liter pitcher).
 
Then, as the smells of grilling steaks waft over the table, out comes a lil’ white, stout vino pingüino (Spanish for wine penguin) with an opening at its beak and a handle down its back. And inside, a deep red Malbec fills up its rounded belly.

This tradition of serving wine from a penguin began years ago in the 1920’s and 30’s when it became popular in the parillas of the working class of Argentina. We’re not entirely sure how the “penguin” became the chosen vessel, but it might be a nod to the waddling birds down south in Argentina’s Patagonia region. To this day, the penguin still takes a place at tables across Argentina.

​>>>Get your penguin wine pitcher here<<<

Whether you want to remember a past trip to Argentina, or dream of planning one, this little guy is just what you need.
 
And if you have a an empanada-eating, gaucho-loving, vino-guzzling friend, then buy them a vino pingüino and pair it with your favorite Malbec to make an Argentinian-themed gift.
 
This has become such a fun little side business for Tom and I. We hope this little pitcher will find a way to waddle onto your table and into your hearts. But if not, no worries; just come on over to our place and we’ll pour you a big glass o’ vino from our plump penguin friend and tell you all about the country we love, Argentina.
 
Salud! Cheers!

Buy your penguin wine pitcher here.

Either way, we left for the weekend to visit the mountains. Our adventure (or I should say, my adventure) started on Friday afternoon. While Tom was working, I had the unfortunate job of picking up our rental car.

All by myself, and left to my own devices, I had to drive for the first time outside of America. On all our past trips, Tom kindly assumed the driver role. So, trying not to let on to the all-too-trusting car rental agent that I had no experience driving on the wrong, I mean “left,” side of the road, I confidently took the keys and failed miserably by walking to the wrong side of the car. 

I hit my windshield wipers a few times in an effort to turn on my blinker, and I may or may not have briefly driven on the literal wrong side of the road. But eventually, I adjusted to my surroundings and learned to look up and to the left (instead of up and to the right) for a glance in the rear view mirror. 

Thanks to the human ability to adapt to one’s surroundings and probably more so to God’s good grace, I somehow successfully made it back into the city alive and on the verge of singing the country song, “Jesus take the wheel.” I gladly let Tom take the wheel and off we set for the Blue Mountains.

Now, back home in Southern California, if we decide to retreat to the mountains, it takes us many hours to get far enough out of the city to find cute, little, podunk mountain towns. But in Sydney, it takes less than two hours and a mere ascent of 3,337 feet in elevation to arrive to the little mountain town of Katoomba. 

Although, beautiful and majestic in many ways, these mountains are not known for their impressive heights and soaring peaks. The Blue Mountains are actually very flat on top and the highest point is only slightly higher than Katoomba, at an unnamed spot at 3,901 feet. 

But this shouldn’t be surprising because most all of Australia is relatively flat. The tallest point in Australia is Mount Kosciuszko that sits at only 7,310 feet. Compare this to California’s Mount Whitney whose imposing peak stands at nearly double the elevation (14,505 feet).

So as I was saying, we arrived quickly, and since darkness had already fallen, we couldn’t see the mountains on the drive in. We commented with an air of arrogance, “aww that’s cute. Australia calls these little hills ‘mountains.’” 

But when we awoke the next morning, the stout, but imposing majesty of the Blue Mountains quickly humbled us. For what they lack in height, they make up for in girth and greenery. From various lookouts, the range appears wide, vast, and grand, covered lavishly with greenery. When we looked across the canyons and valleys, we could see, either in actuality or at the power of suggestion by its name, an eerie blueish haze. The densely covered mountains are flat on top and drop off suddenly exposing large flat sandstone cliffs across long stretches of the range, adding drama to the scene.

The drop offs are so sudden and sever that you can imagine how someone fighting their way through the brush could suddenly find themselves dangerously toeing a deadly edge. Whether true or folklore, it is obviously plausible that the famous bushranger, Govett, could have accidently run himself and his horses over one such drop at the point now named after him (Govett’s Leap).

Adding to the scene, rivers continually spill over these edges and form narrow cascades dropping extensive distances to feed the rainforest floor of the Blue Mountain canyons below.

Humbly impressed by the flat tops and severe drops of this mountain range, we decided it was worth taking a look inside them. We drove over 1 1/2 hours to the Jenolan Caves, crossing over rolling farmland (you hardly feel like you are in the mountains, when away from the cliffs and canyons). The second half of the drive hugged one of the more gradual mountain edges on a one-car lane that they actually closes down to incoming traffic from 11am-1:15pm every day to allow tour buses through. We were glad to have beaten the road closure and the crowds.

A large open cave, large enough for our car to pass through, served as an impresseive entrance to the park and its network of limestone caves. We toured the Orient Cave, widely considered one of the most beautiful caves in both Australia and the rest of the world. Unfortunately, my pictures don’t do it justice (where were you when we needed you Ryan!). You’ll just have to take my word for it that it was stunning, and made even more so by the elderly gentleman that escorted us through the cave with the enthusiasm of a grandmother showing off pictures of her grand babies.

The following day, we hiked through the Grand Canyon...of Australia, not America. :)

The hike took around an hour and a half and the trail was extremely well-marked and cared for. Much of it had stone bricks to keep your feet out of the dirt. The canyon was beautifully lush with rainforest at its bottom and narrow with large rocks and stonewalls on either side of the trail, nothing like our American Grand Canyon. And I’m pretty sure the maker of Play Station’s Crash Bandicoot visited this canyon, because I felt like I was running right alongside Crash the whole time I was there, bouncing from one stone step to another and racking up the points in the top corner of the screen.

We finished the weekend in true Australian style with a long black and a breakky of toasties at a cozy mountain-town café (if you have no idea what I just said then you haven’t been reading my Australia posts). 

So with the sunshine warming our faces and the caffeine kicking in, we had a strange conversation with a retired, bearded Katoomba local. Conversation turned from common pleasantries like “where are you from?” to racism and other topics typically avoided in first-time conversations. And in a moment of looking down to stir my coffee, the man left as quickly as he had appeared. Strange fellow, but friendly enough, and at least he gave us a little extra local flavor before heading back down to the city for another week of work with the city slickers .

Till now, you feel as though you could be in Any-City, USA. Then you hear a lady behind you greet her friend, “how ya’ going?” and a man hurries along his companion, “come on, mate.” A sign advertises an $8.50 “breakky,” the Australian term for breakfast. (They love to shorten words here and add a diminutive ending. Other examples include koaly and footy). You are not in America.

Upon approaching the next street corner, you step out from the protection of the buildings and a rush of cool air sweeps up the street from the nearby harbor. You stop for a moment to slip on a jacket. It isn’t the sort of winter day characterized as cold, dark, and damp. It is one of those days that feels like winter, but looks like summer, and it reminds you of those you’ve had in Denver, San Francisco, and San Diego. 

You think for a moment that you hit it “lucky” weather-wise for your winter vacation in Sydney, but then remember this is just another one of Sydney’s 300+ sunny days per year that the department of tourism proudly boasts on the sign in the airport baggage claim.

As you zip up your jacket, you can see there are no cars coming in any direction and you think to cross, but then think twice as you notice all the locals waiting patiently for the crosswalk light to turn green. It strikes you as odd that in a country built by convicts, the general populace adamantly refuses to participate in such petty lawlessness as jaywalking.

When the light turns green, you expect to hear a beeping sound to hurry you across the street, but instead it’s a tapping noise that sounds a lot like a tiny mouse in high-heels tapping away inside the light pole. At first, slow and steady, she goes tap…tap…tap. Then she speeds her pace to hurry you across. You chuckle at the thought and cross with the rest of the crowd.

The sparkling blue waters of the harbor up ahead draw you forward. As you come closer now, the view of the water disappears and is blocked by a swirl of trains, buses, and automobiles circling around the backside of the famous Circular Quay (pronounced “circular key” for my American friends, and a “quay” is a dock or wharf). Following the direction of the crossing light and imaginary dancing mouse in high-heels, you cross safely through the transportation hub into Circular Quay. 

As you pass over to the other side, you see large docks and people loading and unloading from the ferries. While plenty of camera-toting, sneaker-wearing tourists scuffle about, just as many (or even more) locals in suits, ties, and pencil skirts swarm the docks as well.

These aren’t just ferries for pleasure and touring, these full-working ferries integrate into the overall transportation system that keeps Sydneysiders moving. People actually commute to work via water. And as you round the corner past the docs toward the famous Opera House, you can see why. The entire North Shore across from Circular Quay and as far as the eye can see is lined with houses, apartment buildings, and residential neighborhoods. People live on the water in this city and take ferries to work. 

You think about your own commute back home; the hours sitting in traffic, staring at the beat up Buick in front of you, annoyed by the girl applying mascara and causing you further delay. You decide that a commute by boat might be a little less…

And before you can finish your thought, you stop dead in your tracks. The afternoon sun is reflecting off the white sails of the famous opera house and it immediately commands all your attention. That is until you turn slightly to your left and see the even grander Harbour Bridge across the way. The bridge is bigger than you imagined and the Opera House smaller, but more beautiful. You decide this is the best damn piece of city real estate on which you have ever laid your eyes. 

Drawn by the scene, you continue to walk toward the Opera House. Looking up at the bridge and then the Opera House; and then the bridge; and then the Opera House. Between the stunning views and the 10 selfie-takers you had to dodge, you forget to look down and you nearly miss the staircase leading underground. 

But at the last moment, a happy and relaxed chatter draws your attention downward. Sunken below ground level, almost even with the water is an outdoor bar and restaurant that snakes along the waterline of the harbor from the docks of Circular Quay to the point on which the Opera House sits. With its breathtaking views of the harbor bridge and the sun setting behind it, you write it off as a place prime for tourists and overpriced beers. 

But as you look around, you see very few fannie packs and a whole lot of locals. You decide it’s a good place to stop for a drink. Expecting to pay the “good-view” tax you’re pleasantly surprised when your bill is about the same as any other Sydney restaurant, which is still rather expensive, but at least there was no additional premium here.

In fact, it’s a lot like other spots in Sydney and in Australia in general. Comparable spots in the US, would be overcrowded and would overcharge. In Australia, the best of the best is shared with tourists and locals alike at normal everyday prices. They either don’t understand how good it is here or they’re too nice to gouge you for it. Either way, you appreciate the fair treatment, sip your glass of bubbly, and decide that you and Sydney are going to get along just fine.

From my own informal and by no means exact survey, I would guess that each block in the city averages at least two cafes, of which the vast majority are small and independently owned. Not only are supremely high-quality beans the simple standard in this town, but the baristas are of equally high caliber, weilding a portafilter and steamwand with such agility it would make any American-born hipster blush. And this is precisely why Starbucks didn’t stand a chance in this town.

But before we could even taste the coffee, we had to learn the lingo. They’ve developed a coffee-related vocabulary here separate from the rest of the world. I liken it to the eskimos with their 50 different words for what we simply term “snow.” In the same manner, what we simply call “coffee,” they more precisely name a “short black,” “long black,” “flat white,” "strong flat white," and the list goes on. 

It may seem like just semantics (I made the same rookie assumption), but its not. There is, for example, a distinct difference between a flat white and a latte. And when you ask an Australian barista to explain the difference to you, they stumble with a loss for words, like there just isn’t the linguistic capacity within my American dialect to comprehend such a sophisticated nuance. 

Probably because of Australia’s reputation as a country that likes their drinks, law enforcement limits blood-alcohol levels of drivers to just .05 (compared to .08 in America). This means a mere ½ glass of wine could disqualify you as designated driver. But lucky for us, they don’t limit caffeine intake while driving. So when Friday afternoon rolled around we were off like a prom dress in our rented fuel efficient vehicle driving on the wrong, I mean "left," side of the road toward Wilson’s Promontory, the national park southeast of Melbourne affectionaly known as "The Prom. " 

With the stress of the city behind us and the weekend on the horizon, a spirit of spontaneity grabbed us and we made an unplanned pit stop at the suggestion of a small hand-painted wooden sign on the side of the road announcing a small-town brewery and distillery. We sipped some English-style ales and a house-made gin, but our favorite was the gin liqueur. Wanting to keep our blood alcohol levels at a responsible level for the rest of our drive, we bought a bottle as a treat for another day.

About an hour later, we entered The Prom, and shortly thereafter, we saw a kangaroo on the side of the road. With a level of excitement akin to seeing a lion in the wild, we pulled off the road to take pictures and obsess over our exotic find. Strangely, other cars drove by with no detectible level of interest. 

After about 20 photos and 3 videos of the obliging kangaroo (if you didn't see our video, click here), we drove on only to find that, in Australia, kangaroos are about as exotic and uncommon as a pigeon. Nevertheless, we remained impressed, slowing for all of them much to the chagrin of the drivers behind us. 

And to our own dismay, we learned the hard way that “roos” aren’t the smartest creatures. One of them after hopping alongside of our car for about 100 meters, suddenly jumped in front of us and bounced to the left and right a few times before jumping out of our way again. 

Fortunately, Tom was driving and he is highly experienced at dodging bouncy objects in the roadway (I attribute it to his long hours of playing Mario kart in college). He slammed on the brakes, swerved a few times and avoided a very high deductible to fix our rental car. Apparently “roos” can do some real damage (which unfortunately happens quite often we later learned driving past hundreds of kangaroo-roadkill before arriving in Sydney 3 days later).

After our adventures in The Prom, we spent the rest of the evening driving in the dark to our bed and breakfast in the sleepy town of Lakes Entrance and retired to bed early, as a there was little else to do.

The next morning we awoke at sunrise. Since it is winter down here, the days are short, and we wanted to take full advantage of the little daylight we had. And we were sure glad we did, as we found some beautiful vistas and coastal gems. We stopped first in Mallacoota for a walk along the water and then in Eden for a lunch of oysters and champagne. 

Luckily Tom didn’t drink the champagne, because on the way out of this sleepy little coastal town in mid-day, the police were conducting a DUI checkpoint. Unlike a checkpoint in the States where the cop simply asks you if you have been drinking, the Aussies actually make every driver breathe into a breathalyzer, even if you look and act as dry as the outback. So for the first time ever, Tom had to do a breathalyzer test. He passed.

We finished day two with some more incredible vistas at Narooma and it's Glass Rocks and some quick stops at the small beaches and coves south of Bateman’s Bay during sunset. At the suggestion of our host, we dined at Little Restaurant in Bateman’s Bay that evening.

I decided to see what all the roadkill tasted like and ordered the night’s specialty...Kangaroo! It’s a very lean meat, best served rare or medium-rare to avoid it coming out too tough. The verdict? Cute to look at, good to eat. I’ll eat it again.

Day three started off with breakfast on the verandah, a view of the bay, a mama kangaroo feeding on the lawn below with a little joey in her pouch, and our host telling us stories of shark encounters nearby. It doesn’t get any more Australian than this.

And just up the road, we actually got to touch the little furry guys. Well, I got to touch them. Tom was too scared and he stood about 100 ft away. Apparently, the youtube viral video of kangaroos fighting spooked him.

Mid-morning we crawled through the little heritage town, named Milton. Just inland, set amongst farmland, and somehow stuck in the 1950’s, towns like Milton are about as rare in Australia as a kangaroo. But new to the country as we were, we hadn’t tired of them just yet, so we stopped for a cup of coffee…I mean a long black. We were, afterall, still weaning ourselves off the caffeine addition we picked up in Melbourne. 

But the highlight of this day’s drive was Jervis Bay. We stopped first at Hyams Beach to admire what has been named the “whitest sand in the world” and drool over the beachside homes overlooking this stunning bit of coast. The water was so bright in color that I had to squint.

A little further along the bay, we arrived at a small downtown area and again enjoyed a lunch of oysters (and champagne for me…Tom knows how to spoil a girl). The weather reminded me of California in the winter. The sun was shining but the air cool and the water sparkling. I love days like this when you can sit in the sun and not get hot.

From Jervis Bay, we hurried along the Grand Pacific Drive racing the sun to Sydney. We did make time for a short stop at Kiama to see a blowhole and more amazing coastal views. We could have stayed longer, but it was getting late and we really wanted to make it to Sydney before sunset.

And we did make it just in time. As we walked over to the public opening in front of the opera house, we turned back to watch as the sun set behind the harbor bridge. Melbourne, with its laneway cafes, expert chefs, and perfect cup of joe, may have won my stomach, but one look at this harbor at sunset and Sydney won my heart.

His initial thought was to remind me that we do have money to pay for laundry services now. But a more pressing question entered his mind instead:

“Why in the world do you have so many dirty clothes already?”

I had arrived just two days ago to meet Tom in Australia.

Right about now, you are probably assuming I have some weird OCD condition that results in changing outfits five times per day. But before you jump to conclusions, allow me to explain the real reason I was doing my laundry in the sink just two days into my trip: I packed a bag full of dirty clothes. 

As I write this, I realize that the truth doesn’t actually make me sound any saner. That is unless, of course, you have actually been a backpacker and have, like myself, grown accustomed to packing dirty clothes and subsequently washing them wherever you happen to find a sink plug. (Hint: if your underwear waistband reads “ExOfficio” this is probably you.)

Now, I haven’t always been a dirty-clothes-packer. My mother, for example, used to not only pack all clean clothes (what a novel idea) for our trips while growing up, but she also cleaned our house and vacuumed over our footprints on the carpet as we left out the front door. As such, my original and native travel habits were mostly of the same sort of civility, although slightly less severe.

But something changed when I backpacked and traveled abroad for a year. A trip, at some point, stopped being an event to prepare for and come home from. Now, it’s just a regular part of life. Home feels like another destination and everywhere else, so long as I have my backpack and a plastic bag full of dirty socks, feels pretty much like home. 

Sorry mom, you tried hard, but the only thing I’m doing now while exiting my front door for a trip is praying I remembered to pack all my chargers.

Of course, with laundry strung up across the bathroom in our posh Sheraton suite in the heart of the central business district of Melbourne, and Tom staring at me with briefcase in hand and sporting a snazzy suit, I did begin to feel a bit silly. So I dried my hands, bagged up my clothes to take in for proper cleaning, and Tom and I laughed it off as an “old habits die hard” moment. We reminisced fondly of the many days we washed laundry by hand in hostels of South America and the even less civilized days in which Tom chose to skip laundry all together and wear the same pair of underwear three days in a row. Oh boy, old habits do die-hard.

Travel sure is a bit different these days. Although we still like to think of ourselves as backpackers at heart, our trips now are often a result of Tom’s job and as such, include a garment bag full of suits, complimentary breakfast, lounge access, and actual hotel rooms with a King-sized bed, rather than two bunks in a hostel.

Right now, for example, Tom is traveling all over Australia for 2 months for work racking up Marriott points and United miles. At the moment, I’m tagging along, using up all his United miles, and working from the hotel during the days. We then use every spare minute on the weekends and evenings to explore wherever Tom’s job happens to have him at the moment (which at this moment is Melbourne).

It sounds glamorous, I know, but rest assured it isn’t all cupcakes and frosting. Working on a California time zone from Australia is taxing and more than a little disruptive for normal sleep patterns. Melbourne, for example, is seven hours behind California, and one day ahead. If it is noon on Monday in California, it is 5am on Tuesday in Melbourne.

If you are wondering what it feels like to work seven hours behind and one day ahead, just imagine going into work every day four hours late and working every Saturday morning. When I’m waking up in Australia, my clients are half way through their day and returning from lunch back home. On the flip side, monday’s offer a little reprieve as it is still Sunday in The States and every afternoon I get several hours of uninterrupted work.

All of this is the cost of being able to spend time with Tom and explore this wildly lovely and dangerous continent, and it is a worthwhile cost at that.

This is a different kind of adventure for us, but it's an adventure nonetheless and I can't wait to share it with you.

About 6 years ago Tom and I stopped by Nashville on a road trip to my see my grandparents. We like to think we discovered this little gem, as it was just then budding into the “Vegas of the South” it is today. 

We reveled in the cheap drinks, free live music, and the anyone-can-make-it, “what’s your dream?” vibe.  Last month we returned to Nashville to find it a little larger, a little louder, a little more fun, and a whole lot tastier. The city has grown tremendously and it is not expected to slow any time soon. 

And the food scene blew up while we were away. Now, premium cocktails shaken by top mixologists and menus that read like Hipster food porn are as accessible as fried chicken and a bud light. But before you think that Nashville just sold out to a bunch of lumber-sexuals, think again. The girl taking your order still has a Southern drawl and she still sings and plays guitar at the local honky-tonk on her nights off, hoping to get discovered. 

But chances are, she’s not really from Nashville. In fact, nobody in Nashville seems to actually be from Nashville. It’s a mecca of transplants; people on their way to somewhere, but in no hurry to leave.

So if you can’t tell by now, we are fans. We highly recommend a trip to Nashville, and we are living proof that you can go there (twice), never visit the Grand Ole’ Opry and still walk away satisfied. Below are a few recommendations and highlights to help you plan your trip; so read it and then book your ticket to Nash-Vegas, baby!

You can’t come to Nashville, the Music City, and not listen to some tunes. Look up any guide and you are sure to see The Grand Ole Opry and the Ryman Auditorium. We did neither, a sin, I know. But we still had a blast and we got our fill of good music elsewhere:

For just $5 and walking distance from our hotel, we saw a great live band at The Listening Room Café over a couple glasses of Jack Daniel’s (hey, “when in Tennessee…”). Pass on the food, but their cocktails are pretty decent.

This place was a repeat for us. We came here 6 years ago on a Sunday night for their open bluegrass jam session. When we walked in again, everything was exactly the same, from the red and white-checkered tablecloths to the smell of buttered popcorn, gooey pizza, and pitchers of PBR. This time we came on a Friday night for a proper show. We sat at a table with the wife and kids of the banjo player and the chelloist’ family hooted and hollered from behind us all night long. 

Although it is touristy, we just couldn’t resist the charm of Broadway, a street lined with old honky-tonks, and relentlessly hopeful musicians strumming for attention. Don’t even worry about figuring out which place to go on Broadway, just start from one end and work your way to the other. Hop from bar to bar till you find a band you like; most places do not charge covers.  

Nashville isn't just about nightlife. If you have a free afternoon, check out these spots.

It's a small gourmet burger shop with a backyard, beer garden terrace. Sit at picnic tables with friends or strangers-turned-friends. Don’t be intimidated by the loooooong line out front, the place is bigger than it looks from the outside and you can always grab a brewski out in the beer garden while you wait on your table. The food is excellent as well as the beer.

I don’t even know what to call this place. It’s located in a renovated complex on the outskirts of downtown in what looks like an old warehouse district along the river. From the front doors you have a view of the river, the Tennessee Titans stadium, and the downtown skyline. 

When you step in, you find a weird hodgepodge of ideas seamlessly mashed together. It’s a gourmet coffee shop, meets speakeasy cocktail lounge, meets Don Draper’s living room, meets hipster restaurant, meets bowling lanes, meets pool deck and lawn games. Oh and they serve up the best damn broccoli I have ever tasted. It’s a little out of the way, but worth the effort and its open from morning till night so you have no excuse not to stop in. I even spent an afternoon working from their “living room.”

Like most big cities these days, a good cocktail is not terribly hard to find in Nashville. But when we came 6 years ago, mixologist was not a mainstream term and few people knew the meaning of Sazarac. At that time, our hotel shuttle driver turned us on to this newly opened speakeasy at the forefront of a new trend. 

There was no sign, just a front door that looked as though it led to a small unassuming house. But inside we found a swanky 1920's style bar with incredible bartenders mixing up drinks with ingredients and tinctures we had never heard of. This was the night we fell in love with craft cocktails (before it was cool). So before we even arrived back to Nashville, we knew a visit to The Patterson House was a must. 

So what has become of that little Speakeasy? Their drinks are as good as ever, but they aren’t such a secret anymore. I recently saw it listed as one of the top 10 speakeasy bars in America and it is currently a semifinalist for a James Beard award. An hour or longer wait is not uncommon. Is it worth the wait? Yes, yes it is. 

Oh and by the way, we like to think we discovered this little gem, so…you’re welcome.

Nashville’s food scene is blowing up, so there is no shortage of good food, from traditional Southern BBQ to modern cuisine. But Acme surprised us the most. 

Acme looks like just another honky-tonk at the end of the Broadway strip, but it is truly unique. The first floor houses a live band and a modern take on Southern food (definitely order the The Hatchery and the Griot with Ti Malice & Pikliz). The second floor houses TV’s, couches, and sushi. Yup, you heard that right, there’s sushi in Nashville. Third floor is for private events, and the fourth floor is a rooftop with a view of the football stadium, downtown skyscrapers, and the Broadway strip...oh and more music.

We thrive on finding local hotspots. Our Uber drivers proved to be the best source of information here. These are the recommendations we got:

Home of Opera Winfry, her dad still has an operating barbershop there today. Check out The 5 Points area, an artsy, up-and-coming district full of non-chain bars and restaurants.

A newly renovated neighborhood between downtown and Midtown with a cluster of hip new restaurants, including the very popular Whiskey Kitchen and Kayne Prime (steak house). We ate at Moto, the Italian restaurant and were not disappointed. Try their brussels sprouts and their black spaghetti. By the way, The Station Inn is near The Gulch area, so dinner at The Gulch and then music at the Station Inn makes for a really great evening.

There is a string of party bars with large upstairs patios near Vanderbilt University. Think big patios, even bigger TV's, loud music, and late nights.

The historic Union train station has been converted to a hotel. If you like history and old buildings, then this is the hotel for you. It’s a great location as well, walking distance to downtown, Broadway, and the hockey arena. If you are on a budget, you might want to stay elsewhere and just stop by this hotel to take a look at the lobby. Anywhere in downtown or midtown will do. There is a cluster of budget hotels near Vanderbilt. The Hutton is another more pricey, but great hotel with a little known secret...they serve the best burger in town at their bar.

So there you have it...Nashville in a nutshell. If you know of any other great spots in this fabulous town, share them below.

Then I saw that there was still one man inside on a treadmill. I thought to myself, surely he wouldn’t mind to hop off that treadmill and run over to open the door for me. It would only take him all of 2 seconds. And besides he had just seen me leave the gym so he knew I was not some vagrant off the street that sneaks into hotel gyms for kicks (although I probably looked like one. I’m not pretty when I work out and if you are, I hate you). 

So I knocked. Nothing.

I knocked again. Still nothing.

I thought to myself, maybe he’s listening to music (God knows I can’t run without music. That would be torture). But then I looked closely and saw he had no earphones in his ears. Ahhh, I thought, he’s one of those crazy, no-music runners.

Knowing he could definitely hear my knocking, and really not wanting to have to go to the lobby all sweaty and stinky (I know, I can be vain), this time I knocked louder and more forcefully.

He finally turned and looked at me. Here’s my chance, I thought. So I put on my nicest smile that said with no words, I know you don’t want to stop your workout, but please have mercy on me and open this door, it will only take 2 seconds, I promise. And besides, I’m really nice; look how big I am smiling.

He didn’t even a crack a smile. He just turned back ahead to stare at the dirty hotel pool outside and continued to run without music.

At this point I probably looked like one of those cartoon characters with steam coming out of their ears. I was fuming. I knew he didn’t have to help, but how could someone be so cold? I mean, come on, guy.

Defeated, I turned to walk to the elevator, utterly disappointed in all of humanity, when two young kids walked up, brother and sister, probably age 10 and 12 respectively.

Trying not to look like some crazy lady, I asked politely if they had a key on them and if they could let me into the gym because I had left my key inside. Unfortunately, they did not.

But just as I was about to turn back to the elevators once again with head hung low, the young girl spoke up eagerly, “I can go get our key from my mom!” And off she ran with her younger brother at her heels. They actually seemed excited by the prospect of helping me. In fact, I’m pretty sure I made their day.

Hope in humanity: restored.

I know this all seems silly. And I wondered why it bothered me so much that the crazy runner guy with no music refused to help me with such a small request. I mean, my God, he was already running. He couldn’t just jog on over and crack the door for me? Really?!

But he didn’t owe me anything. I guess I shouldn’t expect soooo much from people (sarcasm font desperately needed here).

Then I realized, I’m just like crazy, no music runner guy; I’ve become hardened. He was probably like those kids in the hall at some point in his life, but aging became a process of hardening, and I think it has had the same effect on me. If I continue at my pace, I’ll be ignoring people at the hotel gym too when I am his age.

This past year, while traveling, I was convicted of how hardened I have become. When did it become so easy for me to walk by homeless people and do nothing, or even lie and tell them I have no cash on me, when I definitely do?

I remember as a kid, I couldn’t hardly walk or drive past a homeless person without stopping to help. In fact, I enjoyed helping. I was such a softy, in a good way. And its probably a good thing I lived in a well-off suburban community or else I would have never made it anywhere on time due to a compulsion to stop for each, and every homeless person.

One time I even called my dad, and made him leave work to come all the way downtown to meet me, so we could go buy some food and deliver it to a man in need that looked a little too scary for a 16 year-old girl to approach on her own.

I was so sensitive to the prompting of the Spirit back then. What happened?

I think as I grew older, I began to realize just how big the problems of the world are, and just how little I am, and for self-preservation purposes, I hardened my heart to those in need around me. I turned my attention to the one person I knew I could help, myself. Basically, I became selfish.

But I don’t want to be hard. I want to be soft. I want to be compassionate. I want to be my teenage self that can't ignore others' needs.

Perhaps I was naïve back in the day, perhaps that one meal didn’t solve anything, and perhaps people took advantage of me. But you know what? I’d rather be naïve, taken advantage of, and sensitive to the prompting of the Spirit, than a hardened, crazy, no-music runner son-of-a-bitch.

Anyway, we have been back in the States for just over 5 months now and every week, we seem to relive our last year. Conversations often start with “last year at this time, we were…” And if I were to complete that sentence this week, I’d tell you we were hiking hiking around Mount Fitz Roy in Patagonia (probably my favorite part of our entire trip!). Talk about nostalgia!

As you can imagine, this can get a little depressing week after week, and it did, so we decided we must do something about this. 

We can’t keep living in the past. Don’t get me wrong. Memories are great. They are one of the few things we can carry with us anywhere. They teach us lessons, act as reminders, and allow us to instantly re-feel emotions, both good and bad. They are strong and powerful, but so are dreams.

And as my dad preached over and over again while I was growing up, “if your memories are more exciting than your dreams, you have begun to die.” Well, I think we are in for a challenge because Tom and I set a pretty high bar this past year with all the exciting memories we created:

Walking the Camino De Santiago, hiking through Patagonia, sipping wine in Mendoza, exploring the ancient ruins of Machu Picchu, learning to make ceviche with a local friend in the small fishing town of Huanchaco, acting as extras on a Dutch TV documentary about French wine in Bordeaux, befriending cats in Istanbul, ice climbing on glaciers, swimming with sea lions in the Galapagos, riding motorbikes in the hills of Colombia, and floating by caimans on inner tubes in the wild. The list just goes on and on.

And then, last fall, we came home. It felt great at first. Hugs and kisses all around. The nieces and nephews all looked older. Some are even driving now! We pulled a few boxes from storage and found some old clothes that felt like new again. We laid down in the comfort of our own bed and unpacked our bags for the first time in over a year. We felt pretty good about our return.

Then week two rolled around. It began to set in that we just traded our worldwide explorations for life in the California suburbs, sig alerts, and living with our parents. 

Don’t get me wrong. We love our parents and we are so grateful they took us in when we were jobless and homeless and trying to figure out life after travels. But at the end of the day when you are 29 and 31 and have been married for 8 years, living with your parents is a good bit less than ideal.

And although people and places were familiar, it didn't even feel like “home” anymore. You see, after you learn to make “home” wherever you are, your true “home” loses all of its power. There is no longer anything sacred about it. It’s just another place that can be…or not be…home for you at any given moment. 

To be honest, coming home was more of an adjustment than we had anticipated. People think that quitting your job and leaving to travel for a year is brave. Let me tell you, that is the easy part. Coming home and trying to rebuild a life after you just lived a life’s worth of experiences in one year is so much harder. 

Each morning, we opened our Facebook to see amazing photos posted by all the new friends we met on our trip that were still out traveling. Jealous doesn’t even begin to describe it. All we could think about was how could get back out there!

So we did squeeze in a few trips here in the States to visit friends and curb our craving a bit. Travel is like a drug and we couldn’t quit cold turkey. 

But, at the end of the day, we knew we needed to work again. Our money wouldn’t last forever and to be honest we were really itching to work again. We’re too young to live the retired life. 

However, since we get the opportunity to start from scratch, we decided that we do NOT want to return to our old "status quo," “keep up with the jones',’” and “live to work” lifestyle, even though the pull was (and is) strong. So we decided to be more intentional about thinking about how we want live life now. How can we top our previous year? How can we make our dreams more exciting than those memories?

Well, we don’t really have an answer for you just yet. Sorry to disappoint. But we are working on it and we do have some ideas. You are invited to join us on this new journey. 

Tom has taken on a new job implementing global corporate changes that (cross our fingers) will lead to the opportunity for more travel. We have moved to San Diego and found a place to live that allows me to walk to everything I need with no need to even move my car for weeks on end (which is what I miss about traveling and living in big cities around the world). And I’m starting up my own business, which is giving me cause for some big dreams of my own (including the freedom to travel with Tom and work from the road).

Our current situation has become much more certain in the past few weeks (very unlike the previous 5 months of complete ambiguity which is probably the underlying reason I put off writing this blog post). But there is still a lot more to do in order to re-establish our post-sabbatical lives.

I’m excited to see how it will all play out, because as we work to rebuild our lives this year, we have three words that continue to come to mind…adventure, stewardship, and generosity.

We’re working to build our post-travels life around these three themes. And I sure hope that next February I’ll be sitting here writing my belated New Years blog post recapping for you the surprising ways our new life reflected these three themes over the course of 2015. Adventure…Stewardship…Generosity. Let’s do this.

As our plane lifted off the runway in Bogota, Colombia a few weeks ago, I looked out my window and watched the giant peaks of the Andes that had become such a familiar sight over the last year turn into nothing but tiny anthills. The clouds eventually enveloped the plane and I knew that the next time I touched down, it would be on American soil.

My heart felt heavy, excited, torn, melancholy, scared, happy, and blessed all at the same time. To be honest, I don't know what I was feeling because I had never felt it before.

I felt at peace with the decision to return home because we were missing family and friends, but a tinge of melancholy and longing lingered because I knew that this trip, the trip that we anticipated and planned for so long, was about to make that irreversible transformation from “potential” to “memories.” Good memories, but still just memories. That is the problem with the “present,” the “now;” it is fleeting. Potential lasts for a while, memories forever, but “now” only lasts for a moment and the "now" portion of our year abroad was officially over. With takeoff, it transitioned into the static and permanent, land of "memories."

To keep myself from getting too down, I remind myself that adventures don't have to be abroad, and going home doesn't have to be the end of our trip. Home is just our next destination. And Tom and I both are so excited to see how we can make this next year even more adventuresome than the last… a tough challenge, but in Tom’s opinion very likely!

We are so incredibly blessed by the people we met, the places we saw, and the lessons we learned. It almost seems greedy to feel a little bummed about returning home, so we've decided to take some time stop and count our blessings:

Our total time away was 1 year, 7 days, and 7.5 hours. 
We visited 3 continents, 14 countries, 88 cities or towns, and 6 wine regions. 
We traveled 265 miles by boat, 8,097 miles by bus, 667 miles by car, 31,887 miles by plane, 3,344 miles by train, and 491 miles by foot. 
We slept in 97 different beds (not counting overnight buses), broke 5 electronic devices, made 43 new Facebook friends, read 31 books, and obtained 2 new diver certifications. 
We learned one new language and how to say please, thank you, hello and goodbye in 7 more. 
We spent $144.70 per day on average and made priceless memories of which there are too many to count.

Whew! I get tired just writing all that. Like I said, so many blessings.

Now that we have had a few weeks at home catching up with family and friends, we have had some time to reflect on our trip and answer some of the questions that we get asked most frequently. Here they are below:

At the moment, we are homeless nomads. We have stayed with family and friends in LA, Orange County, and San Diego for the past few weeks. We have trips planned to visit more friends in Colorado and Chicago. We do want to find a place to call “home” once again, but choosing the spot isn’t easy. We love Southern California because our family is based here, but we are open to living out of state or even out of the country if the right work opportunity arises. Or…maybe we will just go travel again :)

This is really an impossible answer. We liked different countries for different reasons. But if we have to pick one, we would probably say Argentina. It has everything at an affordable price…beautiful nature, interesting history, exciting Latin culture, fun nightlife, good wine, and tasty food.

There are a few countries to which we want to return. Here are a few new bucket list items we’ve added to our list:

France: Tour through the French countryside and all the wine regions (but this trip will be best if we wait till we have a larger budget…France ain't cheap).

Southern Spain: Including our time walking the Camino De Santiago, we spent over 6 weeks in Spain. Unfortunately, we never made it to southern Spain. Spain was one of our favorite countries so it just seems wrong to not experience one of its most beloved regions.

Turkey: We just barely touched Turkey with our visit to Istanbul. However, the historical cities such as Ephesus are high up on our list to explore.

We would probably have removed Italy from our itinerary. Don’t get me wrong. We loved Italy, but because it is so accessible and geared toward tourism, I’m highly confident that I will have the chance to go back to Italy some day in the future. 

We walk more, drink more tap water, waste less plastic water bottles, and accept that the American way is not always the best way. We realize that we don’t have all the right answers and we probably never will. 

Humility. Traveling humbles you (or at least it should).

While standing in the customs line waiting to get my passport stamped, I look around and realize that I have certain rights, advantages, and opportunities because my passport is blue and I make money in the American dollar. Most travelers on the backpacker circuit are from the US, Australia, the UK, Germany, and Holland. What do all these countries have in common? They are wealthy by the world’s standard.

The world is big and I am small. There are billions of other people out there and I am just one of them during a short little blip in the history of time. I know less than I thought I knew and I am less important than I thought I was. I am not always right. This is reality, and traveling helps me see it. The sooner I  come to terms with this reality, the better off I am. Problems don’t seem so huge. Disappointment isn't so imminent. Expectations are more realistic. And appreciation for what I have becomes much easier.

So go travel, see the world, and see just how small you really are. That sounds depressing, but its not. The world would be pretty boring If I (or you) were the biggest thing to happen to it. Thank God its bigger, grander, and more amazing than both you and me.

I mean, if spending all day laying in a hammock, cooling off in the turquoise-blue ocean, and sipping mojitos is paradise, then yes, this is the place. But if paradise is supposed to be our ideal existence, something we can live out and enjoy eternally, then a place of total rest just won't do.

Now, don't get me wrong. Rest is good. It feels good, but I would venture to say that it is actually impossible to enjoy rest, maybe even impossible to have any rest at all without actually having work.

As I swung in my hammock and watched the orange sun disappearing into the Caribbean the other evening, I couldn't help but notice that I felt a bit agitated. And I realized something about myself: I never feel more restless than when I have no work.

Just as there is no darkness without light, no shore without water, and no weekend without a week, I don't believe rest can even exist without work.

Now, I'm not implying that work or rest are either good or bad, or that one is better than the other. They both simply are and they both are necessary. And before you jump to that next conclusion, let me clarify that I don't even think work is a "necessary evil." It is simply "necessary." It's a part of who we are and who we were created to be.

Many believe that work was God's curse to Adam for sinning. But have you noticed that Adam worked before he ever sinned? God's curse wasn't for Adam to work. It was for Adam's work to become difficult or hard. The curse wasn't the work itself, it was the "sweat of his brow" that he then got as a result of his work.

Now when I first sat down to write this, I thought to myself...you don't need to write about work. Most people reading this blog are Americans and American's don't have issues working, they have issues resting. We are notorious for working too much.

But then I thought, perhaps our obsession with work comes from over-idealization of rest. We work harder and longer in hopes of obtaining a life of no work, either through retirement or a life of independent wealth. We strive to make more in hopes that some day we will no longer need to strive at all.

Don't get me wrong. Rest feels great. But a life of no work and all rest, is not as ideal as one might imagine. It can actually be pretty boring. And even worse than boring, it can be incredibly unsatisfying.

I believe we were created to create, to bring order from chaos, to produce, to help others, and to improve our world. In short, we were made to work. Living to avoid this will lead to a less-than-full life.

Now, work doesn't necessarily have to be a "job." It doesn't even have to earn money. For me this past year, work has been writing this blog, learning Spanish, and other self-study. It wasn't till this past month when we broke our computer with a piece of chocolate (most expensive damn piece of chocolate I've ever had), that I put away the computer and decided to simply rest.

Ironically, I found that with no work, I found absolutely no rest.

So rather than viewing work as a means to obtain a life of total rest, why not view work as an ongoing part of life itself and rest as temporary reprieves along the way? I think what you will find is a more balanced life in which you can enjoy the integration of both work and rest, and subsequently, both the office chair and the hammock will feel a little softer under your bum.