Throwback Edition: Descending into the Unknown
Plus, the hidden labor of holiday magic, 25 essential New York City dishes, and aesthetically pleasing menswear
Dearest Readers,
Once upon a time there was a strange, somewhat abrasive little girl who dreamt of seeing the world. When she grew up and collected enough money, she began her exploration—a weekend here, four or five days there. But as she began her small adventures, a hunger grew inside her. She wanted to swallow the world whole, to go everywhere, to see and taste and smell everything. One day she decided she must feed that hunger; venture off someplace alone for longer than a few days. And so she did.
Today’s throwback edition recounts an unexpected surprise I experienced my first month traveling solo back in September of 2021. When I think about this story, I laugh so hard I tear up, for it was utterly ridiculous. I hope you enjoy it!
A small programming note: I will be taking next week off of this newsletter for the holiday. The final edition of 2023 will come out the week after. In the interim, I’ll be thinking about this beloved digital space and considering its future. You can expect some changes going into the New Year, of which I will lay out in detail once I’ve got them fully sorted. Thank you, as always, for reading! I love having each and every one of you on this journey and I appreciate your precious attention more than you know.
Have a wonderful weekend and a happy, restful holiday season if you celebrate. Until next time,
A Note From the Editor
I spent this past September in a small, enchanting town in the French Alps. The town was built on cobblestone streets atop winding canals banked by flowerbeds. Everything was beautiful, but the pièce de résistance was the enormous, crystalline lake. I spent many a day swimming in the lake, but it took a few weeks before I decided to make the 31-mile trek around it. I thought it best to make a day of it, pairing my bike ride with one of two excursions I could find in that region—something called canyoning. Most of the reviews on Airbnb Experiences were in French, but my confirmation email assured me that our guide spoke both French and English. The photos were just vague enough so that I had a general idea of what would go down, but that I wasn’t quite certain.
The meet-up spot was an hour bike ride from where I was staying, the first hour of my trek around the lake. I decided I would bike the hour, do my canyoning, and then bike the other two and a half hours after. I would get home just before sunset, a full day spent out in the fresh air. I pulled on my swimsuit and some workout clothes and set off on my bike, realizing about 25 minutes in that I had made a mistake. The ride was incredibly steep, causing me to gulp down my water with zeal and in turn, filling my small bladder. I fought the urge to pull over on the side of the road to relieve myself, as there was nowhere I’d be able to hide and I figured I could just find a bathroom when I got there. I was sweating and panting and already pissed off, for I had not anticipated how fatiguing the ride would be and I was cutting it close to my arrival time, so I couldn’t slow down if I wanted to.
I arrived at the address, an open field adjacent to a campsite, and saw a group of around ten people milling about. Herein lies my second mistake: everyone had driven, but I had biked. What would I do with my bag? And dear god, where could I find a bathroom? These are questions I intended to ask my guide, but upon approaching the group I discovered that no one spoke English. With some gesturing and a lot of nervous smiling and nodding, my guide agreed to let me keep my things in his car. He gave me a wetsuit that squeezed my full bladder in a way that made my eyes water. At this point, my sole focus was finding a place to pee, but I didn’t have much time to fixate on that because as soon as I got suited up, off we went.
I had all but given up on trying to communicate with anyone at this point, for my guide spoke only a small handful of broken English and when I tried to ask “where can I find a bathroom?” to my fellow adventurers, they smiled at me vacantly and nodded their heads. Lucky for me, the intrusive thoughts of my searing bladder were soon out of my mind, for we embarked on the fastest, most grueling hike I’ve ever taken. I consider myself decently in shape, but the bike ride combined with the sheer uphill climb and the suffocating wetsuit clinging to my body made the trek nearly impossible. I couldn’t ask how much longer it would be until we got where we were going, and in retrospect, I probably didn’t want to hear the answer. By my estimation, the hike lasted around 35 to 40 minutes, strictly uphill. I thought of nothing during that time except getting through, getting through, getting through. I felt miserable and angry and I wondered how the hell I was going to bike another two and a half hours after this, but soon these thoughts were pushed out of my mind by the deafening sound of rushing water.
How to describe the feeling that dawns on you when you find yourself atop a 100-foot waterfall that you are to, as it seems, descend? I watched my guide speak in fast French to our group as he unhooked ropes from his belt and began to fashion them to a metal clasp embedded in the rock. One older man decided he would not be going down and turned around. I was tempted to do the same, but the thought it that hike and of my still-full bladder squeezed in a wetsuit were enough to keep my feet planted firmly in place. Still, I was terrified. Until this point I thought I liked adrenaline, adventure, but as I stood atop this rushing waterfall, unable to adequately express my fear, unable to get verbal reassurance that I wouldn’t die, I thought maybe I wasn’t quite so brave after all. When it was my turn, I managed to communicate to my guide that I was a lefty—an admission that caused him to refashion the whole setup to accommodate me. And down I went.
As it turns out. canyoning is a long, slow descent to the bottom of the canyon we had hiked up. Things got much more enjoyable after that initial descent, for I knew what was coming. For the next two hours, our little group waded through ice-cold, waist-deep water, crawling and climbing over bulges of rock, making our way down to an endpoint that was unclear. We propelled down, we slid down, riding the natural curve of the rock like a waterslide, we jumped down.
At one point, our guide led us to a rock perched about 20 feet above a small pool of water. As he began talking, I watched the faces of my fellow adventurers move from amusement to horror. The guide seemed to be coaxing them into something, the lilt of his voice moving to a higher pitch like the way you might talk to a scared puppy. He reached for the shoulder of one man in our group and pulled him forward to the edge of the rock. Our guide grabbed a handful of the back of the man’s wetsuit as the man let out a wild, nervous cackle of laughter, and then the guide shoved the man’s shoulder forward, causing him to front flip into the water. We were an hour and a half in at this point and we giggled like a bunch of hyped-up school children, for we knew our rambunctious guide would force us all to front flip into the water. And he did.
Throughout the rest of the excursion, I remained in a suspended state of wonder. The deeper we got into the canyon, the more alive our surroundings became. I felt like I was dropped into the Garden of Eden—nothing to hear but running water and chirping birds, the vegetation so lush around us that it nearly covered the small sliver of sky that peeked through the treetops. I didn’t realize I was saying “wow” aloud, over and over, until a friendly man in our group said to me, in his strong, lovely accent, “Crazy, yeah?” And I was moved—by the beauty of the planet we live on, by the friendliness of this group of strangers I could not speak to, but whose mannerisms I had studied enough to formulate an idea of their individual personalities, by the varied chemistry between each couple (for I was the only solo traveler on this excursion), and by the utter absurdity of it all.
When we got to the bottom of the canyon, our bodies fatigued and drained of all endorphins, there were no formal goodbyes. I peeled off my wetsuit, said a prayer that the rest of my bike ride would be flat, and off I went.
I found myself returning to the memory of that day this week, as I’ve been relegated to a lesser version of last year’s quarantine while the city rages with sickness around me. The lesson, I think, is that so much of this life is terrifying and unexpected. Had I entered that day knowing what was coming for me I probably would have stayed home, for the discomfort and the effort required would have been enough to intimidate me. But I didn’t know then, just as we don’t know now what awaits us on the other side of this thing. We can never really know. And though I’m certain there will be pain and discomfort, I’m equally sure there will be joy and delight. For if the patterns of life are any indication, there is always plenty of both.
Cheers, my dears, and as always thank you for reading. If you celebrate, I wish you a wonderful, safe holiday. And if you enjoyed today’s edition, please share it with a friend.
Three Pieces of Content Worth Consuming
The Hidden Labor of Holiday Magic. The other day I got a few Christmas cards in the mail— families I know and love, all dressed up in coordinating outfits. The outfits, the photoshoot, the design of said cards, the address collecting, and the mailing. Who does all that work, I wondered? This comic shines a light on all of the holiday magic women are typically responsible for creating. Does it have to be this way? Why are women just...doing these things? If they didn't, would Christmas not happen? Bear in mind, I say from my single soapbox. Happy holidays!
Grief as Unexpressed Love. I don’t know what this actor is and I don’t normally suggest such pithy content in this section, but I’ve never heard grief expressed in this way. It is beautifully eloquent and well worth sharing/watching.
The 25 Essential Dishes to Eat in New York City. I miss good old-fashioned food roundups. There was a time where I spent hours reading menus and strongly-worded restaurant reviews online, tracking all of the latest restaurant openings vigor and dedication. I haven't lost interest, but there seems to be far less quality coverage I trust these days about where to eat (in part because of the pandemic, in part because a few large food media brands have been sold to banks or are in hot water). Needless to say, this list made me feel a rush of that old excitement. It made me want to work my way down and try every dish referenced. New York, for the food and for everything else, I love you.
Perhaps You Should…Get Inspired by Menswear
If I could trade my entire wardrobe for his, I would gladly do so. Nearly every single outfit on his feed makes my baggy but tailored, mostly monochrome fashion sensibilities tingle with pleasure.
**Bonus Content** (Kids These Days Will Never Know)
Kids these days will never know the good old-fashioned desktop computer camera lip-sync.
A Quote From A Book You Should Read:
“Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.”
-Walden by Henry David Thoreau
This newsletter is best served with a side of conversation, so drop your opinions, reflections, and thoughts in the comments below and let’s get to talking.
Or, share the most thought-provoking piece from today’s edition with someone you love, then call them up to discuss, debate, and percolate. As a wise woman once said, “Great minds discuss ideas