We spent our final days in Costa Rica on the beaches of Manuel Antonio. The town rests on the country’s West Coast and offers a thin shoreline of light brown sand dressed with massive, dark gray rocks. The crashing navy waves of the Pacific Ocean roll up and down the beach, wiping away footprints of those walking the sand, then leave behind shells and small rocks as the waves rush away again.

The ocean felt warmer than any natural body of water I have stepped in before. In fact, the lukewarm water of the hotel jacuzzi was debatably cooler than that of the Pacific. We dove through the rolling ocean waves, bronzed our bodies on the sandy shore and drank fresh banana juice at a local beach side restaurant.

“Que esto?” I asked the local Costa Rican man who worked the roadside fruit stand outside Monteverde. I held up a green fruit that looked strikingly similar to a character out of Super Mario Brothers.

“Si. Guanabana!” he replied.

“Guanabaaa…huh? Pero, que es?” What IS it?

“Su fruta,” the man running the fruit stand replied. “Muy bueno.” It’s very good fruit.

“We’ll take it! Uno, por favor.”One, please. He did not answer my question, but at that point I also did not know how else to inquire about it.

If friends told me two weeks ago that I would leave Costa Rica having literally swung like Tarzan through the jungle, I would not have believed them. But, a Tarzan swing presented itself on our travels through Monteverde and, among other uncomfortable feats this day, we took advantage of it.

On our first full day in the rainforest, we walked the five-minute trek through town to catch a 7:30a.m. public bus to Monteverde Cloud Forest. While stretching our mostly forgotten Spanish skills to maximum capacity, we found our way onto the 800 colones (one dollar) transport. This short, but highly confusing venture marked the moment I officially decided to add become bilingual to my bucket list.

I had never gone horseback riding before…not until I met Vanessa (pronounced Banezza), the horse presented to me on our last morning in La Fortuna.

Before leaving the volcano town, we took a three-hour, round-trip horseback ride to La Fortuna Waterfall. I’m unsure of how intense horseback riding lessons are in the states, but in La Fortuna it was simple: Hold the reins with one hand. Pull back at the reins to make the horse stop, or to the side to guide the horse left or right. “Easy,” the guide said, “now you are natural cowboys and cowgirls.”

Costa Rica boasts an amazing mixture of beauty and adventure, and in fewer than three days we have been able to see both.

My traveling companions – Will and Julie – and I began our week of adventures with a 7:00a.m. canyoning trip, which involved a three-hour lesson on repelling down the cliffs of La Fortuna. For those unfamiliar with repelling, it is, more or less, rock climbing backwards. The experience goes something like this:

*Photos coming soon – I currently have no photo uploading capabilities.

It’s morning in La Fortuna. I sit in a wooden rocking chair on the porch of our hostel and stare into the morning fog at the sprouting palm trees and red-roofs below. I am only one story above the world, but few buildings are taller than that here. I am one of the few awake at 6:30a.m., and a small brown bird sings me a song from a nearby rooftop.

One 10-hour car ride, one three-hour plane ride and two, two-hour bus rides after leaving our home in New Orleans, Louisiana, we made it to the wet bar and hammocks of La Fortuna’s Arenal Hostel Resort. The trip was long, exhausting and beautiful.

It’s a strange feeling to be exhausted off five hours of backseat sleeping during an overnight road trip, but also the most rested member of a group. But, that’s traveling. That’s part of the journey.

We are on our way to San Jose, Costa Rica, and a $400 difference in flight price prompted our 10-hour drive from New Orleans, Louisiana to the Orlando International Airport in Florida. Luckily, I am with two fellow travelers who are equally as crazy as me – my younger sister, Julie, and our good friend Will.

I remember endlessly discussing the controversial age of 26. A somewhat ambiguous age, it always seemed to spark debate over whether it fell amidst the dreaded late twenties, or laid calmly in the mid-twenties safety zone.

I settled on calling the debatable age an “upswing” to 30.

Now, only one week away from 28, there is no denying it. I have officially entered my late twenties. Life is still undetermined for me here, but I’m riding out my journey with a smile on.

In 28 years, I have learned…

• The world is small.
• Excuses and reasons are two different things, and now I can more easily distinguish one from the other.
• My siblings and I are more alike than I realized.

I took a walk recently to the edge of the world – to a place where the sunset and the subtly crashing waves were all that the eye could see. I stepped barefoot through the Gulf of Mexico with the sky to my left and a beach in my toes. I have worked hard this semester of graduate school, and a relaxing weekend away from my daily routine proved both necessary and centering.

Purple, green and gold fleur de lis door wreaths, carnival masks and colorful plastic beads trimmed New Orleans’ homes and fences. The jazzy sounds of high school marching bands practicing for parades filled the streets of local neighborhoods. An eagerness for Mardi Gras had reached the Crescent City, and it was only January.

After visiting Nashville, Tennessee on the fourth night of our road trip, my sister, Julie, and I geared up for a day of historical site-seeing along the Natchez Trace Parkway.

Our brother, Dan, and I attempted this drive once last summer after receiving a recommendation to take the famous byway from Nashville to Southern Mississippi before cutting South to New Orleans. Not 30 miles into our trip, we crossed a park ranger who threatened us off the parkway with a ticket and authoritative scolding. Unbeknownst to us, a 14-foot yellow Penske truck is considered a “commercial vehicle” and eyesore on a scenic byway.

Though Dan could not join us on this road trip, Julie and I took advantage of having our compact Toyota Camry and picked up where Dan and I left off.

I first visited Nashville, Tennessee this past summer as part of a Midwest road trip with my brother, Dan. We visited the city in mid-August when the near-100-degree temperatures and humidity index left us wandering the streets dressed in shorts, flip flops and sweat.

This week, the city prepared a more mild climate for another round of siblings to come through. My sister and I arrived from St. Louis just in time to enjoy a sushi dinner, check-in rush hour at a motel-style Best Western (equipped with an already-intoxicated bachelor party to greet us) and an evening walk through downtown. We visited Nashville for one day on this road trip and managed to see most of its highlights.

Thursday morning, Julie and I took our trip West for a turn South. With Einstein Bros breakfast sandwiches in hand, we got an early start out of Chicago and headed toward St. Louis, Missouri.

We spent almost two days exploring St. Louis, but not without first making a stop in Illinois’ capital city of Springfield. Three hours and acres of open land Southwest of Chicago, we parked Julie’s car near the state capitol building and went for a walk.

A famous saying reads “Home is where the heart is,” and day two of our road trip brought new meaning to this phrase for me.

Wednesday morning, my sister, Julie, and I woke up in South Bend, Indiana only 95 miles from Chicago, Illinois. Though we grew up in Rochester, New York, Chicago has been the next closest city to offer me that warm and welcoming feeling of home. The city was finally within reach, and I couldn’t have been more excited.

I have driven Interstate 90 between Rochester, New York and Chicago, Illinois more times than I can count. Before Tuesday, however, I had only been a tourist along this route once during a family road trip to Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

This week, my sister, Julie, and I decided to tour this land while kicking off our road trip South. What I learned? Ohio impressed me.

Our day included a 7:00am departure from North Chili, New York and a 10:00pm dinner at a local Notre Dame bar called “Brothers.” By the time Julie and I pulled into South Bend, Indiana, we ate what could have been the most delicious veggie burger and chips I have ever devoured.

When 2010 came to a close, I published a post entitled “What Will You Bring Me, 2011?” In it, I wrote this segment:

As usual, I have begun this new year having absolutely no idea where I will be when I throw the confetti 12 months from now. I do not know what state I will be living in, what my career position will be, or if I will actually be throwing confetti at all. I do expect, however, that I will be where I am meant to be at that moment, and I plan to take this next year to figure out where that place may be.

Last Christmas marked the first year that my family began our “no-presents” tradition. We had attempted to veer from gift-giving for several years, but guilt and habit led us to continuous failures. We always felt our loved ones should open something on Christmas morning. Last year, we broke our habits. We celebrated Christmas present-less. And it was one of the most meaningful Christmas mornings I remember.

This year – round two – came easily and naturally. Instead of running madly through the malls on a frenzied present hunt, we spent the days preceding Christmas sleeping late, baking cookies and lounging in sweatpants. We prepared for a day traditionally meant for spending time with family and friends by doing just that – relaxing with family and friends.

Bustling yellow taxis, crammed subways and overpowering skyscrapers framed the landscape of my weekend. Aggressive locals, exhausted train conductors and impatient store clerks shared this environment with me. My scene was the “Big Apple,” Alicia Keys’ “concrete jungle”: New York City.

We all know places that make us feel “alive.” These locations might rest below mountains, stand along oceans, or hide deep within acres of pine trees and thick woods. I have been to those places where nature’s majestic strength rushes a person’s soul to the point of enlightenment. But, this weekend I returned to the type of place that stole my heart for two years before moving to New Orleans – the big city.

In the midst of political stalemates, failing economies and growing national poverty rates, seven students went to Washington, D.C. to see our representatives and participate in the emerging Occupy Movement.

This October, nine social workers spent four days in Washington, D.C. participating in the October2011 “Stop the Machine” protest. As a way of sharing the experience, I put a video together for our fellow students and faculty members at Tulane University’s School of Social Work. Now, I would like to share this video with you.

Last night, I heard a story about a shoebox. It was a story of both thanks and giving so, in honor of this American holiday, I want to share the story with you.

My brother, Dan, has been traveling around Nepal for almost two months with two American friends. Upon their arrival in early October, they planned to stay for several days in Kathmandu to get their bearings and collect travel visas and other materials.