"You've outdone yourself," said Patrick, white-knuckled and behind the wheel, as we made our way to that night's lodgings.

This was saying something. Over the years we've stayed at a lovely squat in Hove, England, an eccentric hostel run by people obsessed with Gram Parsons, sleazy highway motels, inside remote national parks, and even the famous literary landmark, The Algonquin Hotel.
Patrick and I have traveled together since 2000. It was how we began our relationship and our love of exploring has been consistent across the years. The only real change is that we have a traveling companion, our son, and we no longer have to rely on friends and friends of friends for places to sleep.
We had turned at secret handshake spiral sign near the big tree (as directed) and were now hurtling down a dirt road in rural Puerto Rico. As the road narrowed and the sides dropped away, plunging into orchards below, Patrick uttered the above words. I wasn't sure if they were praise or criticism, but I took a perverse pride either way. And we hadn't even reached our accommodations for the night. Upon reaching them I knew I had set a new standard for adventure.