Before we set foot in Antarctica, people on MV Ushuia asked us the same thing:
“Is this your first time visiting Antarctica??“
I always said yes, of course — because who goes twice?! That registered as crazy. Antarctica seemed like the definition of a once-in-a-lifetime destination. A bitterly cold location without comfortable thrills, a bold choice. Rugged, freezing, and downright difficult. What we, in my friend group, call type 2 (or even type 3) fun.
Turns out, I had it wrong; Antarctica is type one fun. It’s the kind of place that inspires such a cosmic awakening in you that you want to name your children after it. No? Just me and Ed Sheeran? (His daughter’s middle name is literally Antarctica.). Once you’ve been you want to save, save, save all your money so that you might be lucky enough to go again one day. It is a pilgrimage.
Antarctica leaned in like, “Sweetie… …you braced for tears of Endurance. But surprise — you wept at how holy it feels.”
Unreal. Except…this is real.
If Helen and I were billionaires, we talk about this all the time — we’d bring every person we adore down here. We imagine sharing this place with our lovers, Jamie and Ryan, and more of our best friends. We dream of once again stepping onto the snow and always of taking our parents and families to see the ice glow from within. Experiencing Antarctica is a gift of the universe.
A vacation destination.
The most more-ish scenery.
When I first left with only ‘a carry on’ for Antarctica and my pregnant body, Ryan, the ever-supportive partner, shrugged and said off-handidly to those around us, “She likes to travel on expert mode. She just puts it on expert mode and then goes.” Maybe. (Okay, yes.) But what I learned while visiting here is that Antarctica isn’t expert mode, it’s heaven mode. After seeing this place, everything in your life reorients itself around THE most beautiful thing you have ever (and will ever) see.
Glory days.
Showing off.
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In my opinion, the International Association of Antarctica Tour Operators (IAATO) did something brilliant. They didn’t just enforce distance rules and bio-security protocols; they turned stewardship into our personal identity. Helen, Patrick and I boarded the Mv Ushuia as tourists but we left as Antarctic Ambassadors. The IAATO made caring feel like a privilege; we witnessed the world untouched and we will forever want to be worthy of having stood there.
Reverence.
Local residents: Spotted on their floating front porch.
The ocean thinking it’s snow and the sky forgetting it’s not water.
The trip where we found out that our friendship is, in fact, windproof.
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Leaving was harder than arriving.
Edible confetti.
We began this journey as tourists and departed as (Antarctic) evangelists.
Farewell committee.
Saying our goodbye’s.
Despite the fact that crossing the Drake again was physically easier (it wasn’t a gift, but it wasn’t as hard) – for example, I was still nauseous for 2 days though I didn’t throw up – it was sorrowful in others; with heavy hearts we said adios to this monumental continent with no idea of when (or if) we will ever return.
Where do you go after Antarctica?
How do you unpack after you’ve peaked?
Writing this seven-part series has been my way of reliving this 7th continent — the planning, seasickness, best friendship, absurdity of being six months pregnant among penguins, and the awe of the ice itself. I don’t pretend these posts capture it; nothing can. But they remind me of how Antarctica spoiled us. If you’ve made it this far, thank you for coming along! May you, too, find your own unforgettable adventure, one that follows you home.
And if anyone needs an Antarctic ambassador…
I’ll be living in Pittsburgh. Grateful that it’s some kind of ‘burgh, even if it’s not made of ice.
With a mind stretched farther than the horizon and a heart still oriented south,
’mi & Pingüina
Adventuresam 
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