 I hope to stop back here and leave another message for other travelers this summer. I got a notification on the morning of June 6th, celebrating three years on YouTube. There was a brief smile and the realization that it was more like my 3.5 year anniversary, since there had been a channel before the current one. Oh yes, there was a glorious channel, maybe not glorious, but one molded out of significant travel and exploration of Poland and other countries in Europe, during my stint in Krakow. While those original vlogs no longer exist, as I deleted the first channel in an absurd move to find a better balance and clarity, or we should just label it as temporary insanity, the majority of those cities and towns have gotten new vlogs on the current channel, with only a few spots still needing further attention. Perhaps over the next year, once I’m back in Poland full-time, I will return to Lublin and Lancut to check those things off my to-do list. Then again, I doubt I’ll be heading to Kosice, Berlin, and Thessaloniki anytime soon, but hey, one never knows… Malta does need a return trip. I’m grateful that, even though I haven’t been able to vlog much this past school year, I was able to finish writing a travel memoir about my Polish travels while living in Krakow. With the plan to share that book later this summer, I know it will be a nice bookend for me, regardless of its popularity. With summer now underway, or pretty close, and no summer camp experiences or broken ribs to flip everything into an utter mess, I’m hopeful for a break that balances it all. Yes, travel, writing, and rest. What that means for my blogs, I’m not sure, save the occasional update, unless I feel the need to share my every move over this season. Still, expect Forever Poland news, Niagossi Dragon Traders updates, and some plugs for current books or vlogs.  A series with heart and purpose. See, I had a reason for writing today. Specifically, today is my latest BookBub. Yep, I got selected for a second Free Reads promotion, this time it’s for my Fox and the Girl series, a book bundle covering books 1-3. I feel for Luza and Keira. Honestly, my homage to Narnia deserves better, and between trying pseudonyms, changing book titles, and series names, I’ve managed to market these books in all the wrong ways. Still, the tweens and teens who have found the series generally enjoyed the adventure presented and the story of a bullied teen who found her way, her purpose, and a friend who turned into a sister. I’m proud of the books, and that’s saying more than puffing up my chest, bragging about sales (non-existent ones), but the fact that I know this story serves. Even ten years after Luza and Riley first released, I know there’s something special about their dynamic, the life they live in New Hampshire, and the world they have to face in unsettled times, just as many of us do daily.
If you haven’t checked out the series, it’s free for the next few weeks, so download a copy, and who knows, maybe you’ll want to buy the fourth book in the process. Till next update, enjoy the sun wherever you may be. JFK
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Note these are in no particular order, as random thoughts should be. I really missed Ryanair - the Greyhound of the skies. How it continues to amaze me, my fellow passengers, specifically the parents wearing their earpods or headphones while ignoring the fact that their children are blasting their electronics for the rest of us to enjoy.
Reflections on Memorial Day while living in Tangier The trail in Bray, Ireland While my family and friends back in the States celebrate another Memorial Day, where, honestly, people congregate to spend time together and open the summer season, especially in Maine and New Hampshire, I’m here in Tangier, looking for a well-deserved reprieve. Unlike my family, I worked on Monday but will be celebrating on my own later in the week. In a day or two, while the locals celebrate Eid, which I believe is the celebration of Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son to God rather than a sheep, I’ll be in England, rebooting and recharging. I’m confident, though, as I look across the Irish Sea, squinting towards Bray and Dublin, that I will remember my first trip to that area, the one I want to share now. While the original travel vlog is gone, the experience, the shared moment, and the reminder that we can all impact others in positive ways remain strong to this day. In honor of the those who have gone before us, especially my fellow veterans who paid the highest price on the field of battle, here’s a blog about making a difference, not because I necessarily wanted to, but because I could. That’s the truth,  Bull Island in Dublin, Ireland (Taken from an old blog I wrote on my first trip to Dublin in November 2022)
There was a point in the walk to Bull Island where I intended to share a short story, but between the wind and the run-in with the Easter Island statue, I dropped the ball entirely. You’ll notice as much when you watch the video. My apologies. With the holiday season underway, especially Thanksgiving, I can’t help but think about how important giving is in all our lives. Many struggle this time of year, far more than at other times. Some lack basic necessities, and others lack emotional or physical support. I don’t need to jump into war-torn areas, where we know the need is great, but as I look outside the door and those I pass on a daily basis, I have no other recourse. As a teacher in New Hampshire, I saw firsthand how school districts support those who don’t have enough food, clothing, or even shelter. Here in Poland, it’s a bit different. I know there is a need, but I don’t know what channels they have to provide. The number of Ukrainian refugees living here clearly shows that Poland is a country that embraces a giving mentality. Many Polish families welcomed Ukrainians into their homes with open arms. They allowed them a place to stay until a suitable arrangement could be made during this trying period. Even now, the country continues to support Ukraine in whatever way it reasonably can. Back in the States, many live in a bubble. I know I did until sixteen years ago when I transitioned out of the Navy and went back into education. I remember gathering the belongings I did have in Maryland and, to my surprise, finding that my favorite fleece blanket was gone. I looked around the house, in every drawer, closet, and box. The unicorn blanket had been a keepsake since middle school and a favorite of mine. I didn’t take it to South Carolina or Florida for fear of it being taken or lost, let alone knowing the blanket couldn’t be brought to boot camp or training command without ample ribbing. To say I was bummed was a bit of an understatement. When it came up in conversation at the dinner table, I found out why the blanket was gone and how. Stephen, in his overly generous nature, had given it to a homeless man in Washington DC. My first thought was you gotta be kidding me. Why did he take my favorite blanket? He didn’t donate his Grizzly Bear fleece, but I guess anything that wasn’t my twin’s was fair picking. That’s exactly what happened. All said, some clothes, a second blanket I overlooked, and the unicorn fleece were all thrown into Stephen’s truck and delivered to a homeless person he saw near the Days Inn in downtown Washington. I couldn’t be mad since it was for a good cause, but I found it fitting that my twin had only given up my belongings. I can hear his voice, “You weren’t using them.” From what I gathered, he did this multiple times. It was sort of a funny joke in the end because Stephen had passed eight months earlier, and I could hear him rationalizing his giving even without having a formal conversation. This was the same guy who, after the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004, said he was changing his life because if the Sox could come back from down 3-0, then he could do anything he set his mind to. Sadly, his own personal quest ended far too soon, but his legacy and the lessons he provided continue to this day. At the very least, I know my blanket found a good home. In Dublin, this specific memory popped into my head after I passed an old woman. Let me backtrack: this memory didn’t show up until a few hours later, on the return walk to my Airbnb. The first time we crossed paths, she was up against a derelict building door. She mumbled something, probably in Gaelic, and held up a paper cup. I waved slightly and carried on, more focused on finding Bram Stoker’s Park and his childhood home. A typical American, I blew by her, but not fast enough to lose sight of her condition or see the whites of her eyes. She was barely sitting up, and if not for the wall, I’m not sure if she wouldn’t be on her side. How she got to that spot, I couldn’t fathom, but at that moment, I also put her out of my mind. In Riga and now here in Dublin, seeing people in hardship pulled at my heartstrings, but I knew I couldn’t give to everyone I saw. There was no way to tell who was truly in need and who was putting on a show. Maybe that’s jaded, but it’s also the truth. Three hours passed, and I was cutting back after my tour of central Dublin. There was the old woman with the squinting eyes still against the wall. A light blue fleece blanket was wrapped around her legs. I’m confident there wasn’t one the first time we crossed paths. Again, she spoke, and I gently shrugged and smiled. Several seconds passed, and I kept walking. I felt for my wallet and wondered how much cash I had. I knew I didn’t have change or anything less than a significant bill. About that time, when I was rationalizing why I shouldn’t stop, Stephen and his unicorn snatching deeds came to mind. Possessed by Stephen’s memory and what was the right thing to do, I turned around. She didn’t see me coming as her back was turned. I tapped her on the shoulder. She lifted the cup, and I shook it off. Slowly, I knelt down and handed her the bill. Tears filled her eyes, and she spoke in Gaelic. I’m pretty sure I know what she said, but we’ll save that for another story. We didn’t have to exchange another word. I saw the angel looking back at me, a woman who hadn’t always been this way, who had a long life up till now, but had fallen on a rough time. I felt what she felt and knew this small gesture would help her more than it would help me find another place to stuff my mouth and fill my stomach. I walked home hopeful for the old woman. More importantly, I was thankful for Stephen, his memory, and the lesson he taught me years earlier. In this season of Thanksgiving, it doesn’t matter how much you give, but that you put yourself in the right place to help those in need, in a way that truly serves. If you happen to see a unicorn fleece blanket, do let me know. Teacher Burnout or Time to Walk Away? When Educators Know the Classroom Has Left Them Behind5/17/2026  A perfect homework key If there is one profession where employees need some time to recharge and renew, it’s, hands down, education. For people who think otherwise, I would simply say you’ve never been in a classroom, dealt with twenty to thirty kids and their emotional, physical, and educational issues for months at a time. Even for the most seasoned veterans, by the time June rolls around, we’re tired. I should know, speaking as one of those very educators. What grace and patience we had from September through April have been tapped. How many times can one tell Sally to take out her homework, writing supplies, and start the warm-up exercise, when it’s been the same routine since day one? And parents… let’s be entirely honest: how many emails and grade updates can we share to help you understand that it’s not just teachers and kids in the educational process? It takes the home unit as well, especially in my current base of operations, Morocco. Then again, in some cultures, or maybe it’s just people with changed circumstances, there is no bandwidth or desire to help their kids learn what it really means to be a productive, functioning, and good human being. We could dive into semantics, who needs to do what, and what each role is expected to do and should, but in this blog, I’d rather focus on my fellow educators who are tired and ready to recharge. The question for many, whether they want to admit it or not, is whether this is the final school year they go through this routine, or if the summer is enough to bring them back to this increasingly difficult and at times trying profession. Granted, we all know the educators who have no business being in the classroom to begin with. For them, it’s more about whether they understand that this is not a place for the uninitiated, those who simply want to punch a clock and keep the children at arm’s length, or those who feel the children should simply be robots who follow every directive with blind obedience. For that matter, those who lack empathy and see only in black and white should be shown the door. Here’s a list for teachers to consider whether to hang things up for good. I’m sure I’ll leave some out, but having served in a pseudo-administrative role these past few years, I can speak not only from a teacher’s perspective but also from that of someone who coaches and works with them.  Nine plus years ago - the science experiment that went bad Let’s check out this list.
1. Teachers who pass blame and their classroom issues onto administrators or fellow colleagues need to take a moment. Sure, there are some bad administrators in this world, just like there are bad teachers, but generally speaking, people learn their roles and manage the best they can. Some struggle, but those in administration managed to secure the role by impressing someone, and as teachers, we need to give them grace, even if at times it feels like we don’t receive any in kind. The teacher can’t assume that every admin is out to get them and not support them in the classroom. When you start to believe that, it’s likely time to run for the hills. I don’t care how frustrated you are; if you really think your classroom issues and students' problems are from a lack of support, then you might not be doing your job effectively. If it’s been going on for several years, it’s more about you and time to decide if this career fits. 2. Let’s shift the blame from the administration to the students. Come on, the students should be happy and feel privileged to have you in their classroom as their instructor for the year. Sheesh, if they aren’t understanding the concepts, doing work, and behaving like angels, clearly that’s entirely on them. Honestly, it’s not as black-and-white as one would hope. We are dealing with children after all, who use school as a safe place to test boundaries. Are some total a-holes…yep, while some are the absolute salt of the earth and wonderful human beings. The ones in the middle, those are the ones you can reach the most, if you show that you care and are willing to work with them. Does it solve homework completion? Not necessarily, only because we can’t impact what happens when those students go home. Are students awful human beings for being disruptive in class, pushing buttons, and not making the first mark? No, it’s part of the job to create a system to navigate all of this. It takes work, buy-in, and effort from the teacher to create an environment that gets most of the students on board. If a teacher can’t, then find a different school and see if that population resonates more. Should it not, then it’s not the students, but the educator who isn’t cut out for this dynamic, for this career choice. Not every person who becomes a teacher is able to do the job, and the sooner they realize this, the better for all involved. 3. Toxic teachers, the same ones who want praise for doing their actual job, and also want to be paid as though they are better than their colleagues and should have preferential treatment for scheduling, class selection, and duty assignments, should find another life path. The tricky thing about these educators is that they won’t exactly realize it’s time to hang things up. Sure, they’ll mention it occasionally and will daydream about other educational roles, ones that they aren’t qualified for, but feel their experience alone makes them not only viable candidates, but ones that should get paid for taking on this new burden. Granted, many of these types don’t know they are doing this because many are wounded, narcissistic souls who haven’t had enough people call them out on their nonsense. These people are the ones who also blame administrators, students, and parents, and won’t hold up the mirror to their own diluted selves. I wish I could say I feel for these people, but these are the ones who need to be shown the door. If their administration had a backbone, a paper trail, or an authentic understanding that the students are better off without these energy vampires, then these teachers wouldn’t be reflecting on whether to stay; they'd already be gone. 4. Teachers who manipulate the school day and don’t put in the time the role demands need to decide whether they can meet the constraints of the position or look elsewhere. Sure, teaching hours are better than in many professions, with holidays off and, for the most part, every night but a few times a year. Allegedly, we also get summers off. Regardless, those who care won’t leave school until their classroom is ready for the next school day. If grading isn’t complete, it’s done either at home after scheduled work hours or on weekends. That’s the rub: educators have set hours, but veterans know there isn’t enough time in the schedule to get everything done unless one is really effective at time management. Even those who are, if you can’t handle Wednesday afternoon meetings, eight o’clock arrival times, and late afternoon departures, then maybe you need to pause for a bit. Those teachers who show up five minutes before the kids arrive and are running for the door right after the students board the buses home are not doing it right. Sure, that’s my judgment, but if the contract says teachers need to be on site at 8 am, then 8:20 doesn't live up to your end of the bargain. Crying about no time to eat lunch is another big warning flag. Here’s an idea: snack throughout the day, knowing that with kids, things come up. If there is a behavior issue, you shouldn’t be passing on a problem that can be managed in the classroom to someone else, simply because you want a twenty-five-minute break to eat an overpriced school lunch. Would it be nice to always have a planning period, or two, and ample time to eat, sure? But if you are the educator who is complaining to the administration or the teacher’s association about your inability to be flexible at a job that demands constant flexibility, it’s time. 5. On a similar note, those professionals who believe sick days are free days off even if they aren’t sick should reflect on whether their hearts are in the right place. I’ll never forget a colleague whose contract wasn't renewed because of budget cuts. I was in the same situation, but I came to work early every day and usually left later than others, yet this yahoo still had 30-something sick days on the books. What did he do? He took every Friday off and several Mondays for the last 2.5 months of the school year. That’s not someone who should be in the classroom, and if you might fit that mold, the one who is asking HR how many sick days you have left (to use), post that resume now. 6. I’m confident there are more flags that show it’s time to leave the profession, but number one would be when an educator has reached the point where they don’t like the kids, period. Sure, throughout the year, all teachers have a love-hate relationship with their classroom. If they don’t, I want to meet these kind souls. For the most part, it should be a constructive relationship, but if the teacher sees these kids as imbeciles or losers and doesn’t like anything about them, it’s a giant red flag. Our profession dictates time with children, so if being in their presence is revolting, regardless of the reason, it should be a no-brainer to leave. Over the years, I have seen and heard teachers berate their students, telling them they aren’t capable of earning a grade or learning a concept. How dare you, teacher? Sure, some students underachieve, and some don’t put in the time, and yes, we can push them to do more, but when we start questioning their capabilities by putting limitations on what they can accomplish, it’s time to leave. I’d rather have a mediocre colleague who wants nothing but the best for their students than the pedagogically sound educator who demeans and questions the integrity of kids just because they weren’t the teachers who gave them those foundational skills or explained a concept in a way that resonated. On a passing note, educators who believe they are the only ones capable of doing the job should reflect on the profession and whether it serves. Schools are a team effort, period. When one loses sight of this perspective, there is no place for them. Did I leave any of the big ones out? Are there other warning signs? BookBub Free Reads Review (2026): Indie Author Results with 13,000+ Downloads Across Platforms5/5/2026  Rusty Star was the book being promoted. It must have been around a decade ago when I first heard of BookBub. As an independent author, the service is virtually a slam dunk for getting fresh downloads and purchases. The first time I contemplated applying was with The Fox and the Girl series. I just finished writing the last two books, and with a completed series and virtually no traction, the idea of being selected and potentially reaching thousands of new readers was undoubtedly tempting. Then reality set in. There was an application process and vetting, with whatever whim they decided to follow on a given day. Sure, they will say otherwise, but it’s odd how some books with few to no ratings get selected, while others with well over a hundred get no love either. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Authors know that if you can get a featured deal “Bub,” it will mean a bump in sales, regardless. I can’t tell you how many times I applied only to be rejected. Let me think for a moment … maybe nine is the current number. That sounds about right. The first one was in 2018. When I wasn’t selected for this opportunity, to fork over a boatload of money to gain access to more readers, I found myself using Fussy Librarian. Over the years, this has been a reliable service, where I know I’ll get some eyes. Some genres do better than others, but I would say it’s worth the price point, even though it’s not the thousands of downloads that BookBub can bring. To that end, I recently applied to BookBub for a featured deal and wasn’t selected. Not a big surprise at all, but what was surprising was that I was offered a slot to participate in their relatively new service, Free Reads. Full disclosure: I couldn’t find much about this (it only started in fall 2025), and what were the typical results for people who put their free books in this newsletter. Hence, this week’s blog shares some numbers so other writers aren’t entirely in the dark. Then again, my personal findings are interesting regardless, because without knowing the exact readership numbers to BookBub’s Free Reads newsletters and the genres they put as preferences, it’s a bit grey. I also can’t tell you how much of a bump was given by the readership versus just being at the top of the charts, and between getting movement on the Amazon and Apple algorithms. Let’s dig into the actual numbers and interpret them accordingly. The price point for this promotion, to put Rusty Star in the Free Reads newsletter, was $500.00. In comparison, I paid $79.00 for Fussy Librarian. The Fussy Librarian promotion was in early March. All told, on Amazon, if I did the numbers right, I got 1069 downloads. On Google Books, 96, and between Apple/Barnes & Noble, because I can’t differentiate them right now, there were 483 books. That promotion brought in 1648 downloads. From what I have observed, my ratings on Amazon went from 18 to 28, and Goodreads was in the low 20s. I applied to BookBub with 28 ratings and possibly one or two on Apple. Let’s look at the week leading up to the Free Reads promotion. In some act of cosmic humor, and maybe also to prove to me that I don’t need to pay to move any of my books, three days before the scheduled promotion, there were around 55 downloads each on Apple and Barnes & Noble. There might have been 5 on Google Books. More interestingly, 1928 downloads from Amazon. We’ll call that the Stephen Anniversary treat. In effect, that was more than my Fussy promotion, and it was entirely just algorithm-driven. Even the rankings on Amazon were good enough to break the top 100 overall.  The numbers the day before the Free Reads promotion. At the peak, Rusty Star was #6 Free in the Kindle Store. The Free Reads newsletter was emailed out later that week, and things really took off.
Amazon - 11,081 downloads over the course of my promotion. In a remarkable newsworthy moment, there were approximately 2200 downloads through Apple/Barnes & Noble, with roughly 1600 to Apple and 600 to Barnes & Noble. Just for fun, Google Books jumped in and contributed 703. All told, from April 17 to April 28, 13,984 downloads across all platforms. If I wanted to sneak in the bump earlier in the week, 15,921 downloads for half the month. What does this mean exactly? Well, it means I potentially gained thousands of readers this month. Ratings on Amazon have gone from 28 to 41. Now there’s no way to tell how many of those were from my mid-April bump or from the promotion. Goodreads is now at 54. Double Cross, the follow-up book, has garnered 12 sales. On Apple, oh how I love Apple readers, we have gone from 2 ratings to 40. Given its significantly lower downloads, that number is revealing. It means that Apple readers are more serious about their books, while the Amazon ones might just store them for a rainy day. Double Cross purchases are currently at 9. And because we shouldn't leave anyone out, the ratings for Barnes and Noble are abysmal. There are zero, yes, zero ratings, despite 600 downloads. Or I simply can’t figure out where to find them. Then again, Google Books, I believe, is at five. It’s still early in the process, but after two weeks of running the promotion, those are the numbers. I don’t know if I would do it again for the price point. Sure, I’m now showing up on more people’s recommended lists, and I can brag about being number one on several Amazon genre lists, but aside from that, I have to sit and wait to see if I make my money back. As an independent author, while fun to share my stories, between editing costs, book cover design, and promotions, I have yet to break even on any project. That’s the reality of my writing journey. But I love what I create and will keep finding ways to get more eyes on my catalog. I’ll update with more numbers at the end of May, but that’s it for today. Later, JFK Update May 25 - While the Apple reviews have slowed, Amazon has taken off. Maybe it just took readers longer to get to the book. Current numbers as of this morning are Apple at 47 ratings, Amazon at 80, and Goodreads at 71. For perspective, Apple had only a tenth as many downloads as Amazon. Double Cross sales over the same time are an even three on Apple and three on Amazon.  I did something crazy this past weekend. Not since the somewhat flawed trip to Asilah and the wedding reception I wanted no part of did I take my friend up on her offer and head to the mountains. Yes, it was time to check off Morocco’s Blue City, Chefchaouen, the tourist mecca most international visitors and expats flock to for blue walls and photo-friendly moments. Then again, from my brief exchange with the shady guy on the street who asked me if I wanted some hash, maybe people come here for other, nefarious reasons. Full disclosure: I have known about Morocco’s Epcot Center for three years, since IntotheBloom shared her adventures (https://www.intothebloom.com/chefchaouen-photo-guide/). Dominika’s blog gave me hope it might be worth a visit, until I actually started living here and realized it was a hub for people to check off their travel lists, as though it were a necessary stop on the way to seeing the real Morocco.  Let’s be clear: aside from some blue-painted walls, which would look better whitewashed, any charm this village in the mountains has comes not from the vendors or the tourists who do their ridiculous dance. Sure, there are some lovely bags, bath salts, and a ridiculous amount of knockoff paintings showing some senorita in the streets, or a lone cat stalking the medina, but the real charm of this city comes from the quieter moments. That, my friends, is what I will focus on as opposed to giving you a list of where to visit or what to see, let alone what to eat. Come on, I went out of my way to eat at a local pizza restaurant because I was hungry and didn’t want to walk around any longer looking for some authentic Moroccan cuisine that was likely as good as the same standard tourist menu they hawk at us here in Tangier. Then again, maybe if I had gone to Twins and gotten some tagine or couscous, I wouldn’t have dealt with the wrath of one of my students. Note to self: always consult your students for tips before any adventures. Back to the silence, or at least the perception of such compared to the constant hammer and grind of the big city in Tangier. That’s what this trip was about: getting away, for an overnight retreat, to not have to deal with the incessant noise, whether from the hobbyist renovator who might live above my head and has decided that Saturdays are the best days to pretend he is redoing the apartment, but more likely he is attempting to look occupied going from room to room in an attempt to hide from his wife. Between that nutjob who has been “busy” since October on this pressing project, the same one that flooded my kitchen the previous January, and the drone of motorists not communicating with their horns, but simply being a-holes, I needed a proper respite. We aren’t even considering the random drum circle that loves to frequent the restaurant below my apartment window, or the women who walk around doing their glorified throat singing that sounds more like a battle cry to my ears. Chefchaouen seemed promising, with at least fewer people to contend with and, if we were lucky, a bit of quiet. Granted, this is Morocco, so one has to put such things in perspective, just like dealing with idiots jumping in front of cars because they can, or parking attendants stopping vehicles to get them to go to a different lot when it makes little sense. The ride itself was already a blessing in disguise. Sure, the GPS told us the trip would take two hours, but it took us two and a half because, unlike the trucks and cars that seem oblivious to common sense or rules of the road, we drove like our grandmother would on her way to church. There was no rush, just a sense we would get there in time to appreciate the service. I treasured the change of pace, the sheep and goats who claimed the roadside as their own, and the occasional mule eager to push its master into the passing traffic.  Thank goodness, we didn’t stop at the intermittent mountain-side vistas where suspect old women carried prepared food in plastic containers and vendors were selling necklaces that I could have been ripped off for just as easily, here in Tangier. However, according to my friend, the food was fresh cheese and bread, so maybe we should have stopped after all. The roadside coffee is some of the best in Morocco, spiced if that is your thing. I suppose a follow-up trip might be necessary to confirm if this is, in fact, the truth. I also seem to remember a mention of Morocco’s number-one barbecue venue, but you know the pizza was calling in Chefchaouen, so we continued on at our measured pace. We were more concerned about getting to the mountain city, past the random police markers where everyone appeared to be waved on, and no one was actually being stopped. I know, I for one, was eager to be pulled over so they could see me in the front seat with an assortment of stuffed friends on my lap and an empty container of gummy bears. All we needed were some Slim Jims and Combos to make this the perfect trip. When we finally arrived at the Blue City, after driving up a significant incline with way too many street lights, as though people actually walked this route, when I knew it was really for dogs dropped off at the bottom by rescue organizations, I wondered if we had made the right call. Several minutes passed before we parked the car in front of a hotel, with too many taxis blocking the way and people who had no clue where they were going or why. As with the alluring seaside hamlet of Asilah, the questionable, potentially dubious act of old men standing on the streets, jingling their keys, made me ponder what awesome rooms for the night they were offering. What could go wrong in paying for a room from a stranger on the outskirts of the old medina? I’m sure these are only the best, safest places without shared bathrooms and beds free of bedbugs and other fun overnight visitors. If only my friend had been more adventurous, or if I had wanted to eat the price of our reserved riad, we could have experienced one of Morocco’s greatest charms. Alas, like with Twins, I’m sure we missed out on what others only dream about. By the time we arrived, the blue streets were busy with old-timers and their hiking sticks blocking the already narrow alleys, gathering closely and listening to their tour guides, who were sharing only the greatest history lessons on the ancient practice of painting walls blue, as if it were something special. We forced our way around these veterans of the traveling circuit, past the vendors whose stands were encroaching even more of the path, and Generation Z members paying for opportunities to pose in beautiful corners on provided cushioned chairs, because it would help their auras.  I pretended to be a nomad, not of the digital kind, but a man who knew where he was going, away from this prescribed schtick, and to our awaiting riad, far enough from the madness, but with enough charm to make it worthwhile. We weren’t disappointed. This place wasn’t next to the kasbah or to the square that needs no name, because everyone and their friend has taken a photo at this thing. No, our place was off the main path, no vendors, no madness, unless you call the young girls forcing the boys to play soccer somewhere else madness or simply role playing for their adult years when the men would find other reasons to avoid their spouses. The riad was a complete contrast to life in Tangier. Tiles galore, fountains, and an abundance of designs that, while not my preferred aesthetic, worked. More importantly, the little living room with the vintage couches proved an ideal spot for a delivered Chinese dinner, and the rooftop terrace offered views without the headaches of sharing space with hundreds of other people watching the setting sun. Don’t misunderstand me, we ventured out to play tourist, but within reason. There was, of course, the walk to the river, looking for that connection to nature where even in constructed chaos, the sounds of water can still soothe the soul. We walked to the Spanish Mosque in search of good views and aloe plants I could entertain the thought of digging up for a lifetime supply, but most importantly, we walked to clear our heads from the demands of school life, where students require our undivided attention and some parents prefer preferential standing when the need arises. Aside from a few stumbles on loose cobbles eager to claim new victims, we found a near-empty cafe that other tourists feared to go to. I now found a reason to explore the next morning, when everyone else was sleeping off a night of excess and boisterous activity. I fell asleep in silence, without even the hum of activity outside to stir. As the residents and tourists disappeared into their rooms, bringing many of the city’s cats with them, we woke to explore a new city, untouched, unbothered, and free of commercial transactions. That’s when the real fun began, with four-legged angels keeping us safe and leading us to the best spots without the madness that a Moroccan experience typically entails. While I’m sure you want to hear more, I’ll let the vlog take over from here. In the end, the trip to Chefchaouen was a good one. I’m still unsure whether I liked the city, but I appreciated the well-deserved respite from constant noise and the opportunity to be closer to nature, even as I watched others treat it as a place meant for tourists rather than a home to so many.  This is always an interesting time of year for me, or has been since 2005. For Americans, some of us are getting those last-minute tax returns in, but with that already checked off the books, for me, it’s more about reflecting on the twin brother who passed in his prime. I find it humorous the lead-up, the week before the anniversary, where, frankly, even now, 21 years later, I’m subdued in some moments, reflective at others, and any patience I do have is out the door as my body and mind go back to that week and those last interactions. The movie Fever Pitch springs its head as that was the last movie I told my Red Sox-obsessed brother to go to with his expecting fiancée. They never did make it to the movie, nor did he get to watch the Queer Eye for the Straight Guy episode with the Red Sox championship players, including our mutual favorites of Jason Varitek and Tim Wakefield. Little things still bring me pause, even here in Tangier, living what feels like half a world away. His son is turning 21 this year, which we all know is a rite of passage. Still, it’s a bit surreal to watch his child grow into a man, while my brother never got to experience any of that process. As for his fiancée, she made the final transition home a decade after Stephen, leaving a heavier weight on this annual holiday. We aren’t just talking about my twin, but the woman he loved as well. I know it’s far easier to write she died, but then again, the word transition makes it seem less final. Even Stephen, my dear twin, physically died. Trust me, I’m well aware, as I can see the bloodied clothes from the car accident, and can feel the emotions run through me as if it were yesterday. Sheesh, I can open up the page from Running With Vince, where I literally explained that scene, the plastic bag with his belongings, those blood-stained clothes representing some relic that the medics and hospital thought we would want to keep. His car was totaled, I know it well as I climbed in through the trunk, trying to salvage what belongings remained, or dare I say, he left behind. Fittingly, Phil Collins' greatest hits CD was taken with him, lost in the carnage, as were several other musical hits that Stephen had commandeered without my permission years earlier. I still laugh, finding these little tokens in the years that have passed. Again, he physically left, but his influence and touch still permeate everything, or maybe just enough of my daily environment to realize he is still around, helping in other ways. Even now, here in Morocco, I put on our local radio station 98.7, from Somersworth, New Hampshire, and the first song that comes on is REO Speedwagon’s “Keep On Loving You.” If I needed a cosmic wink that Brother Bear was around, there couldn’t have been a clearer sign. This was one of his anthems, a song I have been forced to like, and a funny reminder of the twin dynamic we shared. Flashback to the infamous Snow Bowl, the game between the Raiders and Patriots, that led to the “Tuck Rule” and to Adam Vinatieri’s winning kick that eventually took us to the Super Bowl. The dynamic duo started off at Crazy’s Ottos, a dive bar to begin the game, so Stephen could check in with his local bookie (no joke) and have a couple beers with heavenly wings while watching our home team play. I don’t remember much about the first half of the game or even up until the fourth quarter, save that we were losing 13-3 and I told him we were going home to watch the rest of the game from there. There was no point in being sad at a bar when we could do it from the living room, less than two miles away. Stephen turned up the television as we arrived just in time to watch the Patriots drive down the field and score their first touchdown of the game. He was nuts. He was loud. He was drinking his beer and screaming at the television set with every run, pass, and play. It was ridiculous, but then again, this was Patriots football, and Stephen loved them dearly. A few minutes later, he was back at it again. The Patriots had the ball and were driving in blizzard-like conditions. Somehow, some way, Vinatieri nailed that 45-yard kick through the uprights, tying the game and taking us to overtime. Stephen was off the rails, screaming louder, jumping up and down, and of course turning on his celebration anthem of REO Speedwagon. He was a party unto himself. Even with me pleading with him to turn down the music so I could hear the television, he insisted on getting through the first verse and chorus before he recentered enough for the overtime period. He also refused to move out of the way so I could turn the stereo off, which made the entire exchange even funnier. I was excited about the overtime period, but I didn’t need to shout to the neighbors on the other side of our living room wall or to anyone walking their dogs past the front door. He was so LOUD, but that was him. I just wanted to clap and take it all in. Now, in 2026, the song still plays, and I’m brought back to those moments, to this exchange and others. It doesn’t take much to bring him front and center, and for that I’m grateful. As for football games, I can’t watch them anymore without taking on his boisterous traits or the over-the-top passion for our home team to do well. I will say I prefer the little winks, his reminding me of our moments, of the twin boys who grew up together, and even now, years later, share a bond that can’t be broken. Anniversaries will continue to come and go, with different perspectives and challenges, but the love remains. That’s all that matters.  I don’t know about you, but I’m delighted this week is finally over. Hello, April, I’m happy to see you, and I hope you’ll treat me and others better than March ever could. Here’s a new story for the books, as I still process the everyday realities of life living abroad. Then again, this exchange could very well have happened at home. The only difference is that I would have been able to talk to someone in person and actually solved everything sooner. The BOA LessonBanking is always a pain in the backside, I don’t care where you live. I remember being in my teens and realizing that the moment the account goes negative, the bank is swarming in for their hit job. Banks live off people who bounce checks, overextend their accounts, or don’t time their purchases accordingly and go in the red. I really appreciate the ethical aspects of say, instead of freezing an account when it hits zero, some banks, like Bank of America, back in the day (probably now as well), will let the purchase go through, sort of, enough to charge you for the overdraft. Then, like magic, the next day, if you aren’t on top of your account, that same purchase tries again, and who, with a smile on their face, does another overdraft charge? Yep, BOA and other entities that really aren’t in business, save to make money off people who don’t know any better. Could we say this is predatory? There might be a debate on that. At the very least, if one doesn’t take the time to read the fine print on the 1000-page agreement, it’s a surprise when these things come about. I’ll say I never got into any of these excessive charges, but my dear twin Stephen did. Sheesh, poor kid in his early twenties wrote a few checks, and they weren’t cashed in a timely manner. I remember the phone call, how pissed he was, because he figured once the checks were passed over, family members, companies, etc, immediately deposited them. This most definitely wasn’t the case, at least with the family members. For whatever reason, our dear relative held the check for several weeks, because I suppose it was too much of a hassle at the time to go into the flippin’ bank that was on their way to work. This was before direct deposit on our phones, so no chirping on that scenario, but if it were possible, then it would make this story even worse. Anyway, dear Stephen goes to the bank and takes out some money. He sees his receipt and is pleasantly surprised to find that he has more money in his account than he thought, so he partied and lived it up for another weekend of fun. Now don’t get me started on why he should have double-checked his ledger and not simply estimated his purchases to get a rough idea of what his account would be. As a math teacher, I’ll tell you that people who aren’t going to keep a close eye on their budgets should probably forgo bank accounts entirely and simply use cash to get around. Let’s cast that point aside for the time being. Stephen was careless and assumed his checks had already been deposited and cleared. That was his bad. None of them had gone through yet, let alone been deposited. To make a long story short, a few weeks later, his account is not only negative but several hundred dollars in the hole. What I bloody love about BOA was the constant double-charging once the account dropped below zero. Maybe it’s changed since then, but his account was easily -300 dollars. I can’t unsee the triple hits for having a negative account, then the hits for bouncing the checks, and then some other insane charge that BOA added to the fray for good measure. I’m still pissed on his behalf, and it’s been twenty-five years. Could he have been more attentive to the account, of course? Could our relatives have actually deposited their check in a timely manner? That, for me, is a bigger pain in my backside, simply because I don’t understand why people hold on to checks once they get them. Unless you are a landlord at the beginning of the month and you are waiting for multiple tenants, it doesn’t make sense. One time, my sister had a check deposited ten months (or some ridiculous number) after the fact. Who the heck does that? Even with a ledger, I’m going to assume that one was deposited. Anyway, I can rant about that side topic another day. Let’s keep focused on the banks. Poor Stephen was strapped for cash, trying to pay his bills, but now he owes a significant amount to the bank. Did they freeze his account? No, absolutely not, because they wanted to keep charging him for the negative equity, which at this point was all their fees. What good came out of this ordeal was that, so annoyed by all those fees, I made sure to keep an excessive buffer in my account so it would never bounce. So yay me, I guess. But not everyone has that luxury. Fast forward several years, and I got rid of my BOA account and, for that matter, refuse to go back to certain national banks, especially the ones that got government money during the 2008 crisis, even though it was their bad practices that created some of that ridiculous mess. Same Game, Different CountryI’m all fired up now on this topic, realizing we could go in so many directions. Focusing, though, on the present, I loved living in Poland because my account there was set up so that you couldn’t go negative. Again, it wouldn’t have been my intention, as a responsible adult and a math teacher who lives on a budget, to do that, but I still appreciated that the account was effectively blocked at that number. The card wouldn’t work, nothing could be taken out, the way it should be. As for life in Morocco, I have no clue about the specifics of my current bank account, aside from two things. One, I get around a five-dollar service charge each month for holding my money, and any money sent (like my rent) to a non-bank member is subject to an additional one-dollar surcharge. Granted, these aren’t deal breakers, but they remind me of BOA and not my current banking institutions in the States, where I don’t have any monthly fees or charges. In addition, accessing the online account is nearly impossible, and the app only appears to work well during traditional business hours. The number of times it’s frozen up on me is comical. The second issue I have with this bank is that I believe the bank supervisor is a schmuck. That’s my bottom line. My employer steered us to this bank for “ease of use” and to this point of contact, who is as phony as they come. He might as well be a used-car salesman trying to get me to buy a forty-five-year-old Pinto. If I were staying in this country long-term, I would be looking for a new place to put my funds. Quick story on the schmuck. We all know this type of person, but it’s still worth mentioning, because customer service honestly goes a long way in my world, and being a good human being in general. I’ll admit, I’m not one for small talk with strangers. I try to be pleasant and somewhat friendly, but I also don’t go out of my way to start conversations. In the United States, it’s a little different; it’s more of a cultural norm in Maine and New Hampshire to at least talk about the weather, some random cultural event, or the Patriots. With that said, this past week, for the second time in a year, the bank screwed up my transfer home. We have done 15 wire transfers. That’s right, so this isn’t an unknown commodity, but still, whether it’s at this branch office or the headquarters in Casablanca, someone’s job is to approve all of these transfers. The Wire Transfer FiascoLast year at this time, they put in the wrong number. They literally took every cent out of my account, as though I had intended to zero it out. My actual wire transfer form was 2000 dollars less than what they transferred. Thankfully, the woman I worked with caught the error and called me to double-check the number. She apologized for the head office not doing the amount that I actually signed off on, and within hours, my local account was swimming in money again, and my American account had the correct amount. In effect, a crisis was averted, and everything was transferred promptly.
Last week, a completely different scenario played out. I went in to do the monthly wire transfer and made sure the woman I worked with followed the exact procedure we always did. One day passes; the money is withdrawn from my Moroccan account. Two days pass, three, four, five, and nothing has appeared in my American account. Baffled, I reached out to one of the women I had worked with before and asked her to look into it for me. She said she would and that everything appeared to be in order. Two more days pass, and guess whose wire transfer was denied? This guy, and it wasn’t because of the form, it was because of the blasted headquarters personnel or whoever finalizes all these, didn’t do their blasted job. Unlike last year, when everything was straightened out quickly over the phone, I had to come back inside and repeat the entire process. Now let’s cue the schmuck, the bank manager who sits in his office and spends more time looking at his flippin' phone than helping a few people when the one or two tellers are swamped by the influx of customers. I sit down at the table as my rep begins issuing the wire transfer. This guy, on cue, walks by. He sees me and offers me his hand. “Hey. How are you doing?” I replied with, “Well enough.” He didn’t even stop, but kept walking and said something like, “Me too. I’m good. Thanks.” I watched him continue his walk to the door as he slid out his vape for a well-deserved break. Why even greet me? Seriously? If you aren’t going to really engage, even from a customer service aspect, then just walk by so I don’t label you as a glorified douchebag. This is not the first time we have had this introduction. Every single time, I wait to see whether he stops or is so caught up in appearances that he assumes I asked how he was doing. Talk about someone on autopilot. Full disclosure: Years ago, I stopped asking people how they were doing because I wanted to see if they were actually listening. Maybe I’m a dick for not engaging, but the point is, if you want to have a conversation or be pleasant, then do just that. If your intention is simply to give the appearance that you are interested, but then blow by, that’s flawed to begin with. Thankfully, I didn’t have to work with him to finalize my wire transfer. While I processed the fact that he was doing his same schtick with other men sitting in the waiting area, I simply wanted to go home, knowing this transaction should be good to go. Days later, the money appeared where it was supposed to be, but in a typical big bank fashion, did they reimburse me the $52 for the failed wire transfer, the one they screwed up on? Of course not, because how else can the manager afford his designer suits and keep up his schmoozing habits? Maybe some things never do change, or the universe wanted to remind me whether it’s my twin brother fighting the good fight with BOA twenty plus years ago, or me in the present, most banks are going to find a way to take money from you, whether you have a balanced budget or not. Then again, I did say it was April, right? Uncle Sam wants his money, too. I guess I’ll get right on that. Do you want a check or a transfer? I ask my brother to get right on it…  I’m home, enjoying the last vestiges of spring vacation. While I’ve been stuck here the entire time, unable to travel, it doesn’t mean I wasn’t doing so in spirit. Editing my traveling memoir, Forever Poland, from when I lived in Kraków allowed for some existential travel, or at least memories of trips gone by, places I’ve seen, and food I tried. To that end, with Poland on my mind, here are some places in no particular order that you might want to check out sooner than later. 5 Places in Poland That May Surprise YouBolko Island - Some people head to Opole for the music festival, others to see the official greeters of the city, the llama gang, and aside from steering you away from one restaurant where the chef will mess up your meal and insist you eat it or a pizza venue with questionable drinks, I’ve decided to share with you a better place to see and experience when you visit. Bolko Island should be front and center. Sure, there is a zoo there, and I’m sure it’s wonderful. Instead, walk the trails, the grounds, find yourself on the point where the Oder reconnects, and take in the peace, the stillness of it all, and maybe make a deer friend in the process. Go in the early morning before everyone is stirring, and if you insist on going in warmer weather, at least check whether the marina restaurant is open so you can get something to wet your lips.
Rybnik Riverwalk - This is a fun one, only because I’m not quite sure what you’ll find now on your side quest out of the rynek and towards the overflow waters of the power plant. If you’re lucky, the culling did little to eradicate the cute inhabitants illegally taking up the water’s edge. You’ll see more nutria than you can count and might even feel guilty enough to stop in McDonald’s en route to grab them some proper grub, a pittance if you will, for the town trying to run them off, and yet still capitalize on the fanfare. Then again, should the nutria still be in hiding, head to the warm water, the reservoir, for a good sit on the banks. Take a bike if you need to, but enjoy the breeze and watch The Simpsons play out before you, or see if you can find a carp to grant you a wish. Either way, this place is worth more than five minutes. Lublin Jewish Cemetery and the Railroad Memorial - I know we’re hitting all the loud spots in the country, and by adding these two numbers, I’m taking out the fun and putting in the gravitas. Seriously, though, look up the cemetery and see what you find. This beautiful, reflective spot is right next to the Roman Catholic Parish of Our Lady Help of Christians. Talk about a mouthful, but that’s your marker to go to this Salesian-run church and then step over to the gate with the distinct Star of David. I don’t think you’ll be as lucky as I to find the gate unlocked with a group of future rabbis leaving prayers to those who have passed, but it’s still worth the time, even if you have to run down the street to pick up the key to get into this sanctuary that will connect the past with the present. For those who want to pay their respects to the original Jewish founders in the Lublin community, or to better understand how this place survived German occupation, it’s something that will leave you in silence. A fitting pairing is then the long walk following a similar route to what the Jewish families followed along Turystyczna to Zimna, where the memorial lies, giving you perspective on Germany’s Final Solution and how it impacted this entire region. I would suggest a tour of Majdanek as well, but after the first two, you’ll be ready for a pint or two at the Irish bar in the old square, and rightfully so. Elvis Presley Memorial Statue in Kraków - Okay, so maybe you aren’t a fan of the King of Rock and Roll, and for that, I apologize for your uncultured upbringing. Putting that aside, if you know of Elvis and want to find a unique monument or really monuments to him, then head to Skałki Twardowski City Park, or as I say, the trails around the limestone quarry. Ignore the rock climbers, the cyclists, and the mom’s club out for their morning chat. You’ll find Elvis across from the Polish garden homes with his face half-submerged in stone, but with a head full of hair for you to pose next to. If that’s not enough for you, walk down the opposite trail and find the headstone with his nameplate. You might be a bit underwhelmed, but it’s worth a story or two. Talk about a fitting tribute for a King. Tatar Mound in Przemyśl - Maybe this one is a cop-out. Honestly, if you’re in Przemyśl and have any sense or love of churches, then you’ll spend the entire day going in and out of every single one in the old town area. Then again, maybe you can’t appreciate Baroque Franciscan churches, cathedrals, Orthodox, or Ukrainian-Greek houses of worship. Assuming this isn’t your cup of tea, and maybe you could give two hoots of the World War I cemeteries or Przemyśl Fortress, then Tatar Mound is the place to see. Yeah, we know about the mounds in Kraków, but this is better because it offers unobstructed 360-degree panoramic views of the city and the Carpathian Mountains. Head up Zniesienie Hill, wave at the giant cross or the radio tower, and then will yourself to this ancient burial site. Rain or shine, it has the best views in southern Poland. Writing Plans and a Week of Stillness A well deserved break from Tom and his antics... The first day at home, and already I’m letting my mind wander about what writing projects I should take on. Then again, I could be traveling if only I weren’t waiting to pick up my passport. Not to mention, I’m eating a plane ticket or two, so even exploring Morocco is likely out of the question. Note to self, next time you need a visa for a future trip, apply when you aren’t in the middle of your traveling season. That aside, with events beyond my control, I’m looking at a week hanging out on my couch and lounge chair. Rightfully so, with Forever Poland now complete, I’ll be digging into a new fiction piece. Dare I say, a cozy mystery? Don’t worry, more details to follow in the weeks ahead on that fun number. I will share that I have the treatment done, outline, character, and location descriptions. It’s simply a matter of sitting down and letting the characters share their stories. In the meantime, before that occurs, let me share some random musings that crossed my mind for better or worse over the last few days. Let’s try not to hold all my opinions against me, but rather as food for thought or commentary. Observations from the Streets to the World Stage 1. Unsurprisingly, I almost got hit by several road bikes and a car yesterday that decided me being in the crosswalk, directly in their path, wasn’t a good enough reason to stop. Yes, I actually slapped the back side of one car and decided I’m actually an American who has two fingers for communication purposes. No one stopped or cared. One of these days, I’m going to find another dead person lying in the middle of the road, and it will likely be from that fellow or another driver, clearly. 2. Quick question - How does waving at me while I’m in the crosswalk, as you swerve by, dangerously, may I add, make everything better? I’m asking for a friend. What does this wave actually mean? Is it a peace sign or a forgive me for being a schmuck? I really don’t know. 3. I’m thankful Ramadan is over, which means I can actually go to the bank during regular hours. I still don’t understand how it works exactly, where the banks’ normal hours went from 8 in the morning to 7 at night, to basically, some time after 9 and whenever they decide to close the doors, around 3:30. Granted it could have been worse, the bank next door to mine, had Ramadan hours from 12:15 to 2:15. That’s helpful for people that actually work during the day. Did I mention, I’m relieved? 4. On a similar note, while the bank was living their perfect working dream hours, every morning well before sunrise and even before I woke, that little drummer boy, or man, can go retire until next year. We don’t need your services until next season, when you can roam the streets at 3:30 in the morning, banging your drum as the alarm clock no one really wanted or asked for. That’s my favorite touch, you going from door to door like the young kids back home who mowed the lawn without your permission, and now want to get paid for a hack job and to go away for services rendered. What a trip… 5. AFCON - Yeah, I just need to write this down for posterity. Which team celebrated after the match was played again? I don’t care either way. I’m likely the only person in the entire country who didn’t watch a game, but yeah, that was fun the other night listening to the revelers, celebrating after the appeal decision by honking car horns and belting out sounds with those stupid plastic children's wannabe trumpets. Wow, an amazing display of sportsmanship, months later, in the middle of the night, in Islam’s most revered season. But I get it, you think you won something tangible. Who cares if the World Cup is only a few months away? 6. Speaking of the World Cup, why is the Commander in Chief in Washington DC, saying that the Iranian team wouldn’t be safe? I’m going to call this out for what it is: stop being such an @#$ and treat some people with empathy and compassion. Then again, maybe not starting a war just for its own sake and allowing other means to achieve lasting peace would have been better for the bottom line. I hope the Iranian team can play all their games in Mexico and as far away from the White House’s eyes as possible. For that matter, go team Iran. Wouldn’t that be the story to have them get to a semifinal match and the USA team out in the first round? Now that’s something to support.  An reenactment of Tom the cat pooping in the field 7. While I’m musing about my home country, aside from the one resignation, when are politicians on both sides of the aisle going to wake up, actually grow a pair, and stand up to a bully who has no place in modern politics? Honestly, let’s bring up Pearl Harbor to get a bloody reaction, or call out other world leaders and continue this negative, old energy crap that no longer serves a purpose. As an American, what does it say about us as a country to let some hack treat others in such a negative manner? Let’s not focus on being the loving example around the world, a tangible light for those in darkness. Instead, we can be the country that stirs up stuff in a way that didn’t have to happen. But sure, there’s a bottom line in there, and who cares about children, families, and everyday people around the world who are caught in the crossfire? I get it, the media must be driving this circus, but then again, what do I know when the only clips I see are of an insecure old man, questioning, belittling, and degrading everyone around him. It must be me . . . 8. This sort of leads back to the series of blog posts about people who are kind and empathetic towards others. Then again, it seems that, especially since the pandemic, we are living in a world with two types of people. You have those who are considerate and actually think about others and how their actions might impact them, and then there are the idiots who keep dodging pedestrians on the streets, blocking other cars in the parking lot, making stupid comments on Facebook pages, or simply selfish individuals who seem to think they are the only inhabitants in this world. I’m sure there are other good examples, but you get the idea. Where’s the pause and thinking about how one’s actions impact another? I’m not stating you need to go out on the streets and start handing out food or money to every beggar or person you walk by, but you can probably pause for a moment and think, hey maybe I should give up this seat at the bus stop for the old woman with all the grocery bags, as opposed to throwing a suitcase on the unoccupied spot and then feigning a really important phone call, ignoring anyone in need. 9. Birds. Yep, they have come back to Tangier. I’m not sure where they were hiding for three months. With no more weeks of rain on end, the seagulls have returned in force. I might even be housing a pigeon family or two in the eaves of my exterior blinds. No, I have no idea how that happened, but it’s two years in a row now. Did I mention how the cat at school speaks Seagulese? He does, every single morning at eight, if he hasn’t been fed by one of the staff, he cries out like a gull. It’s humorous. 10. Speaking of humorous, Tom, the school cat, an elderly chap, was caught in the act of defecating in the middle of our soccer field while learning Seagulese. True story, the seagulls were out doing their thing, raiding the trash bins, while Tom ran out to the middle of the field, popped a squat, and looked around to make sure no one was watching. After leaving a few land mines for the kids to run around on, he sprinted off the field towards the school, leaving his little presents behind. This isn’t the first time he’s left gifts, but the only time he’s been caught in the act. I don’t think anyone believes my story, but I know what I saw. 11. Did I ever share that, for me, writing fiction is easier than non-fiction? True story: I used to think the opposite, but at least between Forever Poland and Brindisi and Me, the process is more time-consuming because, with the stories set in real life, there is some need for fact-checking and getting everything straight. In a fiction piece, I can simply feign ignorance or say it’s only a story, so the details don’t matter. Hmmm, that seems a lot like the line of thought the head cheeto follows. Apologies, I digress . . . 12. Finally, after months of eating frozen spinach, because for some reason I thought it tasted good, I have figured out that boiling spinach and then adding it to cooked green peas and some parmesan cheese is an absolute treat. If we actually had fresh spinach available, I wouldn’t have found out this fact, but since I’ve been buying the frozen variety off and on since September (usually in bulk), it’s something I’ve learned through experimentation. Here’s a sort of fun fact: at least at my local Marjane grocery store, the greens have been limited, period. We had lettuce for a short time, here and there, and while there are always mint leaves, it’s been rare to see any fresh spinach, and for that matter, the rocket stuff was only around for a month or two as well. That reminds me of my preferred butter, the President brand. We actually went several weeks without any salted butter, well, specifically non-local butter that isn’t vegetable oil disguised in butter shape. Oh goodness, I’m sick thinking about it… Till next update, be good to yourself and others. JFK |
Meet Mr. Jon- a traveler at heart who loves a good story and walk. Jonathan has over twenty years experience in independent publishing. While he prides himself on crafting a good story, nothing truly beats an adventure and a camera. 
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