This post was supposed to be about my triumphant return to writing - yes, I had intended to do National Novel Writing Month. Last Friday night I even started a new novel. I surprised myself and began the first 1000 words of a post apocalyptic story. The story was dark and had the same brooding as Rusty Star and the Varissian Affair. 

I found the irony the new story would follow this same trend, when I had first considered writing a story about a man returning to the States for a family wedding. As I have not been to a wedding in years - seriously since my ill-fated courthouse nuptials more than a decade ago - I couldn't even tell you the last wedding I attended that wasn't in a Hallmark movie or TV show. It's been that long.

So the whole idea of writing about a wedding seemed a bit off-putting. The entire idea seemed more difficult than writing from a man's perspective on what life would be like if the world was at a turning point - you know only steps away from coming to an end. Throw me in the middle of the woods, in crappy weather, and some unknown power threatening all life for me to find any meaningful words to throw down on the computer.

This motivation drove Friday night, but when time came to start the next words on Saturday, I found myself drawn more to the next travel vlog, my next destination, and frankly how best to spend the Christmas holidays. 

For those looking for new books to read, it will happen eventually. While I thought Morocco would inspire me in multiple ways, daily living has been all that I can handle of late. My celebrations have consisted of waiting ten days for a new fleece blanket to arrive and for a shower curtain to replace the stained and grimy one that was left for my personal use in my overrated water view apartment.

Even pondering that fine move from the end of August, I've only lived in my current apartment for 2.5 months. It seems longer and yet shorter. There are still things I would add to make it feel like home, but due to the location, cost of goods, and motivation, I'm more like will any changes really make the space better? Will adding more rugs truly improve the space when I would rather add pictures to these cement walls. 

The poor finishing touches with sockets and lights bring me pause and yet there's nothing I can do when it takes ten days simply to get any repair done. There is no rush here - at least that's my impression. People are more concerned about daily living and what impacts their bottom line. Out of sight - out of mind. We've done this mentality before, but here in the northern tip of Africa, it seems to ring more true. 

I imagine I'll be back into a writing groove at some point this year and yet I can't tell you when. I'm looking forward to visiting new locations, experiencing Christmas markets once more, and to feeling the cool embrace of winter weather. That's my focal point. As the apartment adds more charms, maybe I'll shift and a new story will find itss way to print or not. 

Some of you might have wondered what happened to dear old Jonny boy. Don’t worry, I’m still among the living and for the most part settled in my humble abode here in Tangier. To say it’s been a bit of an adventure would be understating the fun of figuring out where to shop, eat, and truly where to live. 
When I visited in April, I was only here for 36 hours in an attempt to get a feel for the area and to decide whether it could be a suitable place to call home. Even then my impression was mixed. Compared to my native Northern New England, many areas are going to feel different. I tried to equate Tangier to my time in Brinidisi, Italy, but it’s not quite the same. 

This part of the world is unique to where I have ventured, explored, or lived.

There is no siesta time, the cars and motorcycles are in love and obsessed with their horns even when no one is in their direct path. Should there be traffic and no possible way forward, drivers will simply honk for good measure to see if other drivers want to join their queue of the disgruntled. I don’t think people actually sleep here. I have seen an equal amount of cars at 5 in the morning while running, enough that I need to actually look both ways and sometimes weave in and around the lanes to cross the road.  And yet by 6:30 am, it’s simply me, the cats, and the hungry dogs.

The many shops I pass on a daily basis are fun to observe. There are so many high end dress shops where the owners show off the latest fabrics and designs that are popular in this part of the world. If I was a fashionista or fashion forward in the least, let alone a woman, I’m sure I would be in and out of these spots. What surprised me were the number of fabric shops where people simply buy the pattern and the fabric to sew at home. My closed off mind thought this was only for those practicing Amish and Mormans.

More practical in mind -  I’ve been on the lookout for vitamins more than a suitable dress. I’m used to driving over to Wally World and buying a container of 1000 mg Vitamin C. Forced to find a viable alternative as they are not stocked in the local grocery stories has proven interesting. I can’t just order them online like I did in Poland and have them arrive the next day. Instead, I had to figure out which place was selling “actual” vitamins and not fake ones. 

Not wanting that hassle, after an hour or two of research, I caved and decided to just visit one of the many pharmacies. I had to talk to a physical pharmacist as nothing was stocked on shelves for people to grab from. I’m happy to report I was able to get Vitamin C drops, 500 mg, for ⅓ more of the price I would pay in the States and with half of the quantity. That’s the fun of moving and learning what they do have in country versus what you want.

Apartment living is as joyous as I remember, save the incessant weekend hammering. For whatever reason during the week there is no noise, but come Saturday morning or my favorite, Sunday night, it’s time to get out that hammer or saw and do those remodeling tasks. This isn’t just for a few minutes, but a few hours for good measure. 

I thought living over a jazz club and at a busy intersection with direct sun exposure and no air conditioning was the worst experience yet, but if that guy above me doesn’t stop hammering, I might have to reconsider. We can combine that with the weekend warriors and seasonal residents who were complaining about the sound of my air conditioner unit when their daughter’s bedroom window is actually in proximity to three different units, including their own. This was a giant waste of my time earlier in the week.  

I especially enjoyed explaining that once the temperature is met the unit turns off, which means the constant noise is from ALL of the units, not just mine. To make them feel better though and after the security guy interrupted my evening to mention this complaint about the incessant noise (even though I had only been home twenty minutes and likewise the accused air conditioner unit had only just been turned on) I told them I would reach out to my landlord about seeing if a technician could come by and make it less noisy. 

They had their suitcases in tow a few nights later, clearly moving onto their second residence or next spacious retreat. I’ll let you know when the technician finally arrives to solve the mysterious problem of air conditioner noise when it is operating. 

Life in Morocco is just like anywhere else. People complain, people buy groceries, go to restaurants, they work (sometimes) and even have McDonald's for tourists to have a familiar sense of home. My personal favorite is the Junior Tasty and that sauce of theirs. I thought I was going to be crying over the loss of my Mocha Frappe, but this new snack and those Gouda bites leave this good old American boy smiling to the end. 

I’ll try to be more frequent in these updates. My next task is getting fiber setup so I can actually start vlogging again and not have even a ten second long video take five minutes to upload. The only hiccup is you need your residency card for the fastest internet. Otherwise, you get the Wifi internet that frankly is hit or miss, especially during the time of day. Alas, a story for another time. 

I’ll be in touch.

​JFK
​

All good things must end at some point. For now our Poland travel vlogs are over. Perhaps I should simply say the most recent trip to Poland and the many vlogs that came from it have been posted for all to see. I know many have commented throughout on where I should visit next, especially as I was so close to “cooler” spots to tour and the country of Poland still has much to offer. 

Dare I say, I’m not sure when I’ll be back. It could be in the winter, spring, or next summer. I don’t really know because visiting Poland is a hobby of mine, an expensive one at that. And yet there are other countries that are crying for attention. 

You’ll note my Albania and England vlogs are now on deck to be shown. For that matter, I’m now based out of Morocco, so it’s possible there could be some vlogs coming from this part of the world after the summer travel vlogs are exhausted. I really don’t know. 

Honestly, with the current channel I have made 128 vlogs and 355 shorts (although it’s probably closer to 400). Let’s combine that with the 100 + vlogs on my old travel channel and I’ve been doing content for over a twenty-two month period. That’s quite a bit of traveling, investment, and filming. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had a great time exploring and adventuring. I also haven’t written any creative content during that same timeframe as my energy has shifted towards video. Part of me is remiss, because I love crafting a good story.

This isn’t goodbye at all. I just wanted to share that the road ahead is uncertain. There are trips already planned, tickets purchased for October and November. For that matter different itineraries are being considered for the holiday season in December. But, I can’t tell you what will be posted after mid September and how often. 

Thanks for watching what I have created and hopefully we will touch base on YT sooner than later. 

Cheers,

JFK

​

Two weeks ago I did something I never thought I would do . . . well wait, let me back track for a moment. When I was living in Poland I never considered the idea of traveling to North Africa for any school vacation. Absolutely not. I was always focused on Central European exploration with a touch of Baltic and Balkan adventures for good measure. 

When coworkers mentioned crossing over to Morocco from Spain, I thought they were crazy. Part of this was from a lack of proper information. Whether it’s from local media or word of mouth, Africa is scrutinized wrongfully and there are so many stereotypes, preconceived notions on why it’s not safe to travel - even to Morocco which has been Washington’s longest friend. 

One would think I might have overlooked this bias long before, as my father and stepmother had made the journey years earlier. They explored the entire country and absolutely loved the experience. Still, I think as an introvert by nature the idea of crowds, especially in markets, rubbed me the wrong way. Just walking in the medina on those narrow streets and paths, not always well lit, is not that appealing at first thought. I couldn’t even fathom being approached by people. 

Granted, I should have used my Star Wars geekdom and been like - Morocco, isn’t that where they shot all the desert scenes? That would have painted a different picture. What about those food dishes Anthony Bourdain showed? 

But instead of focusing on those positive interactions, fear took over, especially in my younger years. It wasn’t until several coworkers made trips to Morocco and returned with positive experiences that my mindset began to shift. If they could make the trip, then I would be fine. The shift continued when a friend and popular traveler blogger made a similar journey with her boyfriend. From their pictures alone I knew this would be a place worth visiting. 

Fast forward to the present and I made a whirlwind trip to Tangier, Morocco. It wasn’t long, only two nights and only a day and a half of exploration, but it was enough to wet that proverbial whistle. There’s something about the area that draws you in. Even with the crowds of people wandering the markets or the narrow alleys and passageways of the old medina there was a familiarity about the place that I enjoyed. 

Perhaps it was the fragrance of spices that filled the air or the numerous cats that ruled the streets. I’m not sure exactly, but when I reached the casbah and looked out onto the Atlantic Ocean that sense of freedom and beauty was magical. Was this truly the spot where Hercules came to die? Was this where he divided the mountains so that the Atlantic Ocean and Mediterranean Sea would meet?

To say I was being pulled in and enjoyed this new energy would be an understatement. Whether it was people watching or walking by beautiful mosques, the churches, and the different shops and street side cafes, I was brought me back to the 14 year old writer who started a story about the blowing winds of Abydos. 

I couldn’t tell you today what the story was going to be about. I think there was a young boy who was going to find his way out of such a place, but I don’t remember. What I can recall is the student teacher who tore it to shreds because it was only an introduction. I spent ten pages painting the setting, the streets, the markets, everything - setting the mood on how the environment was alluring, yet a challenge to navigate. 

The writer in me didn’t return to such a setting until after I lived in Brindisi. And yet that was still a different mentality, a flavor all to its own. You can read it for yourself in The Varissian Affair. Then again, that’s a science fiction book and I made Brindisi an alien world. For me, living in that part of Italy felt like another world at times. My landlord called it North Africa because of the constant wind and sand finding its way to our southern port.

What I remember the most, was the slower pace of life. Even not knowing much of the language, I was able to observe and see the nuances of daily routines. I imagined the same in Tangier as I walked around and became more familiar with the area. Within a few minutes I could see why so many writers have found their way to this wondrous city. 

I hope to return for more new experiences. This trip to Morocco was more than I expected, in a good way. For the traveler in me, it was good to get out of my comfort zone and my preconceived notions. As an introvert I was able to navigate and grow more comfortable with each walk and conversation. 

My favorite memory of the trip wasn’t exploring the streets, markets, or venturing down to the beach. It was something rather simple. It was a late night meal where I stopped off at a side vendor who was staring at his cell phone waiting for anyone to step in to his kiosk for a snack. 

There were three stools and one countertop to the right. The other side was his prep area with a small gas stove top with two burners and a fryer. I asked for a burger and grabbed an Orangina - thinking that would be enough to quench my thirst. 

I took a sip and watched as the cook, waiter, and greeter - the “all in one” attendant began to prepare my meal. He turned on the stove top, took out the slab of meat, and went to work. Two gentlemen appeared from the shadows. They exchanged pleasantries - locals I’m sure. It was fun to watch the exchange as one wanted a croquette that was maybe twenty cents. He fumbled with his change and the cook motioned him to not bother. 

The act of generosity made me smile as I watched him put three croquettes into the fryer. 

I took another swig of my cold drink and wondered when it was the last time I ate past 8 pm and at a venue many of my family would consider a dive at best. I felt like I was in an open market Waffle House. Even in the poorly lit street, among the many partisans doing their evening shopping or grabbing a meal, it was a calming moment. 

I was at peace.

The cook and I managed to figure out what additional toppings I wanted added to his Moroccan burger. He then spread several sauces onto the toasted buns and prepared an egg that was carefully placed over the simmering meat. Unlike in the USA where we would decide what temperature I wanted the burger - I sat back and watched this man work his magic.

Fresh cut fries were added and within a few minutes I had a beautifully prepared meal waiting for me. We can talk about how it was only $3.80 or we can focus on the fact that for the first time on this trip I felt a sense of home and relished every bite. This wasn’t a sense of being back in Maine but one that comes from being in the right place at the right time. 

Between the ambiance, the smells, the taste, and watching this man do his job to perfection, while still carrying on a conversation with his cohorts; it was a great moment to be part of, one I’ll never forget.
​

I can’t decide what’s more exciting, planning the trip or the actual traveling. Maybe it’s more a matter of my mood at the time and what stressors I have brought to my current country, place, city, whatever. Truly, many of us don’t have the luxury of long trips or Hollywood caliber adventures. We are faced with tight budgets, figuring out whether one location or another is better for a weekend retreat, or if we should stay at home and save money for a longer excursion in the months ahead. 

Some might question the amount of research I do, especially as I walk around and vlog, often oblivious to the importance of a random statue or location to the local population. While at other times, I seem to be the most informed person in the area. Part of this has nothing to do with the trip, but simply the amount of time I have prior to a journey. 

For many travel vloggers and bloggers, the weekend adventurer types, we only have so much time in a given day. Usually, mine is focused on the day job, which leaves only enough time for me to get a general idea on where I’m going and not much else. I have to admit, I like this part of traveling. 

I do enjoy being informed about an area, the history, and where to go and eat, but at other times it’s fun to get off a plane and just go with the flow. Or maybe it’s not necessarily fun, but it certainly allows one to gain more appreciation for details and for different experiences.

That’s what happened last week when I was in Spain. I didn’t do any research for Madrid, save how do I get from the airport to the center of the city? I figured those logistics would be the most important as I didn’t want to stay at the airport the entire time or necessarily get ripped off in my first few minutes in the region.

And yet, even being informed, I was annoyed with the schmuck working the ticket machines. He forced himself on the uninformed tourists to get a few euros for pressing buttons that I otherwise could have done without his guidance. I far preferred to pay the English speaking information desk for a multi day pass, if it meant that guy on the machines would scam one less person.

Truly - that’s how my mind worked in that brief exchange. There should have been a sense of relief once I stepped on the train, venturing towards the center city. I didn’t have any though, because Madrid threw me for a loop with a train network and information system that was clearly meant for locals and not for the many tourists who frequent the capital. While in Poland I could easily look at a map, hear stops called in both Polish and English, Spain doesn’t bother with anything outside of the native language. 

Sure, that’s okay, I get it. We do the same in the States, but not clearly identifying which train goes where and the accompanying stops is a giant pain in the ass. Out of every location I have traveled, Spain was a nuisance and confusing. We don’t even have to get into the fact that the airport is not easy to navigate with multiple terminals that are miles apart. As a seasoned traveler, they didn’t sell me on wanting to fly back into that mess again. 

Now let’s focus on the positives. Once I was in the city, settled in my overpriced single room, it was time to explore what I could in the few hours I had allotted. Simply stated - Madrid was respectable, but not worth a future effort. If I hadn’t had an overnight layover for my next flight to Morocco, Madrid would have remained off my to-do list. I wonder if there are other parts of Spain I might gravitate towards, but the capital city, not so much.  

Did I enjoy exploring the side streets, going into different churches, and seeing the cafe lined streets? Sure I did, but I didn’t like the Western European prices, nor did I like how crowded it was even on a Monday night in April. Part of that is city life, but the amount of cars clogging the city streets, made me flashback to Boston and other American cities where traffic noises dictate much of the experience. 

I’m sure others gravitate towards this place. There is an allure with the decor, the restaurants and city squares where one can sit, have a beverage, and people watch. For me, it was nothing more than a stop over. I can check off the box for visiting Spain and can focus on other countries, other hamlets that pull more to my introverted soul. 

Granted, I imagine if my hotel room was cheaper and even the meal I ate was more reasonable, I might be swayed to think otherwise. Then again, I was only in the city for a night. An entire weekend would have made me feel more disgruntled and wondering what better ways I could have used my allotted travel budget. 

This is why we travel though, to experience new places for better or worse. Some resonate, while others do not. If you like a place, you go back. If you don’t, there’s more than a few to choose from. Till the next adventure . . . 

​

While traveling in Latvia and Estonia, I wrote the blog posted below. From my early teens I dreamed of visiting this part of the world. After many delays and life events, it wasn't until I was teaching in Poland where I finally had an opportunity to check off this proverbial box. And yet, was it a perfect trip? Did this life long dream meet my expectations? Or was it just another time for perspective, for processing the ups and downs of life? See what I wrote and enjoy a few pictures.

From October 2022: 
The uneasiness I felt in Riga dissipated the moment I got on the bus for Estonia. Within minutes of leaving the city center and getting out into the countryside, I wondered if I was making a mistake leaving early. Truly, I knew it was the right call. These lakes and wooded vistas of Latvia were nothing more than a tease of what I thought I was getting myself into. Instead, I was plagued by city life and all that comes with. 

Not even forty minutes onto the ride, the farther we drove away, what stress I had felt was all bought gone. Instead, I settled into some journaling and reflected on what had gone wrong for the first part of my trip and with everything else in life. I know that’s a heavy statement and overly dramatic to put out there, but truly I believe when we are faced with adversity other moments of similar angst rise to the forefront. 

When all one can do is sit in their comfy bus seat, play Angry Birds, and ignore the stench of body odor and a clear beer detox episode from my fellow passenger and seat mate, these thoughts force themselves to be processed. I had two hours to kill, to see what I could better understand to make the rest of the trip a more productive one.

Pärnu is a beautiful beach town. While this might be the fourth largest city in Estonia and it’s former capital, to me it’s just a large town of forty thousand souls. For that I was grateful because it was easy to navigate and designed perfectly for walkers, runners, and bikers. Even if I tried, which I did, I couldn’t get lost within the city limits. 

Where with Riga I felt like another body; in this hamlet, I felt more at ease with nature and the beach that beckoned. Still even with this more relaxed atmosphere lingering thoughts came into my head on why this trip had this up/down feeling. Then it struck me over dinner, that I had no one to share this trip with. Aside from my video camera and friends and family I texted, there was no other physical presence to experience this reality. To be frank, that was a challenge. 

This was the first trip I can remember feeling out of sorts with my traveler of one status. I share it freely now, because many people travel alone. We all don’t have the luxury of travel friends or a romantic partner that we can tolerate enough to venture out to other parts of the world. To that end, when any unsettling experiences arise, all one can do is rely on themselves. It’s easier said than done. 

While I loved walking the quiet streets and commenting on the varied buildings and architecture, I would have preferred to have spoken more on the history of the region. Obsessed with all things Estonia since the early 1990s, I was game to share my knowledge of what the transition had been like after the fall of the Soviet Union. Moreover, talking about what life was like as an independent country prior to communism would have been a worthwhile conversation. 

Despite these best intentions, I remained stuck in my head. Having suffered in a way with the city life of Riga, I became that little boy from Brentwood who simply wanted to feel like he was back home riding his bike in the woods. The remainder of the trip was focused on rebooting the system and grounding myself. 

Part of this reboot was a continued connection to the water. It didn’t matter the time of day, the weather, or the temperature; I kept walking the same section of beach waiting for that cosmic wink that things would be okay. 

Some might tell you being alone is a state of mind. Some might even be envious of a trip without any friends or family to consider. And yet standing out on the shoreline looking out at the vastness of the Baltic Sea, I was reminded of how dreams change and in the future it’s better to not force things. 

The fact during my previous teaching stint overseas (five years earlier) led to three canceled trips to this region should have told me something. It’s not necessarily timing, but perhaps divine intervention saying there are other places to be that will resonate more. I laughed thinking back at the previous trip I canceled and how instead of traveling I bunkered down in my Brindisi apartment and wrote most of the first draft to Valo in a one week period.

On this trip, I had intentions to write, to dive into National Novel Writing Month and instead I can report that the journal I wrote in daily, basically to process my thoughts of loneliness and questionable dating past, was left behind on the Lux Express bus I traveled on from Estonia back to Riga. 

Talk about a wink that this wasn’t the area for any writing, let alone for any meaningful writing to remain in my possession. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed this portion of my trip. There was peace in the air and even though I didn’t see the sun the entire time, feeling a closeness to the water was all I really needed. 

Returning a few days later, I felt relief that I could finally move forward and check off these Baltic boxes. Neither trip was what I had expected or planned. Then again, I needed downtime to process some deeper thoughts, to move on from loss, and to realize that sometimes the best vacation is either one spent at home or among familiar things. 

Traveling is said for many to be a way to see new locations, try new foods, and experience different cultures. For me, while that might be true at some point, right now it’s about finding that sense of home and familiarness in a toxic world that is continually a challenge to navigate. Here’s to the next trip being a better match for my current state of mind.

​

For the last 19 years this day has brought new meaning to my life. Prior to 2005, this was the season meant for taxes and for my sisters shared birthday on every Americans' favorite holiday. As many of you know, life tends to take over and while their birthday remains, the day after - the 16th of April has become a holiday on to its self, one where I reflect on my mortality and the loss of my dear twin. 

We all lose people we love. I'm not objectifying my loss to be more than yours or of a higher value. I would say for me I dread the lead up to this fateful day and the rush of memories and emotions that seem to play out every, single, year. Last year I celebrated Stephen's memory at a small seaside village outside of Thessaloniki. Greece. When this is published, I'll be in Spain doing the same. 

I like to think he would be supportive of this new tradition, traveling to a different location, to see and experience something new, while embracing his memory and all that he was to many in this world. I get emotional thinking about his loss and how different life might have been for not only me and my siblings, but my parents, and his fiance and unborn child. Death brings a storm and how we weather that experience, truly impacts that season of living until the next tempest arrives. 

While I take moments to honor his life, I can't help but reflect on his generosity, his carefree spirit, and the love that he shared unconditionally with so many. He was a model for me and others in that way, so much so that he reminds me still on how to take a moment and see what you can do to create positive change. 

One lesson that I took from Stephen more than any other was being generous and helping others. I'll leave you with this short story from a previous blog I wrote on my first trip to Ireland. On a side note, I still believe the trip to Dublin was more about him seeing the sights than me. I'll let you know one day when he and I meet again to compare notes and whether his soul was living vicariously through me on that holiday weekend excursion. 

From 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. My apologies. With this being the holiday season, especially with Thanksgiving underway, I can’t help but think how important giving is in all our lives. 

Many struggle this time of year, far more than other times. Some are lacking in basic necessities, others are without 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 occurrence, I have no other recourse. 

As a teacher in New Hampshire, I saw first hand 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 what belongings I did have in Maryland and finding to my surprise that my favorite fleece blanket was gone. I looked around the house, in every drawer, closest, 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 an ample amount of 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 being 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 in my head after I passed an old woman. 

Let me back track, 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 and to 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 and 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 in 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 me in finding 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.