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 . . . 

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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.

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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. 

The New Jewish Cemetery in Krakow is a relatively tourist-free area. Tucked away between a major shopping mall and a construction zone for the new train route, it’s off the beaten bath. I discovered it back in late August 2022 when I ventured into Kazimierz. What was intended to be an afternoon walk to figure out where different side streets went and if there were some special running routes I had overlooked, I found myself before the iron door. 

I forget which Saturday I found my way to the gates and even more what I wondered as I stood there trying to catch a glimpse at what lay out of sight. The Jewish Sabbath forced me to return a day later and I was not disappointed. Not only did I find the place to be an undiscovered gem, but I enjoyed seeing the history before my eyes. 

Cemeteries general speaking are not the biggest draw. Many go to pay their respects to loved ones and friends who have gone before them. Others go out of tradition, to see several generations of family. And yet, there are others who are curious to travel in these hallowed grounds and to learn and see what they can better understand.

I go simply to feel the energy, to get a glimpse of the past, of those that have walked before me and the connections those individuals made. While I didn’t recognize any names at this cemetery it brought me home, a recurring theme of late in my life.

Walking in solitude and yet feeling part of the community, where thousands of graves harmoniously welcomed me into their place of rest, there was peace. Not kept up like other cemeteries, the overgrown bushes and unkempt shrubs provide additional blankets and pillows for those resting eternally. They also create a mood and a wink that this place is special and not to be overlooked. 

Especially meaningful to me, with every step I took around the perimeter, was the thoughtful creation of the walls - a menagerie of old tombstones plastered together, where the memories of the departed stand watch. Whether out of necessity to rebuild the cemetery after its World War 2 desecration, or simply as a meaningful way to utilize those stones that were too badly damaged to be preserved, it feels right to be guided along by this wall of names and dates. 

While one can get lost in the many twists and turns and the countless memorial markers, the serenity in the place is what gets to me most. I’m drawn to the trees that provide a canopy of cover from the sun and rain. I’m drawn to the methodic sound of my footsteps over the partially cobbled grounds, and to the fact I can let myself drift to other places, that is if I don’t wish to dive into the history around me. 

Sometimes when I visit I simply focus on saying little prayers for those who had to say goodbye too soon to a loved one. I might think about a family name and what took them from Bavaria to Krakow in the early 1900s or even in the early 1800s. I don’t overlook the fact that many returned here in the 1980s choosing this location for their final stop. For a city where the Jewish population is miniscule at best, knowing that some returned here after years away, after a forced exile in some circumstances, the connection to this land is mesmerizing.

So I visit. I walk. I look around. I breathe the same air. I lose myself in this place. 

While I don’t know any of those that have departed, I thank them for the solace they provide and a place for me to let my mind wander freely should I care to do so. In a place where tourists run wild, not even five minutes, several blocks away, this is a place of refuge and a place for respite. Should you ever find yourself at the gate, take a moment and step inside. You certainly could be better off for stepping off the heavily traveled tourist route and into a place that could be your diamond in the rough or at least one that could be a treasured Krakow memory.

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