Jonathan Kuiper | Author of Fantasy, Mystery & Memoir-Inspired Fiction

Musings on Life: Entitlement, Experience, and Knowing Your Place

6/24/2026

Entitlement in the Wild: When Need Becomes Demand

Two cats look for work, generational difference

I’m confident I should stick to articles on travel, writing, teaching, and vlogging, yet I feel obligated to rant on this forum occasionally. Perhaps "rant" is too strong a word, but to inform and share perspectives on different topics that pique my interest.

For today, I’m bothered about entitlement. What a shocking piece of content to throw out to the world, or perhaps it’s not at all. Let’s be clear, I’m not necessarily talking about personal entitlement that I feel some people embrace, especially when I’m walking the streets of Morocco, and various hands are placed in my face, or when I’m being followed by those looking for a monetary handout. I’m told this is a cultural thing, but I’m not buying it, having been in other parts of the world where there are equally many people in need. I don’t see them getting in my personal space and telling me it’s my duty to help them simply because I’m not from their country or share their skin color.

While this is ridiculous in its own way, and honestly, a headache I’m rather tired of facing, it’s not what is keeping my mind busy this afternoon. No, this isn’t the same category. Although it does bring to mind my first trip to Tangier over two years ago. I remember it well as I was attempting to vlog the area to get a feel for the streets, the buildings, the climate, everything really.

I was off to meet some future coworkers for a cocktail at some trendy rooftop bar. I kept my DJI camera low as I spotted two backpackers on this side street, eager to make my acquaintance. The conversation went like this: two men, in need of a good bath or a scrubbing, blocked my path.

“Hey.”
I put up my hand, “Not today.”
“No, no, we’re not asking for money.”
“I’m serious, not today.”
“Please, we don’t want any money.”
“Fine, then what do you want?” I stopped reluctantly, not to mention, I couldn’t make a clean break.
“We haven’t eaten in a while. Can you buy us dinner?”
See what they did there? I certainly did. “No, I can’t. I don’t have any money on me.”
“We aren’t asking for money. We just want dinner.”
“That’s the same thing as asking for money.”
“We are hungry. Just get us some food.”
“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. That’s the same thing as giving you money.”
Let the semantics play out, and more back-and-forth, until finally I managed to escape this screwed-up conversation, which I never would have dealt with back home on the seacoast in New Hampshire or Maine.

I should have taken it as a sign for what life would be like in Tangier for the next two years while my teaching assignment played out. This encounter was tame compared to the random women and men who would appear out of nowhere on the dark streets, at six in the morning, and would simply place their hands in my face or the a-hole who accused a friend and me of “coming to his country and $@%&ing him in the backside” because we wouldn’t give him money for his morning fix.

Time Put In vs. Time Skipped

I could go on about life in Morocco, where frankly I’m clearly not enough of a fan to stay, nor inclined to deal with the daily hypocrisy that plays out. Then again, we get that everywhere around the world, and what’s normal in Tangier is some other pile of excrement in another location. I do appreciate sharing some of my time in the northeastern tip of Africa, but honestly, I would prefer to forget about that outpost, the location that drained me more than any other to date.

My apartment had excellent views of Tangier Bay and the Spanish coastline in the distance, but if you asked me if I would ever do it again, it would be a fast and hard “no.” The place is too noisy, too inconsiderate and transactional, and a constant hammer to my senses that at this stage of my life, I would never be able to deal with again.

Even now, as I write this blog, months before I can release it without any reprieve for criticizing a place that is beyond repair, I deal with some shoddy Thai Wok shawarma restaurant that has decided, in lieu of traditional drumming and screaming, they will crank their loudspeakers because it will attract the five people walking this strip before nighttime comes. The Hotel Rembrandt across the way is debating when to start their live music, knowing it’s better to wait till late, like ten or eleven at night, so that no one gets a bit of shut eye until the early morning hours, even their paying guests. Let’s throw in the random hammering from one of the buildings and the apartment above me, under constant renovation, even though “there’s no tenant,” and the water coming from their ceiling was clearly not from their busted water tank, and this is the perfect place to live.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s an improvement from my first apartment here, a relic with broken, thin windows over a jazz club, at a busy intersection. That place was a real winner, especially when a pharmacist’s car rammed into the front gate, mangling it into several pieces, and blocking the entrance to the building. If you want a real glimpse at Tangier society, the police didn’t show up to investigate for five hours. This was only after I flagged down a local who happened to be a city councilman (or someone who had a heart) to call about the ordeal.

Did you know that Tangier is the second place in my life where I’ve seen a dead body? That’s right, the first time was in 1993 in Yalta, where I was told to keep moving, because the poor gentleman with a gunshot to his head in the canal was not meant to be seen by anyone. I think that was code for a mafia hit. Anyway, fast-forward to the present day, and over a couple of months, I witnessed three tragic deaths in this Moroccan city.

Clearly, it’s not a place meant for the likes of me, even though I was told it was a place to stir creativity and that many artists would frequent it. Then again, we appear to have gotten off topic; entitlement was supposed to be the focus of today’s blog, not my personal gripes about a section of the world I hope not to return to.

Personal entitlement ― yes, let’s dig into this and bring it closer to my readership, my home country in general, and the fact that I’m at a loss at times as to why it’s gotten so bad. Is this a generational issue, or am I missing the boat completely?

For context, when I got my first full-time teaching role in 2002, I was hired for $22,500. This included a stipend for coaching, and housing was included because I was not only teaching history but also serving as a resident dean to high school boys. Using an inflation calculator, do you know how much that amount would be worth in 2026? Roughly, $40,340. Now let’s say I changed my salary to $26,500 to cover the cost of housing in Arkansas at that time, a one-bedroom, even with that added, I would be at $47,500.00.

Let’s put some perspective in the mix. In central Maine in 2025, the average starting teaching salary ranges from $42,000 to $45,000. Now, I have twenty-plus years of experience, and sure, there are some positions where I could double that salary, but when you consider the cost of living in those places where salaries are greater and educational preferences, I have yet to make more than $57,000 a year, and that’s with a master’s degree.

Clearly, I can’t say I got into education for the money, as it’s not a lucrative profession, nor has the income increased exponentially over time. Even if one slides into the administrative side, there are additional hours to work and responsibilities that can tax one's system and be detrimental to one’s health. What brings me pause, after sharing all this information, is dealing with teachers who complain they aren't earning enough or being paid their worth..

Honestly, are teachers woefully underpaid? Sure, compared to what we do as educators and the influence we have on the future workforce and overall the direction of society, absolutely. Do I see that changing anytime soon? Not so much, and that’s not my gripe. Living a debt-free life, I have the luxury of making different career choices that some educators cannot.

Still, the complaints from colleagues about how much they get paid and how their degrees should be worth so much more are troubling to me. Why a person with five years of experience demands a significant raise, while a senior educator like myself hasn’t seen a competitive one in years, is troubling. Perhaps their demands have merit, but where’s the parity, the leveling of the playing field?

Then again, as school districts continue to raise starting salaries to attract new educators into the field, they aren’t necessarily adjusting the salaries of mid-year professionals or those who have been in the field since the Clinton administration. How can you justify starting a new teacher with a master’s degree and no experience at $50,000, while paying someone with 15 years of experience and a similar educational background $54,000? This happens yearly, and they wonder why good educators are leaving the field altogether.

Instead, these younger teachers complain that there are no substantial salary increases once they get their feet on the ground. What do you expect?

In the private school world, it’s an entirely different beast, but one that has similar issues. Then again, maybe there’s more wiggle room, not that I have seen it in my experience. Even fifteen years ago, I remember a long conversation with the head of the school on how every person is replaceable. He was kindly sharing with me a badly needed perspective on why salaries are the way they are, and that, at the end of the day, you shouldn’t be in a job just for the paycheck.

Today’s generation of workers might not see it that way, as clearly as the general who started his career in the early 1970s. No, most aren’t willing to put in the time. They also don’t want to keep doing something if there’s an easier path.

I’ve seen educators who don’t actually want to teach, but want to simply stay in the field for the vacations (more like recovery time for most of us longtimers) and want to supervise or take on administrative roles where they think they can rightfully demand more pay, even though their new positions don’t merit such actions. Others complain about typical teacher responsibilities, such as after-school help sessions, and about the lack of stipends for this covered time.

Either way, we are at the point now where the call to be in education isn’t strong enough for the next generation of educators. Many are too busy comparing themselves to the Joneses and want to skip the long-held career progression ladder for more lucrative pastures. While I understand their viewpoint, sheesh, I’d like to make some extra bucks too, but do I think it’s fair to give newbies more money at the expense of my colleagues who have put in the time and done it the right way? Absolutely, not.

What Experience Is Still Worth

My big question is why this mentality is so prevalent: why do these new educators, or younger ones at least, think they are more important than their colleagues? Then again, I can look at Tangier, and those people coming up to me for handouts for a prime example. Or perhaps, I can look at it from a more basic viewpoint: these are the same people who won’t restock the paper in a photocopy machine and will leave trash all over the countertop and won’t bother coming in after working hours for a conference, because it’s “considered above and beyond reasonable,” or as I will state not in their DNA to be the better person.

I know other professions are dealing with similar issues, and with AI making it clear that some positions are more replaceable than others. Still, there has to be a middle ground, and at the very least, people need to look in the mirror and decide what kind of person they want to be. Is it really about self-worth? Or is this something deeper, more existential? I don’t know, it’s just food for thought, as many of those blogs become.

What do you think? Am I on to something or totally off my rocker?

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Things We Leave Behind to Move Forward: Reflections on Two Years Living in Tangier, Morocco

6/17/2026

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Sometimes the formality of a real blog seems restrictive, so in honor of the fact that Tangier has been restrictive and, likewise, freeing in many ways, let’s go to the list of what I learned, or experienced while living in northern Morocco over the last two school years.

These are in no particular order; again, these are just ramblings and thoughts based on one expat's life existing in Tangier.

There is no rhythm to this city, which is both frustrating and fascinating. One would think we would cross the same people at similar times of day, especially on daily walks to and from school, but it doesn’t happen here. Instead, it’s like a Dungeons and Dragons game, rolling for a random encounter. Truthfully, you never know if you’ll pass no one, another person in a hurry, or someone who is eager to take advantage. It’s a weird place for sure.
The loudspeakers and the mosques, on what seems to be every corner, appear to do battle as to who can be louder during the call to prayer. Every night, every morning, it’s a symphony of cackling speakers, sometimes with very soulful voices, and at others, not much better than a McDonald’s drive-thru.
I knew of the city’s reputation for artists, musicians, and writers who paid their respects to this place. For the first five months, I didn’t get it, one bit, save that it’s loud, chaotic at times, and downright hostile for an introverted soul looking for a bit of respite after a day spent in the classroom. The hammer of Tangier, though, became a calling card, a means to an end. The only way to find peace was to force myself to write, to go into my head, to new worlds, characters, and situations. Tangier taught me how to write through the chaos, and for that I’m thankful. The writer, the storyteller, returned because it was the only way for me to survive this assignment.
Tourists suck. I’m sure the locals would say the same when they aren’t bending over to be hospitable to them, hoping for a handout. Really, it’s not just the Spanish tourists who take the ferry across to spend time in their second homes, but the Brits, Americans, and Russians, who find themselves here, and let’s not forget the French, who seem to have a chip on their shoulders. I still can’t unsee the French guy with his arm clutched tightly around his piece of eye candy at six in the morning, making sure that she wasn’t going to run away back to their room without him. Then again, he reminded me of the local men who seem to think it’s perfectly normal to lead their women around by holding on to their necks, like a bloody vice grip. Wish I were joking, but someone needs to instruct these tools on how to treat the opposite sex. No, it doesn’t mean following women around, propositioning them for who knows what, and certainly not dictating their movements with your fingers firmly attached to any parts of the other person’s body.
Clothing is questionable. At first, I wanted to make sure I was presentable at all times, a collared shirt and pants, dress shoes too, but all it did was make me a daily target. Throw in a tie, and anyone and their friend thinks I’m the perfect person to help them, give them a handout, or simply cover a bill. I’ve had to wear a coat even in the heat, to hide my semblance of what it means for me to dress like a teacher, simply to avoid the hassle. Then again, my colleagues seem to know better than I, donning sandals, shorts, whatever is comfortable. As for the locals, pajamas seem to be the order of the day. It’s really different than life back in the States. Sure, it gets warm here, but people have no qualms wearing leisure clothes all the time. Personally, I dig the slippers, especially on the women who are completely covered up in their hijabs, while their spouse looks like a slob one would find at Walmart on a Saturday afternoon.
Animals are everywhere, and I’m not talking about the people urinating on the side of street buildings at all hours of the day, but the fact that cats appear to rule this city. Yet, they aren’t revered like they are in Turkey, Greece, or Italy. Sure, some people leave out food for the little guys, but then again, it seems to be fairweather as to what’s considered general acceptance. For the number of cats getting a free meal or a cardboard house with water, there are an equal number, in rough shape, fighting to live. I understand it’s survival of the fittest, but having seen even the 180 at my school, from generally allowing staff to feed the cats to now only tolerating one long-term residence, it seems duplictious at best. Now, for dogs, these four-legged friends are treated even worse, still kicked and beaten by many, especially the ridiculous scooter and motorcycle owners who seem to think any sidewalk, street, or alley is their right of way. If I had known the treatment of animals, generally speaking, in Tangier, prior to moving, I’d never have come in the first place.
Bureaucratic stamping is the norm in this part of the world. I truly don’t understand why. People can have appointments at the clinic for illnesses and pain, but those needing a stamp to be medically cleared to work can simply show up, bypass the lines, and see the same doctors for a visit lasting less than three minutes. It’s that fast for the doctor to take your passport, fill out the form, collect your money, and boom, you have been medically cleared to work. The same goes for every other stop in the process: go to this place to get a stamp, go here for another, wait, rinse and repeat. A colleague recently got into a car accident and needed to get a police report to expedite the insurance claim. Could they simply go and get the necessary paperwork? No, it can’t be that simple, even late at night when things should be slowing down. It didn’t matter to the person on the job who already decided they had filled out enough paperwork for their shift and wanted to spend their last thirty minutes on the job having a joyful conversation with another blowhard. Only on the second trip, after another runaround and people not wanting to do their jobs, with whispers of talking to a supervisor, did anything get done to process this claim. That’s some crap if you ask me.
Noise and time. It’s 3 in the afternoon, and for the first time today, I actually hear the sound of a saw outside my apartment window. Why it started at three and not nine in the morning is not worth finding out, because construction in Tangier, much like the rhythm, has no order to follow. The saw noise can go on for five minutes or an hour; one never knows. There can be silence for hours on end, and then at nine at night, it’s time to get started, or in lieu of construction, the traditional drummers decide to lead the charge. My favorite is the Rembrandt Hotel. I believe there’s a special place for all of them when they depart this world, simply because no one wants to take responsibility as to who is in charge and what madness they have planned that day. We will save that story for another day, but let’s just say, having a construction team dismantling your pool at all hours of the night while your guests are trying to sleep is ingenious. Then again, it’s about as smart as saying you have no control over the bar and the music when it’s your bloody hotel.
Sheep go anywhere during Eid. I didn’t realize this during my first year living in the city because it was forbidden, but game on for year two, where the residents decided to embrace the tradition, which meant sheep were brought in by the thousands. Some were kept in parking lots, parking garages, inside apartments, or, my favorite, on rooftops without water or food, because that’s humane.
Soccer is an obsession. I thought it was more so in other parts of the world, but honestly, I was wrong. Where else can the people protest the African Cup finish, cry foul, and then months later celebrate with impromptu parades because the title was given to them? I’ve seen students get chippy with each other at other schools, but across grades, it’s no-holds-barred on a daily basis. No one seems to care either, save hey ban them for a week, and maybe they’ll get a clue, but shhh, they really won’t.
Tangier Bay is a tease. This is the first place I’ve lived where I have walked the beach but not gone in the water. I can’t tell you why that is, save for the lack of resonance. Only when the wind shifts and the cold air rushes in with a hint of salt does it feel remotely familiar and comforting. Otherwise, the water is a sham, a pretty view to look at and take in, but even the locals are fair-weather about the entire waterway. And the ferry to Spain might as well be five hours, as opposed to one. I can see Spain, but it’s honestly another world away. I didn’t expect it to feel that way, but the prohibitive costs, whether traveling there or staying, continue to rise, and the value isn’t there.
Masculine energy is in overload mode. I still can’t put my finger on this pulse, save that either there are just more men in this country, a lot more men, or they are the only ones that frequent the streets when I’m out and about. I’m not a woman, but if I were, the hungry eyes, the wanton glances, and the group mentality are off-putting even to me. I’m sure the tourists get a different feel, safely in their groups, meandering the kasbah and a few other hotspots, but those who live here get a different feeling. If I experience one more guy who tries to walk through my friends or me, or, for that matter, won’t cut to the side, when I clearly have the right of way, we might have trouble. Then again, my cutting remarks and vulgarity have done nothing thus far, because they don’t care. There are no rules; people just do what they want and live with it. Even during Ramadan, it was the same temperaments, but amplified, because many had to pretend they were going clean, when really it was just a countdown until sunset to indulge their vices.
Crossing the street has been brought up in previous blogs, but it is worth mentioning here, too. The drivers think waving as they swerve around you in the crosswalk is perfectly acceptable. If Frogger were reality, this would be the place. Just be ready for horns, especially if you delay a car from getting behind a ten-car standstill at a traffic stop. No one cares about pedestrians, and the sad thing is that the longer I live here, the less I care about the traffic rules because they are rarely followed to begin with. Three mornings ago at 5 am, I watched one yahoo make circles and spinouts on the main drag just because they could. It didn’t matter about the other drivers, and the police were busy sucking their thumbs. When the one driver crashed into my first apartment building, destroying the entrance, the police didn’t even show up for five hours, and that was only after I got someone to call them. No one cares, that’s what this place is. Someone could have died, and no one would have known the difference. Oh yeah, I’ve seen that too…
I thought apartment living in Italy was a chore, but here it was different: people came and went at all hours of the night. Banging doors is the norm, not gently shutting them, trying to be aware of neighbors who might be sleeping. Sheesh, having jazz clubs underneath apartments, and not mentioning this until moving in, is another great thing. My favorite memory, though, isn’t the kitchen that had water flooding the floor for weeks on end, my first January in Tangier, and a landlord who didn’t do anything about it, but the neighbors next door who complained about my air conditioning unit being run intermittently from 5 pm to 7 pm for a week in September. I still see the woman with the security guard who actually left his station to get me to turn the air off because it was making too much noise. I explained to the older bitty and her college-age daughter that it wasn’t my unit causing the fuss, but the three other units in close proximity keeping her awake at night, especially since my unit only came on for a few minutes a day in the evening. Is it my fault that your kid’s bedroom is next to all the AC units? Apparently, she felt it was. But that’s the mentality here, rather than looking at and listening to all the units; let’s lash out at the first one that came on.
Running here sucks. I thought living near the water would be a godsend, but cobbles, tiles, and cement are the worst combination for my body. From a string of calf strains over the last two years, I learned the importance of indoor activities and of picking my spots to enjoy the water. Note to self: rollerblading flamed out after impaling myself on a meter stick, but that doesn’t mean I can’t take up ice skating again in a colder climate.
This is the first place I have lived that has felt truly transactional, across the board. As a result, I’ve learned to be even more inward, to focus on what works, what doesn’t, and of course what serves. While I know these last two years have been hit-or-miss, both professionally and physically, I’ve learned what I need to do going forward to achieve a better life balance and how I want to treat others.

I’m sure I have more to share, but the point is, Tangier and I were not the best of friends. I sucked it up and amazed myself by staying two full school years. Honestly, I didn’t want to. There were several options waiting for me in Maine.

I had days, more than I will share, where I was ready to pack things up and head home to the States. Still, in the back of my head, I knew that if I retreated, I would close the door on future international teaching gigs, especially on returning to schools and areas that resonated more with my soul. The heavy lifting was needed, a hardship posting if you will, where I found my writing voice once more, and survived the grind, the wear and tear that was the hammer of Tangier. With my service medal proudly earned, it’s time to close this chapter and start a new one.

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Three Years Later: Poland, Writing, Vlogging, and Trying to Balance It All

6/10/2026

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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.

Fox and the Girl by Jonathan Kuiper banner

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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Random Travel Thoughts From England and Wales and Back to Morocco: Ryanair, Sheep, Castles, and Absolute Nonsense

6/3/2026

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Sometimes the easiest blogs to write are less about prose and style, and simply jotting down thoughts. With that in mind and the fact that I wrote this on my return plane trip from England in a notebook, here’s what I took from my first out-of-country trip since mid February.

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.

If one isn’t wearing athletic clothes and copious amounts of makeup and has at least one arm and one leg tattoo, then, as a woman, one will be the exception in Liverpool.

The best time to meet the Beatles is on the docks in the morning. By doing this, one can, hands down, avoid the crowds and, most importantly, the e-bike biker gang.

The inside of every restaurant and hotel during any British heatwave, i.e., above 70 degrees, goes from a comfort level of okay to absolute suffering. For heaven’s sake, open the windows and get a breeze going. Don’t just wait until service starts when you have all day to get the air flowing.

Guests at hotels near the docks might feel safer and consider return trips if those hotels actually hired security to patrol the perimeter. I know I didn’t pay to have tents posted around the backside of our nightly adobe, nor would I expect to see anything of the sort.

Gallon water jugs should be banned from airports, says the guy who drinks two gallons daily. To the guy who was shocked his clothes were wet, did you even check the cap…

If you see a castle, figure out a way to visit. Conwy Castle was worth the price of admission for the views alone.

Two little kids on the train from Liverpool to Llandudno practiced saying their destination’s town name at every stop. Their enthusiasm alone tells me they were right, even if they weren’t. I hope they found the dinosaur they were looking for.

The Welsh ice cream I had was far better than Mr. Whippy’s or any other Cornish-based creamery. This is the truth.

What does one drink on an open pier? Easy enough, Coors, when you’re proud to be an American.

To the two ladies lording over the Alice and Wonderland table with the water views. The “folly” and pretentiousness of getting rid of the pier make as much sense as the two of you sitting at a table meant for children and complaining about a 150-year-old cultural landmark. Best of luck on your next Titanic cruise.

Colorful tree in Happy Valley Llandudno Wales

If there ever was a tree meant for faeries, this one with the golden flowers has to be it…this will be added to my next book.

Great Orme hikes, especially along the rocks, with the sheep, should be done in early mornings. Look out for unruly animals and some kicking winds.

If one ever needs a best friend, look no further than the seagulls who roost along the pier and promenade. Just make sure to give them a French fry or two to cement this new friendship, or you might lose your entire meal.

People who feel entitled to adjust another person’s air vent on the plane have a special place in hell. Maybe that seems excessive, but why are you touching another person’s “stuff” and controlling the comfort level on how they fly? If you are cold, wear more clothes next time. Then again, maybe next time in this one instance, you should sit with your wife and kids.

The Moroccan-Brit couple who decided to cut the first three rows of our queue through border control, I’m not sure why you didn’t simply use the “important” people lane, or maybe you wanted an audience. May your next trip have people with less grace and patience.

Jonny Dough’s remains my favorite pizza place in the United Kingdom. Sure, my sample size is small, but alas, it’s delicious. Till we meet again.

In one of life’s greatest mysteries, a cyclist with two full water bottles stood at the train stop for twenty minutes and then exited at the first stop. Distance traveled, 1.5 to 2 miles. Baffling.

Why do I feel like Britain’s smallest house is actually an in-law suite and a scam to make some easy money? At least England’s smallest pub felt worth the visit, with England’s best beer, Peroni, on tap.

Silence enjoyed in Llandudno felt earned after months of grinding away in Tangier.

Carrot cake and Banana bread for three to four pounds was the steal of the entire trip. I won’t share which grocery store had this bargain. Your secret is safe with me.
No matter the age, skeeball, arcades, air hockey tables, and Zoltar will always be cool, even if one loses money on that blasted claw machine.

A man wearing designer Ray-Ban sunglasses on the plane (not prescription) is always dooshy and even more so if the same man is wearing sandals with bright white socks and freely dangling them in the corridor. You and your wife not wearing your seatbelts until asked to are impressive as well. Funny, this was the same guy who skipped the queue… interesting.

Why can I order food on the Ryanair app before take off, but am unable to pay for it then?

I am unsure what was scarier at the castle: using the rope to ascend the narrow towers or the fact that parents were towing their little kids around in baby carriages, not caring that this was a place for war, not wee babes confined to seats. The cobbles should have been the first giveaway, no handicapped signs, and well, the open gaps between the walls and the 90-foot drops below.

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Musings on Life: Entitlement, Experience, and Knowing Your Place

Entitlement in the Wild: When Need Becomes Demand

Time Put In vs. Time Skipped

What Experience Is Still Worth

Things We Leave Behind to Move Forward: Reflections on Two Years Living in Tangier, Morocco

Three Years Later: Poland, Writing, Vlogging, and Trying to Balance It All

Random Travel Thoughts From England and Wales and Back to Morocco: Ryanair, Sheep, Castles, and Absolute Nonsense

Meet Mr. Jon

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Want to know when a new book is coming out?

Musings on Life: Entitlement, Experience, and Knowing Your Place

Entitlement in the Wild: When Need Becomes Demand

Time Put In vs. Time Skipped

What Experience Is Still Worth

Things We Leave Behind to Move Forward: Reflections on Two Years Living in Tangier, Morocco

Three Years Later: Poland, Writing, Vlogging, and Trying to Balance It All

Random Travel Thoughts From England and Wales and Back to Morocco: Ryanair, Sheep, Castles, and Absolute Nonsense

Meet Mr. Jon​

Archives

Categories

Want to know when a new book is coming out?

Meet Mr. Jon