 I did something crazy this past weekend. Not since the somewhat flawed trip to Asilah and the wedding reception I wanted no part of did I take my friend up on her offer and head to the mountains. Yes, it was time to check off Morocco’s Blue City, Chefchaouen, the tourist mecca most international visitors and expats flock to for blue walls and photo-friendly moments. Then again, from my brief exchange with the shady guy on the street who asked me if I wanted some hash, maybe people come here for other, nefarious reasons. Full disclosure: I have known about Morocco’s Epcot Center for three years, since IntotheBloom shared her adventures (https://www.intothebloom.com/chefchaouen-photo-guide/). Dominika’s blog gave me hope it might be worth a visit, until I actually started living here and realized it was a hub for people to check off their travel lists, as though it were a necessary stop on the way to seeing the real Morocco.  Let’s be clear: aside from some blue-painted walls, which would look better whitewashed, any charm this village in the mountains has comes not from the vendors or the tourists who do their ridiculous dance. Sure, there are some lovely bags, bath salts, and a ridiculous amount of knockoff paintings showing some senorita in the streets, or a lone cat stalking the medina, but the real charm of this city comes from the quieter moments. That, my friends, is what I will focus on as opposed to giving you a list of where to visit or what to see, let alone what to eat. Come on, I went out of my way to eat at a local pizza restaurant because I was hungry and didn’t want to walk around any longer looking for some authentic Moroccan cuisine that was likely as good as the same standard tourist menu they hawk at us here in Tangier. Then again, maybe if I had gone to Twins and gotten some tagine or couscous, I wouldn’t have dealt with the wrath of one of my students. Note to self: always consult your students for tips before any adventures. Back to the silence, or at least the perception of such compared to the constant hammer and grind of the big city in Tangier. That’s what this trip was about: getting away, for an overnight retreat, to not have to deal with the incessant noise, whether from the hobbyist renovator who might live above my head and has decided that Saturdays are the best days to pretend he is redoing the apartment, but more likely he is attempting to look occupied going from room to room in an attempt to hide from his wife. Between that nutjob who has been “busy” since October on this pressing project, the same one that flooded my kitchen the previous January, and the drone of motorists not communicating with their horns, but simply being a-holes, I needed a proper respite. We aren’t even considering the random drum circle that loves to frequent the restaurant below my apartment window, or the women who walk around doing their glorified throat singing that sounds more like a battle cry to my ears. Chefchaouen seemed promising, with at least fewer people to contend with and, if we were lucky, a bit of quiet. Granted, this is Morocco, so one has to put such things in perspective, just like dealing with idiots jumping in front of cars because they can, or parking attendants stopping vehicles to get them to go to a different lot when it makes little sense. The ride itself was already a blessing in disguise. Sure, the GPS told us the trip would take two hours, but it took us two and a half because, unlike the trucks and cars that seem oblivious to common sense or rules of the road, we drove like our grandmother would on her way to church. There was no rush, just a sense we would get there in time to appreciate the service. I treasured the change of pace, the sheep and goats who claimed the roadside as their own, and the occasional mule eager to push its master into the passing traffic.  Thank goodness, we didn’t stop at the intermittent mountain-side vistas where suspect old women carried prepared food in plastic containers and vendors were selling necklaces that I could have been ripped off for just as easily, here in Tangier. However, according to my friend, the food was fresh cheese and bread, so maybe we should have stopped after all. The roadside coffee is some of the best in Morocco, spiced if that is your thing. I suppose a follow-up trip might be necessary to confirm if this is, in fact, the truth. I also seem to remember a mention of Morocco’s number-one barbecue venue, but you know the pizza was calling in Chefchaouen, so we continued on at our measured pace. We were more concerned about getting to the mountain city, past the random police markers where everyone appeared to be waved on, and no one was actually being stopped. I know, I for one, was eager to be pulled over so they could see me in the front seat with an assortment of stuffed friends on my lap and an empty container of gummy bears. All we needed were some Slim Jims and Combos to make this the perfect trip. When we finally arrived at the Blue City, after driving up a significant incline with way too many street lights, as though people actually walked this route, when I knew it was really for dogs dropped off at the bottom by rescue organizations, I wondered if we had made the right call. Several minutes passed before we parked the car in front of a hotel, with too many taxis blocking the way and people who had no clue where they were going or why. As with the alluring seaside hamlet of Asilah, the questionable, potentially dubious act of old men standing on the streets, jingling their keys, made me ponder what awesome rooms for the night they were offering. What could go wrong in paying for a room from a stranger on the outskirts of the old medina? I’m sure these are only the best, safest places without shared bathrooms and beds free of bedbugs and other fun overnight visitors. If only my friend had been more adventurous, or if I had wanted to eat the price of our reserved riad, we could have experienced one of Morocco’s greatest charms. Alas, like with Twins, I’m sure we missed out on what others only dream about. By the time we arrived, the blue streets were busy with old-timers and their hiking sticks blocking the already narrow alleys, gathering closely and listening to their tour guides, who were sharing only the greatest history lessons on the ancient practice of painting walls blue, as if it were something special. We forced our way around these veterans of the traveling circuit, past the vendors whose stands were encroaching even more of the path, and Generation Z members paying for opportunities to pose in beautiful corners on provided cushioned chairs, because it would help their auras.  I pretended to be a nomad, not of the digital kind, but a man who knew where he was going, away from this prescribed schtick, and to our awaiting riad, far enough from the madness, but with enough charm to make it worthwhile. We weren’t disappointed. This place wasn’t next to the kasbah or to the square that needs no name, because everyone and their friend has taken a photo at this thing. No, our place was off the main path, no vendors, no madness, unless you call the young girls forcing the boys to play soccer somewhere else madness or simply role playing for their adult years when the men would find other reasons to avoid their spouses. The riad was a complete contrast to life in Tangier. Tiles galore, fountains, and an abundance of designs that, while not my preferred aesthetic, worked. More importantly, the little living room with the vintage couches proved an ideal spot for a delivered Chinese dinner, and the rooftop terrace offered views without the headaches of sharing space with hundreds of other people watching the setting sun. Don’t misunderstand me, we ventured out to play tourist, but within reason. There was, of course, the walk to the river, looking for that connection to nature where even in constructed chaos, the sounds of water can still soothe the soul. We walked to the Spanish Mosque in search of good views and aloe plants I could entertain the thought of digging up for a lifetime supply, but most importantly, we walked to clear our heads from the demands of school life, where students require our undivided attention and some parents prefer preferential standing when the need arises. Aside from a few stumbles on loose cobbles eager to claim new victims, we found a near-empty cafe that other tourists feared to go to. I now found a reason to explore the next morning, when everyone else was sleeping off a night of excess and boisterous activity. I fell asleep in silence, without even the hum of activity outside to stir. As the residents and tourists disappeared into their rooms, bringing many of the city’s cats with them, we woke to explore a new city, untouched, unbothered, and free of commercial transactions. That’s when the real fun began, with four-legged angels keeping us safe and leading us to the best spots without the madness that a Moroccan experience typically entails. While I’m sure you want to hear more, I’ll let the vlog take over from here. In the end, the trip to Chefchaouen was a good one. I’m still unsure whether I liked the city, but I appreciated the well-deserved respite from constant noise and the opportunity to be closer to nature, even as I watched others treat it as a place meant for tourists rather than a home to so many.
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 I’m home, enjoying the last vestiges of spring vacation. While I’ve been stuck here the entire time, unable to travel, it doesn’t mean I wasn’t doing so in spirit. Editing my traveling memoir, Forever Poland, from when I lived in Kraków allowed for some existential travel, or at least memories of trips gone by, places I’ve seen, and food I tried. To that end, with Poland on my mind, here are some places in no particular order that you might want to check out sooner than later. 5 Places in Poland That May Surprise YouBolko Island - Some people head to Opole for the music festival, others to see the official greeters of the city, the llama gang, and aside from steering you away from one restaurant where the chef will mess up your meal and insist you eat it or a pizza venue with questionable drinks, I’ve decided to share with you a better place to see and experience when you visit. Bolko Island should be front and center. Sure, there is a zoo there, and I’m sure it’s wonderful. Instead, walk the trails, the grounds, find yourself on the point where the Oder reconnects, and take in the peace, the stillness of it all, and maybe make a deer friend in the process. Go in the early morning before everyone is stirring, and if you insist on going in warmer weather, at least check whether the marina restaurant is open so you can get something to wet your lips.
Rybnik Riverwalk - This is a fun one, only because I’m not quite sure what you’ll find now on your side quest out of the rynek and towards the overflow waters of the power plant. If you’re lucky, the culling did little to eradicate the cute inhabitants illegally taking up the water’s edge. You’ll see more nutria than you can count and might even feel guilty enough to stop in McDonald’s en route to grab them some proper grub, a pittance if you will, for the town trying to run them off, and yet still capitalize on the fanfare. Then again, should the nutria still be in hiding, head to the warm water, the reservoir, for a good sit on the banks. Take a bike if you need to, but enjoy the breeze and watch The Simpsons play out before you, or see if you can find a carp to grant you a wish. Either way, this place is worth more than five minutes. Lublin Jewish Cemetery and the Railroad Memorial - I know we’re hitting all the loud spots in the country, and by adding these two numbers, I’m taking out the fun and putting in the gravitas. Seriously, though, look up the cemetery and see what you find. This beautiful, reflective spot is right next to the Roman Catholic Parish of Our Lady Help of Christians. Talk about a mouthful, but that’s your marker to go to this Salesian-run church and then step over to the gate with the distinct Star of David. I don’t think you’ll be as lucky as I to find the gate unlocked with a group of future rabbis leaving prayers to those who have passed, but it’s still worth the time, even if you have to run down the street to pick up the key to get into this sanctuary that will connect the past with the present. For those who want to pay their respects to the original Jewish founders in the Lublin community, or to better understand how this place survived German occupation, it’s something that will leave you in silence. A fitting pairing is then the long walk following a similar route to what the Jewish families followed along Turystyczna to Zimna, where the memorial lies, giving you perspective on Germany’s Final Solution and how it impacted this entire region. I would suggest a tour of Majdanek as well, but after the first two, you’ll be ready for a pint or two at the Irish bar in the old square, and rightfully so. Elvis Presley Memorial Statue in Kraków - Okay, so maybe you aren’t a fan of the King of Rock and Roll, and for that, I apologize for your uncultured upbringing. Putting that aside, if you know of Elvis and want to find a unique monument or really monuments to him, then head to Skałki Twardowski City Park, or as I say, the trails around the limestone quarry. Ignore the rock climbers, the cyclists, and the mom’s club out for their morning chat. You’ll find Elvis across from the Polish garden homes with his face half-submerged in stone, but with a head full of hair for you to pose next to. If that’s not enough for you, walk down the opposite trail and find the headstone with his nameplate. You might be a bit underwhelmed, but it’s worth a story or two. Talk about a fitting tribute for a King. Tatar Mound in Przemyśl - Maybe this one is a cop-out. Honestly, if you’re in Przemyśl and have any sense or love of churches, then you’ll spend the entire day going in and out of every single one in the old town area. Then again, maybe you can’t appreciate Baroque Franciscan churches, cathedrals, Orthodox, or Ukrainian-Greek houses of worship. Assuming this isn’t your cup of tea, and maybe you could give two hoots of the World War I cemeteries or Przemyśl Fortress, then Tatar Mound is the place to see. Yeah, we know about the mounds in Kraków, but this is better because it offers unobstructed 360-degree panoramic views of the city and the Carpathian Mountains. Head up Zniesienie Hill, wave at the giant cross or the radio tower, and then will yourself to this ancient burial site. Rain or shine, it has the best views in southern Poland.  Another trip means another list of things to be annoyed about when traveling. I really wish I didn’t feel inclined to air all the proverbial dirty laundry, but honestly, if people would start behaving with civility while flying, maybe I wouldn’t have to. In no particular order, here are the highlights of another Ryanair-inspired trip out of Tangier and this time to Marseilles, France. 1. While sitting in a cocktail bar, enjoying an adult beverage, it was a bit strange to watch the local football team, one of the top-ranked teams in Ligue 1, have trash thrown out onto their field in France’s second-largest stadium. But that’s exactly what it was: some ticket holders wanted to protest the ownership, so they burned their tickets, napkins, and whatever else they could find. The wind did the rest, and the players played on a field littered with trash. I especially loved watching corner kicks on what might pass for a playground field, as shown by all those ticket stubs. Maybe there was a better way to get your point across, like not going to the game. Don’t buy the tickets, buy food or memorabilia, but sure, burning stuff and potentially hurting the players seems like a good way to get ownership’s attention. 2. Still watching the game, this was a first. I got to watch not one but two players spit on the floor in the hallway leading to their locker room. From my vantage point, this wasn’t a tiled surface, and someone was going to have to clean up this lack of cleanliness. I can’t say that I have ever seen this in any sporting setting, but maybe I have lived a sheltered life. Well played, Marseille players. Maybe you deserved the trash on your field after all.  3. While waiting for the customs line to move more than an inch, I watched a burly, bearded man and his lady friend (maybe his wife) decide to cut the line. I suppose waiting another five to ten minutes wasn’t going to work out in their favour with their Barcelona flight about to depart. Sure, I’ve seen people late for flights, but I've never seen anyone make a scene as this guy did. After some choice words to the attendant, a shouting match ensued. Yep, an actual one where everyone in the line focused our attention on this entitled schmuck who wouldn’t back down. He yelled, yelled some more, and then another attendant came over to remove him from the scene. From what I gathered, he saw another guy jump the line and decided they could as well, since their flight was boarding at that exact moment. That’s where things took an even greater spiral, with the couple escorted around to one of the holding rooms, where more shouting and yelling ensued. Personally, I liked that it wasn’t until several minutes had passed that a police officer even checked in on them. Then again, it was clear they wouldn’t make their flight and would instead get a one-way ticket out of the airport. Note to self, be on time and don’t be an a-hole. 4. On flights to Morocco, the constant back-and-forth of people in the aisles never seems to amaze me. Whether it’s to check on loved ones, figure out where they placed their knapsacks (because God forbid those bags go under the seats), or simply to elbow me in the head, I might need to give up the aisle seat and take my chances in the middle for future flights. Getting off was a nightmare as well, but we can let that settle for a day or two before we share those comments. 5. The random enforcement of the carry-on bag policy at the airport is inspirational. I’m not even sure this is worth explaining; you know what I’m talking about without needing any more words. To help those who don’t... Hmm, will that bag fit in the carrier, or is that bag too big? Oh, wait, that woman seems to have a purse, several duty-free bags in tow, so let’s not stop her, but the guy with the gym size dufflebag, let’s hose him instead. 6. What is it with fountains but not drinking fountains in Aix-en-Provence? The city of a thousand fountains didn’t appear to have any free, public drinking water for this proud American to fill up his bottle. Instead, Aix wanted to drive us into their mediocre, overpriced coffee shops. This is also true about the public restrooms. Save the bus stop near the Police Hotel (I know, cool, huh), there were no public bathrooms, let alone public bathrooms we could use after a small charge. Like the water situation, visitors were forced to use establishments with customer-only bathroom signs. The only place that seemed okay for helping visitors obtain relief was the seminary I found myself exploring.  7. Unlike Spain, which seems afraid to have its churches open during any reasonable time of day, save on Sundays, the churches in Aix-en-Provence were not only open on Friday but also throughout the weekend. All told, in a city of around 150,000 people, I managed to get into seven different Catholic churches. 8. While the Churches in France were open to visitors, at least two parks were locked during the day. Granted, you could get in through one entrance, but unless you had a physical key, there would be no other way to access or use the city’s green space, let alone leave. That was weirder for me than trash on the football field. 9. People walk and then just stop on the streets of Aix for no reason. Even worse, some don’t even see you and will walk straight through you. This happened on multiple occasions with this Yankee using some choice words to figure out why he was now a ghost in this southern French city. Whether it was on the streets, at the markets, or even on sidewalks, I’ve never seen anything like this. Even on a walking trail, some bastard, too caught up in himself, hugged the fence line and, in turn, practically hit me, who was trying to take a photo. I didn’t realize we only live in your world, buddy. 10. Brasseries are great places to get warm, decent meals at a moderate price. More importantly, they are often open for longer hours and, unlike the bulk of fine dining in Aix, aren’t just opening up at 7 or 8 at night.  11. What is the deal with hotels offering an 18-euro breakfast that includes cereal, some croissants, and coffee? Clearly, consumers are willing to pay for this convenience as opposed to walking across the street and buying the same meal at the bakery, or if you are me, at the grocery store for half the price.
12. Aix-en-Provence has a lovely cemetery where one can find the final resting spot for Paul Cezanne. You can also walk across the street to a bona fide amusement park as well. I’m not sure what is cooler or better for helping families heal. 13. Finally, I hear hiking can be amazing in Aix. Just be ready for unhelpful signs, and my favorite, no updates on what’s opened or closed. Yeah, that three-hour round-trip hike to the cliffs would have been a tad different had the cliffs actually been open. Well-played area.  Cádiz on the Atlantic Ocean It’s time to come clean and just share the truth. That’s right, traveling in Spain sucks. Yep, not even going to sugarcoat it: for me, it downright blows giant monkey chunks. I know what a positive way to start a travel blog, but honestly, what’s the point in lying or misleading you on the ease, or lack thereof, of getting around in Southern Spain? After my recent weekend trip to Cádiz, I thought it might be different, but no chance. Now I can report on either direction when leaving the small port city of Tarifa. Before I do just that, let’s backtrack a hair to almost two years ago, when, while researching the possibility of moving to Tangier, I was under the impression that it would be a user-friendly, travel-rich experience getting to Spain and, in turn, Europe. For that matter, my future colleagues even mentioned how close we were to Spain, just 10km away. The Ferry Fiasco: When 10 Kilometers Feels Like 10 Hours We weren't looking for the Bull but we found him! Certainly, that means easy access, right? Let’s look at the ferry service for starters. When I first moved to Tangier, I believe there were three companies operating daily routes from Tangier to Tarifa. We are now down to two. Last spring, many people I know were stranded on the Tarifa side when FDS just decided to call it quits. There was no advance notice, on a holiday weekend no less, and people had to figure out how to get back to Morocco or Spain. Talk about a headache, right? Thankfully, I didn’t get slapped around by that fiasco, but on recent trips, the ferry hasn’t been on time once, and on the weekend adventure to Cádiz, they outright canceled our scheduled time without any notice. Sheesh, my friend and I were practically running from the bus station on the other side of town to make the ferry, only to see the sign for the newest schedule. God forbid you actually update your website in the morning or send out prompt notifications. I still feel for those schleps who had car reservations and were waiting in line, not knowing what their immediate options were. With winter underway, rain and wind are common. Again, ferry service is spotty, and while I understand canceling some trips due to wind, outrightly canceling an entire weekend (days in advance) without being open to a change in the forecast can be frustrating. I can still see the sun now and the gentle kiss of nothing in the air, for that entire Saturday morning where no ferries ran across the sea. Let’s presume the ferry is running on time and you don’t have your own personal vehicle to wander the Spanish countryside. This leaves you in a bit of quandry. If you are staying in Tarifa, life is wonderful. But if you want to get to Gibraltar, get ready to figure out the bus schedule. Sure, it’s only thirty miles away, but it might as well be two hundred miles based on travel possibilities. Planes, Trains, and… Wait, Where Are the Trains The entire trip was planned to see this one church An Uber or Bolt will run you a tab well over $60, depending on whether they want to scam you that day. I’m not criticizing those companies because I use them ALL THE TIME in the Baltics and in Poland. No, I’m simply stating it’s not cheap to go a short distance. While your app might say it has service, that’s not always the case. For example, we decided to take a Bolt from Tarifa to Cádiz because the app said it would cost around $65.00, which seemed reasonable given it’s 55 miles away. But when I clicked on drivers, there were none, period. I could schedule a drive, thirty minutes out, and magically the price went to $150.00. No joking here. It was practically the same price, without the wait, taking a local taxi there. All told, we paid around $175.00, which is bloody absurd. Honestly!!!! You might be asking yourself, why didn’t you just take the bus. Funny, you mention that, we arrived at 11:30 am, and the bus wasn’t going that way until three or four in the afternoon. With only an overnight trip planned, we were going to spend a chunk of the afternoon just getting to Cádiz. We weren’t willing to do that on this trip, but in hindsight, had I known the Bolt fare was going to change, we likely would have reevaluated our plans. Now, the bus is reasonable if the times work for you. For each ticket, it might have worked out to $15.00 each. But on our return trip, we had two options and had to plan the ferry around those times. A two-hour trip through the Spanish countryside is fun, but only if the bus is running on time and, of course, not trying to get us into an accident by passing slower vehicles on a two-lane road. Overpriced Croissants and Paper-Thin Walls The best reason to visit this part of Spain was this Mexican restaurant Southern Spain is a weird beast. It’s off the beaten path; there are no trains unless you are starting in Cádiz and heading north, or in Algeciras doing the same. Let’s assume you get to your destination, wherever that may be. Even though you are in a more remote part of the country, the cost of hotels or apartments is going to become a big surprise, and not for a good reason. I probably have been spoiled by my travels in central and eastern Europe, or, for that matter, by smaller cities in England, where I feel there is so much more value in what I spend. Breakfasts? This is the wrong country, as far as I can see, to get a proper breakfast. This isn’t an American talking, but an expat traveler who has been traveling in Europe for several years. I have yet to stay at a moderately priced place that isn’t ripping me off for a croissant, coffee, orange juice, and a few slices of deli meat. There’s a reason I went to the supermarket in Madrid the night before my flight back to the States: to get breakfast. It’s cheaper and, in some cases, of higher quality. For our Cádiz overnight, the bowl of granola was great, but what else were you offering? Sure, there was a croissant, but you know, in Italy, they at least put the cakes and sweets out to get you moving in the morning. In Poland, you might get an entire spread with eggs made to your liking, sausages, and a variety of deli meats, cheese, and bread to start the day. England, we all know a full English breakfast is fantastic and the norm up there. Spain, not so much, at least not for twelve or fifteen euros a pop. Granted, I could be totally off base, but now with six trips to the southern part of the country, my experiences say otherwise. I can easily segue this to restaurants as well. Paying in euros means higher traveling costs, especially if you are used to paying in dollars or dirhams. Sure, those tacos might be 1 euro and 50 cents, but since they're micro-sized, you’ll need to buy several more, and before you know it, dinner is getting expensive. Alcohol and other food courses are not as inexpensive as they seem when you do a real comparison of size and value. Americans who don’t know any better, who are traveling in Spain for the first time, think it’s quite the deal, but it’s not if you run the numbers. Putting food, drinks, transportation, and accommodation aside, one should also be prepared for the fact that daily life in Spain is geared toward locals, not tourists on a weekend or a week-long retreat. They still follow the siesta, and if you are an avid churchgoer, good luck finding an open church on the weekend that is either not charging a fee to get in or is open at any time other than mass on Sunday. Aside from Cádiz’s cathedral, there weren’t any other viable options on a Saturday for prayer and reflection, let alone taking in the interior beauty of these churches. A few places of worship were open during regular weekday hours, but that doesn’t help weekend travel warriors. Finally, if you value a good night’s sleep, this could be the wrong area to enjoy one, simply because many accommodations have thin walls, thinner windows, and a nightlife where locals are out until three or four in the morning. Spain is a social place to begin with, so if that doesn’t bother you, great. Otherwise, you’ve been warned. Don’t misunderstand me, I’ve had some good times in Tarifa, especially when I spent Easter weekend looking over the harbor in what really was a private estate. The lights of the port were far enough away to take in the stars, and the wind was blustery enough to keep things quiet and peaceful. Then again, trying to get to Gibraltar or Cádiz was less than ideal and not economical for a day trip or an overnight stay. I, for one, know I won’t be taking the ferry anytime soon, nor wandering the countryside. It’s far more entertaining to try to catch a flight to Malaga, whether in the early morning hours or late at night. Yep, that’s a much better plan, or is it?  The storm finally arrived! This week’s blog was going to be one of glory, of success, focused on my recent trip to Spain, which was not only successful but worthwhile. While I was prepared to sing the praises of what I saw, tasted, and accomplished, the weather fairy decided to make any travel plans negligible and moot. Let’s be frank now, I don’t understand how, in 2026, we can’t get the weather models right in this part of the world. Yes, I’m putting it out there in this neck of the woods, the northern tip of Africa and southern Spain, why can’t the weather apps decide what’s really going to happen, even three days out? I don’t understand, period. We were supposed to get light rain on Friday morning, but I ended up walking to school in a deluge. No joke. The side streets were streams, borderline rivers with equally fun crossings because my entire route is downhill. Thankfully, I’m a resourceful man and packed a change of clothes, but my sneakers are still not too happy about our little adventure. Three days later, they remain soaked. While I’m harping on the streets, the amazing thought process of having tiled sidewalks in Tangier continues to rock my mind. Sure, it’s easy to clean up afterwards, but even a few drops of rain make these routes treacherous. Let’s turn a light drizzle into a downpour, and it’s easier, let alone safer, to take my chances on the roadway. The only saving grace are the locals appear to hide in the early morning hours when these weather occurrences do their business, which means one less thing for me to manage. As for my ill-fated trip, I watched a school of little sailboats, we’ll call them minnows, parade out in the bay for a good four hours yesterday afternoon, while the sun basked above them. Meanwhile, the ferries stayed shuttered as though it was a perfect time for a holiday. I joked with my friend that I think the Spanish port wanted a weekend off, because it was fine over here. Only now, at 1:30 Sunday afternoon, has the wind finally arrived, making the water less than ideal for a crossing.  Homemade meatballs helped make up for staying home. The truth of the matter is that the blasted ferry service from Tangier to Tarifa decided there was too much wind to make any runs across the strait as early as Thursday. Why they called it days before the scheduled departure makes little sense, especially when it appears our weather patterns are always in flux. I suppose I should be annoyed about this development. Perhaps, in a way, I am, since I was looking forward to seeing Cadiz and its cathedral.
All told, this would be the first time in southern Spain that I was actually able to get into a church. Lo and behold, the streak of no church visits, let alone exploration, continues. While I will try this coming weekend, I grow envious of my friends and family back home in the States, where their forecasters seem to be able to predict accurately a snowstorm that will cross over 2000 miles over a three-day period, and yet we can’t even predict if sun or rain will show in a ten hour period. Not to be entirely negative or sarcastic, I did make the most of this weekend. Double Cross is complete and now set for preorder. February 10th is the release date. What a relief and a blessing at the same time. I’ll share more details in the coming weeks. The important thing is that the book is done, edited, and ready for readers. While reading Rusty Star beforehand would prove beneficial, the story itself can stand alone. Of all my books, I believe this latest novel is the strongest storywise and is filled with enough details to get you not only immersed in Russell’s world but living in the moment with him. We’ll see, right? You can thank the flawed forecast, intermittent rain, and soft breezes for keeping me indoors to complete the project. Now the only questions that remain are whether Cadiz will actually happen this coming weekend and what the next writing project is. Stay tuned and oh… Go Patriots!  I'd vote for hanging out at this old prison rather than dealing with the noise in Morocco. I’ve been back for a week already after a whirlwind Christmas and New Year’s vacation. Subjected now to screaming and random drums as the locals cheer on their home football team in the African Cup, I have to admit, I’m eager for a Moroccan loss so that the football-crazed fans can take a rest and let me return to my somewhat quiet apartment. Then again, why would we expect anything different when this area only seems to sleep from 6 in the morning until half past 8? Granted, I’ve been spoiled of late. The constant stimulation one faces in Tangier is a challenge to begin with. My body’s tendency in winter is to slip into hibernation mode, so it seems disharmonious to resist this natural inclination. At least tonight there is a reprieve from the hammer choir that has serenaded me for months on end, enough to get some words in, to reflect on what was an almost perfect post-Christmas-New Year’s retreat. Let me be the first to share: Finland isn’t for everyone, but for this introvert, it’s a welcome-home mantra. Noise, Distance, and the Need for Stillness Look at the local greeters :) I can’t necessarily comment on Finland being the happiest place on earth, but I know that those looking for subtle light, a quiet mood, and time to think, there might be no better place to be this time of year for inner work, and yet an ability to get some stimulation if necessary. Then again, if you have a fear of small dogs, it might not be the place to be, or you can’t handle being in a little cold. Wait one, as we say in the military, and cue the snare drum and cowbell. I can’t make this up even if I wanted to. I suppose the Moroccan National team must be trying to score again, or the fans outside my window at a restaurant in dire need of a promotion that gets people in the doors believe their sabre-rattling will give the team the necessary inspiration to do something grand. I hate to tell them, the game is several hundred miles away, and they can’t hear you. Oh dear, I just realised this is the pregame entertainment. This might be a long evening . . . I digress for a moment, only because I remember when the World Cup came to the United States in 1994. Others and many like me in New Hampshire couldn't care less. The only people who seemed to give two hoots were Pelé fans who remembered an older football star playing in a subpar American league and high school soccer players who knew the highlight of their playing existence was winning a state title. For the month or however long the games were played in American football stadiums, we as a country seemed to care enough to learn the names of Alexi Lalas, and well, that’s it, but not enough for American culture to be more than fair-weather fans. We might have warmed to the Women’s World Cup, but I don’t think it was due to the games themselves. Thirty years later, and well, the USA might have a bigger professional league now, but its status among the major sports is at best tertiary. I’d rather watch race car drivers take left-hand turns for two and a half hours than suffer through an overrated sporting event. Hey, what do I know? I really want to focus on Finland and why it’s a great winter retreat. Before the drumming starts again, let’s dive into Finland and all its glory. Why Helsinki Worked as a Winter Retreat Sunset in Helsinki - A touch of heaven To begin, locals will tell you Helsinki and Finland in general are a wonderland during the summer months. I can say, winter is equally stimulating and without the crowds, whatever that exactly means. In Helsinki, it’s not much compared to other European cities during the height of the Christmas holiday season. Then again, if you make the mistake of going to reindeer land and seeking to sit on Santa’s lap, well, prepare for the typical tourist overcrowding that plagues much of Europe in the summer months, not to mention dealing with several fallacies to create the illusion that you are visiting Santa’s winter base of operations. Let’s be clear, Santa’s real home is most likely in Poland, home of the North Pole (do you see what I did there?) or Santa’s Village in Jefferson, New Hampshire. I don’t believe Santa is in Lapland, where they had to accommodate husky sledding rides in the 1980s to appease the evergrowing number of tourists in Santa’s alleged home turf. Still, most of those who flock to Finland in the winter months head north, not to Helsinki, which was perfect for me. Logistically speaking, Helsinki has to be one of the easiest airports to navigate I’ve encountered to date. English is clearly the second language, so there is no issue for those who lack Finnish in their repertoire. After walking through their immaculately clean and sleek terminal, getting to the train that takes between twenty-eight and thirty-two minutes to get you and others to the center of the capital city is beyond easy. You can always download the app, although if your phone is moody like mine (it might be the Moroccan number), the machines are user-friendly, and honestly, 4.80 euros to get to the hub is affordable. If you are a planner like some of my traveling friends, you can easily get a multi-day transit pass that lets you travel in and around the greater city for about seven euros a day. That’s not only reasonable but, for those that don’t want to deal with trekking through the cold, a welcome bonus. I looked into Bolt and Uber rates, and let’s just say you won’t be able to cut many costs on this trip, so taking public transit is likely the only part where you feel fiscally pleased. Then again, it depends on your budget, but food is a mixed bag in price. I know, I know, I should be focusing on only the positives, but let’s be real. I typically eat out for lunch and buy groceries for dinner. Even now, I’m torn about whether I actually saved any money with this technique. Grocery prices, whether at Lidl or at their corner markets, seemed expensive. Come on, nine euros for Ben and Jerry’s is nuts. Even the yogurt, I went generic (local brand) at 0.70 euros, because I couldn’t rationalize paying 2.40 euros for what I would find in Poland, Spain, or England. Cheese, milk, it’s all more expensive. Then again, the granola cereal I found was reasonably priced and delicious, as were the apples and peanut butter, so there were some deals to be made. Regardless, I had some sticker shock, but it was still cheaper than going out to breakfast every morning. The Lazy Fox was my lone breakfast outing, and while I loved the atmosphere, my American upbringing made me question the portion size versus the price, and since when is one cup of tea so expensive? I missed my pot of tea in Parnu, Estonia, for what felt like half the price. Later that day, after an overnight in a standard hotel room, I found myself in a glorified, upscale food court, which made me question how much I wanted to pay for a slice of pizza or a bowl of wok soup. The going rate seems to be 19 euros, but I kept walking until I saw a sign for a lunch special at a local Italian place well across the street. This, my friend, was a godsend and something to look forward to should you be exploring Helsinki. Especially in the center, many restaurants have midday specials with salad, a drink, tea/coffee, and the main course for around 16 euros. While I simply pointed to one of the pizza options at the Italian place I was warming up in, I felt like I'd found a deal. Two days later, it was the same when I stumbled across a buffet a block or two from the prison-hotel I felt obligated to vlog from. So, can you get some food deals? It can be done, but it also depends on your budget. I didn’t go to Helsinki for the food, but for the quiet. Let’s be clear, did I find quiet? Absolutely. Even riding the train into the city center, there was an immediate weight taken off my shoulders. At the airport, people were quiet, or at least lowered the volume of their conversations and their enthusiastic replies. This seemed consistent everywhere I explored and walked. Long, picturesque walks with water views were the norm during my entire visit. Having decided to stay close to the center, I made it a point to be within a fifteen to twenty-minute walk to the water and the area’s trail network of 100km. Even as I found myself walking the same route, multiple times of day, there were few people, if any, making me feel like I had the area all to myself. What surprised me, or more like I overlooked, was that the sun’s angle and light intensity were muted at best. Always a fan of running in the early morning hours, especially as the sun rises and before it peaks on those long summer days back home in Maine and New Hampshire, I found the sun didn’t rise much over the horizon on this Helsinki trip, thus giving me a more subdued vibe and reminding me of those wondrous workouts. Unlike in New England, where this meant 4:30 or 5:30 am workouts, the sun didn’t start creeping up at what felt like nine in the morning, and it was long gone before three. I stress the light, because this isn’t for every traveler. This is more of a reflective, subdued energy. You feel like you are in perpetual early morning or early evening, and for me, that was pleasant. Mix that with the cold, teens, and single digits, I had the perfect walking weather and the ability to call it quits whenever for a hot cup of hot chocolate (6.80 euros - ugh) or get some tea back in the apartment. With the seasonal light, everything appears to start later. That’s something to plan for. Cafes are open at regular hours, if you will, but if you want to get into some of the museums or churches, eleven and noon appear to be the norm. I was able to visit the Catholic Cathedral (for free) earlier than at other venues. The weather was great for me, but if you can’t handle the wind off the water and the briskness it provides, you might be pining for Malaga or the Maldives during a winter holiday. I made the mistake of bringing only a winter liner for a coat, but with a heavy sweater, scarf, and an extra layer, I was good to go. Then again, when my AccuWeather app failed to notify me of a snow squall that turned into a two-hour-long ordeal, and chilled me to the bone, I wished I hadn’t packed as light as I had. Full disclosure, trekking through the city with my bag in tow was a traveling no-no, but an hour in my apartment dried everything out on this one occasion. At least it was just a backpack, not some wheeled monstrosity that would have been a pain to drag along the sidewalks and cobbled areas. Lastly, the key to this trip was being able to disconnect from the noise, even from technology, and get outside when I felt like it, and relax inside without feeling like my neighbors were inconsiderate jerks. Then again, not being inundated with people asking for handouts on every street corner made me wonder whether I had simply found Europe’s least deprived capital, or whether those in need were properly sheltered and cared for. Either way, I could come and go as I pleased without feeling threatened or put off. This was relaxing and just what my mind needed. I would certainly visit Helsinki again in the winter months, but the next time, it would likely be for a night or two at most, then the ferry across to Estonia for a similar taste and vibe in the Baltic states, but without the price tag that Helsinki and Finland dictate.  Mid-December has already arrived, and I can feel Christmas and New Year’s not only whispering in my ear, but knocking at the door, saying, “Let’s do this.” While I’m sure another travel blog focusing on Katowice and their family-friendly Christmas Market would be preferred or an exposé on running the gauntlet of three different markets in Krakow, for once, I’m going to leave my storytelling to the side and simply let the vlogs speak for themselves. The truth is, I’m tired. It could also be this blasted cold I've had for the last three weeks, or the fact that this time of year always makes me reflective and protective of my time. With a few days remaining until we go on break, a wise teacher will focus on health, self-preservation, and choosing the right spots to end things on a high note before the well-deserved, desperately needed vacation begins. Don’t get me wrong, being in education is a blessing. I’ll be the first to write that in twenty-plus years of doing this job with a stint in the Navy in between, there’s something undeniable about working with students on their lifepaths. We don’t just teach subjects, we teach right and wrong, or, as some educator turned author wrote many years ago, “middle-class values.” Rather than dwelling on what those values precisely mean, the focus should be on teachers being part of a process that helps little ones find their way to becoming inquisitive, productive, and mindful adults who can make a difference in the lives of those around them. This is a powerful position with great responsibility. I don’t lose sight of this aspect of my chosen career field, especially not after working in some of the more challenging public schools in New Hampshire, where some students didn’t have hope to do much more than their parents did. Life circumstances, especially during the holiday season, put things in greater perspective. With students who don’t know where they are going to sleep on a given night, where they will eat if they aren’t at school, and if they have to subject themselves to abusive relationships to exist simply, there is something said about taking a moment and being there in a positive light for these kids, especially. Even now, I can recall several students (now over eighteen years ago) who were homeless. For that matter, I can still recognize the faces of some, even from two years ago. Yet they managed to succeed enough to graduate, then navigate their way out of their trying homing situation. At the same time, I wonder what happened to many of my students in those towns; it's easy to look back to other teaching positions in more affluent communities in the boarding and international world. The stories are different, but the role remains the same, being there in a positive way to create change. I hope and trust I don’t lose sight of this aspect. Honestly, even as I get ready for Ugly Sweater Day and a stint as Saint Nick, where this guy is going to don a fat suit to bring some added joy to the day across grade levels, learning to be grateful for what we have is equally valuable.  This sums up Tangier perfectly. Note the smoking section, door still open, and the air blowing the smoke out for all to share and enjoy. To that end, I’m looking back at this year. I’ll be the first to share that Tangier and I are not besties. Far from it, this city rubs me the wrong way, and at some point, I can share why, but in short, it’s not for me. The incessant noise, for one, is trying, and the runner in me cannot develop a routine that works between the terrain and the atmosphere. No matter how many times I tell my left ankle the tiled sidewalks can’t hurt you, it refuses to listen. What Tangier has done is helped me get back on my writing track. I don’t want to brag, but honestly, I haven’t written this much in years. Krakow didn’t help much with my writing because I was off practically every weekend, exploring Poland and other parts of Europe for my travel vlog. Maine was more of the same with journaling in between, but nothing as creative as I did in my old house on Lake Winnipesaukee. To recap, I’ve written three different books this year and am currently halfway through a fourth. Granted, I have taken a bit of a break this past month, rightfully so. Who else writes around 300K words and doesn’t need a bit of reprieve? That’s probably wise, don’t you think? Even these blogs, I’ve been writing concurrently with Double Cross since late August without any break. It’s time to take a few weeks to decompress and spend more time with family and friends.  My traveling companions enjoying the sunrise in Poland Travel-wise, it’s been a mixed bag. I had to come to grips with the fact that Tangier and Ryanair had changed their itineraries, and what had been weekend-friendly options for trips had shifted to less appealing ones. Then again, I finally got out of Tangier and saw a few different places in Morocco, so perhaps Ryanair killing that Lisbon Friday-to-Sunday flight was a good thing. Still, I managed to check off some travel goals: Malaga, Tarifa, Gibraltar, a return to the Baltics, Poland (of course, 2 times), and some excellent excursions to Liverpool, Wales, and Morecambe. I’ve already booked the following slate of trips from Finland, Aix-en-Provence (tried to go last year but was sick), Mongolia (yep, you’ll see how cool it is, literally coldest capital on Earth), a return to Carcassonne, and Liverpool between now and the end of the school year. I expect some fun travel vlogs with walking tours and commentary that show way too little research, poor assumptions, and my schtick, which some find undeniably charming and others, not so much. Then again, it’s fun and a break from the classroom. It also fuels the writing by living and experiencing new places and sights. Really, I am amazed by family and friends in the States who have never left the country, let alone hop in their cars and explore their own areas. Understand me: I’m not saying they are complacent, but when we settle into our routines, stagnation can kick in unless we find new goals and experiences to challenge us to move forward. It would be hypocritical to tell my students to read if I’m not reading books. The same is true of writing: I can’t tell them they don’t need to improve it if I’m not modeling the same behavior. If only I could convey the countless ways I use math every day, then some would stop asking Siri for help. By the way, she’s not as good as she thinks she is because she never explains the process. Ridiculous, right? Even AI wants to take shortcuts. To that end, we are bringing this year to a close. Personally and professionally, I hope you have found growth and success in your lives these last twelve months, and that you have found ideas to push yourself to try new things or to stimulate your minds in ways that improve your world and the lives of those around you. As for me, I’ll keep plugging away, teaching, writing, and traveling. Stay tuned for the next round of adventures, and oh, the new book that will be out in February. Happy New Year and Merry Christmas. Jonny
Madrid: The Layover That Tested My Sanity I should have run faster . . . Another trip means another chance at living the Ryanair dream. I will readily admit, this Thanksgiving adventure to Poland with an overnight in Madrid was interesting to say the least. I can’t even jump to the purpose of my trip, the elusive Polish Christmas Markets, without doing justice to the continued travel mishaps and observations that honestly make me wonder about the world we live in. I should preface this entire story simply as the joys of traveling and how people from all walks of life behave in public. There’s a caveat to the story before we even dig into the fun. Unlike previous flights from Tangier, I decided to take Air Arabia for my brief flight to Madrid. While more expensive, the inside of the plane felt cleaner and, dare I say, more civilized. Granted, between the families and children flying, that always keeps things real, but the entire experience was on point. For once, I didn’t have to roll the dice on whether my plane would be late getting to Tangier and, of course, departing for la la land. My plan was simple: get into Madrid around eight at night, then walk across the road to Barajas, where my hotel room was waiting. After my first foray into Madrid a couple of years earlier, I had no urge to face higher hotel room prices in the center, to translate the metro sign, or to figure out whether I was on the correct train, because in Madrid, the information screens are a joke at best. I also wasn’t eager to pay any additional travel costs if I could simply walk twenty minutes and be within visual range of the airport for my flight to Krakow the next morning. With that shared, I was reminded upon arrival why Madrid and I can never be friends. Call it the Ryanair sickness, but I’m now accustomed to disembarking from the back of the plane, or the front, simultaneously. There is no standing up and waiting for everyone and their friends to get off the plane while I sit in the back pondering life’s greater questions. Now I know for the next trip that Madrid insists on using the gates and their ramps, which means one way in and one way out. In the USA, we always did it this way and efficiently. For whatever reason, to and from Madrid, people linger in the corridor and are in no hurry to grab their bags and go. Meanwhile, while I stand and fume, I swear some were catching a last-minute siesta until they could rise, grab their gear, and leave, which only makes the process longer. This would be the end of the fun, especially after I noticed the new Schengen machines were still out of commission or perhaps just resting for another time, actually to be turned on and used. Regardless, customs was a breeze, and then the real fun began. I had to figure out how to get out of the airport, cross the road, and enter the nearby enclave. Google Maps was worthless, not surprising to me in the least. Sure, I could have asked three different information desks, but what’s the fun in doing that? I’m sure there was a valid reason for having only three doors open for people to come and go across three terminals, and those bicycle locks on the other exits were certainly reassuring. So, I walked and walked, hoping I could figure out where the actual exit was that would lead to the sidewalk taking me home for the night, but alas, it never happened. The next day, in daylight, it was clear where I should have gone back down the escalator and out, but on this walk, I was drawn to the metro sign and assumed the sidewalk would be near that exit for easy access for all travelers. Fast forward to me lowering my head in disgust, fifteen minutes of wandering around the airport terminals, and the realization I now had to eat whatever cost the metro would be to go to Barajas station and cut back towards the hotel in the center. The entire plan was to save money for this portion of the trip, but that wasn’t the reality. Full disclosure, I still don’t know whether I clicked the wrong buttons on the automated ticket machines. I’m pretty sure it should have been around 1.50 euros for one train stop, but instead I forked over 7 euros because they insisted I buy one of their plastic travel cards, as though I would be riding this metro for years to come. Either way, it was an added cost for what would later be a free fifteen to twenty-minute walk. Who knows what absurd cost the taxis might have charged for the same distance? Honestly, if you stand at the right point at the airport, you can see the church in the center of Barajas, where my hotel was a stone’s throw away. Talk about a waste of money. The only saving grace was that the train was on time, and if I had missed that beast, there was another one minutes later. I made it to the hotel and was in my room, eating some snacks from a local grocer, before nine. All of this was positive. Most importantly, the hotel and my room were significantly better and cheaper than my last overnight in Madrid, which I considered to be a win. Airport Shenanigans: Food Crimes and Bathroom Nightmares Walkway from Barajas to Madrid Airport Before heading out the next morning, I was hoping to get into the Catholic church I had spotted on previous trips and even do a short travel vlog. For whatever reason, churches in Spain seem to hate me. Truthfully, I don’t get it because everywhere else I have traveled, churches are open at seven or before for those inclined to pray before their day gets underway. In Krakow, my favorite church was always open well before 6:30. Don’t assume that Spain will accommodate your time for solitary reflection and adoration to any of the saints. No, these late-night creatures can’t stomach the idea of even having their houses of worship open by 8 in the morning, so alas, I failed again to see the confines of a Spanish church at a more manageable hour for this native New Englander. Back at the airport, I was eager for my flight to Poland. The walk over was a breeze and easy to do, especially in the daytime hours. Why the airport continued to lock all of their doors remains a mystery to me, especially as I almost got hit by two cars that didn’t like the fact that I found myself in the road. It wasn’t my fault that the sidewalk came to an abrupt end at the terminal with no way into the building, save backtracking a hundred feet. How was I to know? Already scammed by the metro machines for the previous night’s journey in, I knew my early lunch at the airport would be scandalous, as it always proved to be. I wasn’t disappointed that the pizza place I found myself scanning various options at was the king of this mentality. Let’s be clear, the food court was barely moving. Only ten in the morning, out of the four options, two were open, allegedly. I didn’t see any people manning the registers and was forced to use the automated machines to make my selection. That was fine, as it saved me from having to talk to anyone, but if you’re going to charge me twelve dollars for a half-slice of pizza, it better be worth my hard-earned dollars. At this master swindler, or dare I say, place where the staff could give two $#%^s, I was taken for my biggest ride to date. Out of the pizza options, there were rows of slices. In a stroke of marketing genius, the good slices, the ones with cheese on them, were closest to the glass. One would assume that with no other customers, you could help a brother out and actually heat a proper slice of pie, but not these bastards. I even pointed to the slice I wanted, and this yahoo took from the back of the pile, a slice that was one you would throw to a dog or would serve as a perfect treat for any lactose-intolerant person, but not for the likes of me, who wanted an honest slice with cheese and toppings. I might not be so scared of the experience, but I stood there for ten minutes waiting for anyone to serve me my meal. Four different workers cruised by and into the kitchen doors, and still I waited. When that tired barista made her appearance, the fact that she didn’t even humour my request was icing on the cake. Clearly, these were slices that had been uneaten from the previous day. Leftovers galore; there were still some pieces suitable. Still, the slice I got was utter crap, and the worst meal I have had in Spain. No wonder I usually go to McDonald’s. After my five-star meal, I went to find a bathroom to ponder where I went wrong in my life, only to regret walking to the other end of the terminal for what I thought would be a reprieve from my fellow passengers. Some tired shlep passed out next to a plug where his phone dangled freely. Maybe I would have woken this fellow and told him to be more careful, but if you’re going to sleep in the corner of a busy corridor with your thumb in your mouth and your phone there free for the taking, you might deserve what comes your way. He was still dead to this world on my return trip, an hour later. Somehow, my bathroom stop led to a McDonald’s layover. I needed something with dairy to offset the spice and lack of cheese from the world’s finest pizza place. My milkshake, which only brought this boy to the yard, was quickly prepared. Given this liquid treat and a macadamia nut cookie, I thought my luck was improving until a group of British expats decided to turn on their typical charms. Your accent can only take you so far, mentioning tea time but then shifting to morning pints, and of course, a loud boisterous conversation for everyone to feel included on your family adventure. How I wish I could repeat their exploits, but I finished my shake and ran for the bathroom, hopeful for a moment of silence. That’s the keyword, hopeful. Alas, it was not to be. In the stall next to mine, some loser was talking to his mistress while toxic fumes and sounds were released into the air. How he managed the conversation, let alone thought she wanted in on the action, makes no sense to me. I simply wanted him to end the call and be on his way. True to form, he flushed and continued the call, like he was at home, going from one room to the next. Not to be outdone in the lack of bathroom etiquette, the next guy who entered the same stall was also eager to be available at all possible times. “Cheri Cheri” played on his ringer, and this guy took the call and another, by the time I was free of this special area. Ryanair Reality: A Thanksgiving Departure Gone Wrong Corn would have been better I counted down the minutes for my Ryanair flight to Krakow. How I prayed it would be seamless and that I would be on a plane, off to a country that actually made some sense, was not heard from the heavens above. After my string of on-time flights, the one-way on plan failed miserably. We were 15 minutes late finishing the boarding process, and then the pilot dared to blame our delayed departure on the cabin crew transfer, oblivious to the fact that they were on the plane with him when they arrived and dropped off the first set of passengers. We were an hour late leaving because Ryanair doesn’t know how to board a plane by seating when there's only one way onto the plane. You can’t expect to have a hodgepodge of passengers boarding across the entire plane and then wonder why we didn’t find our seats on time. Let’s not even get into the fact that many of those passengers had to get up and walk the aisle to cram their bags over other assigned seats, because people don’t honor the rules. I hoped this would be the end of my Thanksgiving travel experience, but I had no idea what would happen on the return… When Tangier’s Noise Meets Christmas Market Season Krakow at Christmas Time Why there is hammering at 7:45 in the morning, in central Tangier, is downright comical. The city has it in for people who stay here long-term. Come on, on a holiday of all sorts, you can’t wait until at least nine to get started. While I want to dwell on the incessant noise that plagues this area, I must admit that I’ve never experienced anything like it before and likely never will again. If you want some silence, good luck finding some in a place where reprieves are a joke and fleeting at best. I’m confident there are better topics for us to focus on for this week’s latest blog. With the Christmas season underway, it’s only fitting that we shift our focus to Christmas Markets and some dos and don’ts. Before we dive in on my limited experience, I’ll say the go-to for all things related to this season is definitely Intothebloom.com. There you’ll find thorough, excellent, and insightful blogs and reports on individual cities and their markets. I know I found many tips and ideas on Dominika’s site for all of my travels. My Early Christmas Market Adventures Reindeer on vacation in Brindisi, Italy The Christmas Market season is one I have enjoyed participating in over the last three years, although I can trace my first foray into that world back to 2016, when I flew to Vienna for a conference. My colleagues and I were fortunate enough to schedule our annual school PD sessions for the end of November, which coincided with the opening of the Christmas Markets in Bratislava and Vienna. Shhh, don’t tell anyone, but Bratislava’s won my heart that year. How one can’t fall in love with a Christmas Market that’s in the middle of an old town square with a magnificent castle in the background is beyond me. Throw in some food vendors, mulled wine, or, in my case, hot chocolate and decorations galore, you might be onto something. Don’t get me wrong, Vienna was fine too, but Bratislava’s at the time wasn’t mobbed and had an old village charm that kept the tourists out and the locals happy. The Don’ts Every Christmas Market Traveler Should Know Let’s discuss the ins and outs of what you shouldn’t do during the Christmas Market season. 1. Don’t show up without cash. I’m serious about this one. Although the major markets accept cards, it's best to avoid hassle and bring some money. You don’t have to worry if the internet goes down or there’s a small vendor who only takes Euros. I went to Berlin a few years ago to experience an Anglican Church market, and to my surprise, they only took loose change and bills. Talk about a reality check. I walked for an hour, one way, from my hotel, in the snow and cold, simply to hear a drum and bugle corps, and then retreat without any sausage in my tummy from this blunder. 2. Don’t check the dates and just wing it. This might seem like common sense, but not to this traveler. Even two weekends ago, when I was in Cambridge, I had assumed that since the Christmas festivities had started in London, anything Cambridge would be doing would also start around the same time. Surprise, surprise, their winter wonderland began three days later, and after I returned home. This also happened when I lived in Krakow. I knew the St. Joseph’s market would be on one of the weekends in December. Heck, I just assumed it would be for several weekends just like the primary market. I even saw them set up the stalls, but guess which braniac booked an alternative trip for the only weekend they were running their beautiful market? Yeah, this guy. Don’t get me started on the fact that I believed the Gdansk and Vilnius markets were running after Christmas through New Year's. Thankfully, Riga does :) 3. Don’t assume all the markets have stalls. This one doesn’t require much research, but then again, if you are flying to random European cities hoping to catch a market and are under the impression they are all the same, you'll likely experience disappointment. Then again, the wonderful Reddit folk who trash markets like those in Kaunas and Vilnius for their lack of stalls, also likely complain about everything. Of course, I have vlogs from both of these that will show they are still lively and lovely events, even if they don’t feature the wooden stands that are so prevalent in other parts of Europe, such as Tallinn and Krakow. 4. Don’t stay in the center of the markets and then complain about the noise. Frankly, this should be a no-brainer, but then again, for some reason, my fellow Americans are under the impression that all the markets close at 5 pm or 8 pm. If you can’t deal with residual noise, booking an apartment or a hotel room in the center square of a primary market is a big no-no. The markets might stay open till ten, but to say the party ends then would be idiocy. Let’s also talk about apartment prices. If you are planning to pay out the wazoo, this is a great option to do so, as opposed to finding a suitable place that might be a twenty-minute walk or a tram ride away. 5. Don’t go thinking there will be no crowds. Should you elect to go to one of the known markets, especially in France or Germany, if you are under the impression that there are quiet times of the day to explore these hamlets and their markets, good luck. Unless you are an early morning person, like me, who wants to walk around and simply take in the ambiance without any stalls or vendors open, this will prove a challenge. Influencers, beware, you will be editing people out of your photos. Then again, if you simply want to walk through, that’s fine, but don’t assume there will be fewer lines at a particular time, especially on weekends or Friday nights. Let’s use some common sense. 6. Don’t buy everything you see, thinking it’s local. The Chinese have cornered these markets, no, seriously. One would assume that the souvenirs are manufactured in the region and handmade, but that is not always the case. It’s worth doing some research and pausing before you buy every nativity scene and ornament that tickles your fancy. Sadly, this is the same for food. I've heard that the prices in Gdansk and Krakow are almost criminal if you don’t read the fine print, specifically the price per gram. It’s good to try the delicacies, but for every melted cheese dish, there is currywurst from frozen sausages. Double-check the prices and ask where the food comes from. 7. Don’t let the weather impact your trip. Honestly, this might be the biggest complaint I’ve heard from those Hallmark-obsessed viewers who think every Christmas season in Vienna is snow-covered streets and a brisk breeze. With changing weather patterns, this isn’t the 1970s when the winter season in Europe meant snow and cold. You might get some, but you can also luck out with freezing rain and soaked clothes. A quick way to mitigate the weather is to pack for the worst and have an umbrella, maybe even a raincoat. Who cares if the weather takes a turn for the worse, as long as you make the most of the adventure? 8. Don’t forget your prescriptions, pills, and toilet paper. Again, this is no joke for my fellow Americans. Sure, Europe has medicine and hygiene items, but there’s something said for not having to figure out the side effects and correct dosage of a European brand over something you rely on from home. And toilet paper ― while my friend says you can simply steal some when you arrive by taking napkins from restaurants, I have always traveled with a bag of T.P. because you might come across a public restroom that hasn’t been restocked, or God forbid, an apartment rental that left you two sheets for wiping before you can get out and buy extra. One more thing, see number one… exchange some money because not every bathroom takes cards. Yep, you do pay for numbers one and two in this part of the world. Parting words and Christmas travel vlogsI’m sure there are more than eight don’ts for the Christmas market season, but it’s enough to get you started. If you want to see what markets are like firsthand, I’m sharing several of my Christmas vlogs from last year. You’ll get a better idea of what to expect and might even plan accordingly. Till next time. Jonny With the new book in completed draft form, it was time for a reprieve. What would be better than another round on Ryanair to see truly if they can get me on time two trips in a row? I’m pleased to report that, in fact, I did arrive on time, even after it took us thirty additional minutes to board, mainly because the idiots (passengers) couldn’t get to the correct seats and wanted to continue to delay the inevitable. The Great Seat Swap Saga: When Courtesy Takes a Nosedive The eventual goal of the trip While I should focus on the actual destination of Cambridge, let’s continue this diatribe about said idiots. Honestly, I’m continually baffled when I fly and encounter the entitled behavior of some passengers. On the first flight, this guy and his girlfriend were quick to ask the passenger who had paid for the window seat to switch to another window seat three rows up so they could sit together. Truly, the nerve. You can debate this till the cows come home, but if I paid for the window seat and it’s the second row to get off the plane, don’t even bother asking. Also, don’t ask when I know you could have paid extra to sit together. This schmuck relented even after his girlfriend pleaded to the window guy to change seats. Both even got irate about the entire ordeal, stating it didn’t make sense, as it was a fair trade. For whom is my question? He continued to brood up and down the aisle, debating on who else to ask. He even tried the stewardesses who wanted him to simply sit his tuchus down in the correct seat and be done with it. But no, he waited for everyone to board and then reluctantly slid into his assigned window seat. More begging ensued as he talked to everyone in his row, hoping someone would let him swap seats. Cue the sobbing in the row behind me, where his girlfriend decided it was time to put on a show. She made sure to be extra dramatic, giving the occasional look to the gentleman who wouldn’t trade seats. At this point, I thought we were good to go, but dufus somehow got the aisle seat in his row to swap with him. There is no way I’m swapping those seats again if I paid for it and it’s allegedly a three-hour flight. Meanwhile, the rest of the plane is seated, ready to get going, and this guy then gets up to go back to his girlfriend. She’s in tears, hamming it up for the old woman sitting in their aisle seat, pleading to her gentle nature to swap seats so that he can take away the insufferable pain. For the sake of all of us, the Samaritan agreed to move, and just in time, as the stewardess told the man to return to his seat. They were doing the safety demonstration after all, but he didn’t care. My favorite was the line thrown out, “We can’t leave until everyone is seated.” He unabashedly replied with, “I know.” As though he wasn’t the bloody problem. Within thirty seconds, the seat swap had occurred. Magically, the tears were washed away, and aside from the chorus of two infants on opposite seats crying out to let us all know that it was time to leave, the fun with this couple was only getting started. The fasten seat belt sign hadn’t even been turned off when he was already out of his seat, swapping bags, and then paying a quick trip to the old lady who simply wanted to read her Koran and be done with him and his needy partner. No, he insisted, ready to whisper words of his dying appreciations for her generosity and spirit, even offering to compensate her with a tea or coffee if she so desired. It was an absolute pleasure to watch, and even more so, to see his girlfriend move to the aisle without once trembling or shaking over the fear of flying. She even found the ability to give the passenger who wouldn’t relinquish his assigned spot several side eyes, and I believe a sigh or two. Her overcompensating partner was forced to sit between them, because clearly, window seat guy had forever wronged this sweet woman. Barefoot Bliss and Other In-Flight AtrocitiesI wish I could say these two were the best passengers I encountered on this trip, but there clearly was something about this area of the plane. I can’t even make this up that on the return flight, the same seats took up more of my attention. In this case, it was some middle-aged couple who celebrated the fact that no one had taken the middle, thus allowing the wife to slide over to the magical window seat and get some space from her husband. She was quick to spread her legs and kick up her bare feet into the armrest on the opposing row. No joke. There were her ugly, smelly dogs sprawled out between the seats, ready to tickle whoever decided to sit in that spot. At one point, she retracted her feet and insisted her husband, who was more consumed with watching movies on his phone at full volume, for all of us to hear, give her a proper foot massage. Since he couldn’t hear anything coming from his phone, but I could, he pushed her feet away and moved to the empty row in front of them. Within a short time, both of them were sprawled out across all three seats, like it was some memorable holiday. I was simply relieved to watch him put his phone away and get the shut-eye he clearly deserved. Then again, why did they decide it was their right to now claim six seats as opposed to the two they paid for? I considered the same for this other gentleman, who did the same in his row, but unlike those two travelers, he was not concerned about his luck and slept face down with his sock-covered feet dangling in the air. Maybe I’m just blessed to experience all the joys of flying. With these three debutants enjoying the good life, I was forced to hear the banging of a tablet five rows up, where three kids fought over some game. Their parents didn’t seem to care, as they were smart enough to bring AirPods for personal use, but not entirely on board with doing the same for their kids. I wanted to ignore the show and get some sleep after my whirlwind trip to England, but between all the commotion and the old woman next to me who wouldn’t leave me alone, it was trying at best. First, she wanted to give me some dates, and I was like, “I’m too young for you, ma’am,” but she insisted, saying it was good for my digestive tract while flying. To be frank, I didn’t want to experiment with this fruit and have some unfortunate episode as the plane descended back to Morocco. I closed my eyes, hoping she would get the hint, only to stir minutes later after she moved herself to the middle seat. Instead of simply tapping me on the arm, let alone speaking at a voice level higher than a whisper, the old lady stared and waited for me to come to so she could relieve herself in the facilities. Miracle Landing: Ryanair’s Redemption (Sort Of)The flight came to a merciful end with the stewardesses alerting the four children that they had to return to their seats as we were still taxing the aircraft. The same message was shared for the tall fellow in the front, who also thought the moment we landed was the cue to stand up and start gathering his things. On a positive note, both flights were on time, but that’s only because Ryanair adds thirty minutes to their travel time. When the pilot says it’s a two-hour and thirty-minute flight, but the ticket says three hours and ten, you do the math. As the on-time theme played in the background and the email was sent to let me know the same, I disembarked, ready to return to my real life. With only a few weeks until the next adventure, the real questions remain: which Ryanair streak will continue, funny passengers or on-time arrivals? There’s no way this can continue, and one of these has to give. What do you think? Do you have the same luck when you travel? Are you as blessed? And for those hoping for a travel report, just watch this instead till next time. Jonny |
Meet Mr. Jon- a traveler at heart who loves a good story and walk. Jonathan has over twenty years experience in independent publishing. While he prides himself on crafting a good story, nothing truly beats an adventure and a camera. 
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