 One would think that having lived and traveled in Poland before, I would be proficient with all cultural interactions and events, but that is not the case at all. Wanting to be more open this time around, or maybe just flexible is the correct label, I was invited to a football match. I’ll be the first to share: I’m not an avid fan, nor do I find it as entertaining as American football. That aside, there is something unique and special about going to local sporting events wherever you live. In Morocco, on game day, I could hear the fans and the drums from outside my apartment, which, frankly, was enough for me. I didn’t need the madness of an actual in-person game, when the flipping guy on the corner was blowing his horn like he was a five-year-old with his new toy to impress his parents. Nor did I want to sit in a glorified hall and stare at a big screen with a hundred strange men. Poland is different though. It requires closer attention and, for that matter, effort. It’s far better to catch a last minute (for me) tram and ride in with the common folk to see a game in person than to sit back as I did in Tangier. Let me be clear, the tram is the real show. That’s where you are around locals who embrace their fandom to the nth degree. While I will get back to them in a moment, we need to backtrack for perspective. Last Saturday when AC Milan and Manchester United played in Wroclaw, I saw jerseys galore in the city center. I saw guys walking off trams, into restaurants, and even meal prepping at McDonald’s. What I didn’t expect to see was the beer drinking on the tram, or on the street, and my favorite, swapping soda for a fifth of vodka. That was funny. This one guy left his burger wrappings on the side, drank most of his soda, and then emptied the entire fifth into his glorified sippy cup. I wasn’t shocked, but I was surprised when I watched him walk off with that and a beer in his hand. Weren’t we taught not to mix beer with hard liquor? I know, I must be an amateur. Last night, when I caught the tram, I knew from my previous weekend that the locals would be thirsty and likely lit. None of them were blackout drunk, but when you’re passing a Stanley knockoff between one another on the tram, and grown men giggle, it gives away the punchline. Come on, strangers, giving those knowing nods, and then sharing sips like they were passing the wine at Sunday Mass, is quite the reveal. The big guy in the front who wasn’t even bashful, carrying a half-gone bottle of brandy, was the real show. I expected the fans to be more riled up based on the ride in, but lo and behold, I guess security only allows the visiting team to bring smoke bombs, flares, and other cool Ultra stuff, while the home team is stuck waving their flags as though they are about to surrender. I will give props to the guy who decided to give me a proper pat down. He made me want to wear my TSA T-shirt. The stadium itself was awesome, dare I say better than King Power Stadium, or other venues I have visited. The sheer size of it alone made me wonder what a monster truck rally would look like compared to the football pitch, but the game itself kept things interesting. It wasn’t as loud as the Boston Garden in its heyday or Fenway Park, but then again I’m likely biased with my Boston-based sports upbringing. Still, even though I didn’t know the cheers and decided it was best to do a converted tomahawk chop with the word “sloan” thrown in for fun, I appreciate the towel waving, the drums, and the sense of community. Even when the teams scored, and all the die-hard fans deemed it time to strip down in celebration, I understood and appreciated the gesture. Seeing that in itself was a reward and a good reminder that sports and sporting events bring connection when we are open and want to take part in the process. I’m not sure when I will attend another game, but I’m confident it won’t be the last. Hockey is next on deck; then again, I hear there is American football in Wroclaw as well. That’s my report for this week. Here’s to more discoveries, opportunities, and embracing whatever presents itself.
0 Comments
 Cute pillows in Krakow. With my summer vacation effectively coming to an end, I believe it’s time for another round of random musings from my adventures Stateside, Canada, and now back in Poland. These are in no particular order, and there is certainly a touch of sarcasm, just because it’s deserved.
 Wow, July 4th has come and gone, and if I’m looking at the calendar correctly, I have about a month until I return to my apartment in Poland. That’s right, we are at the heart of summer vacation, that time of year when educators rest and recharge. I’m doing the best I can to accomplish that while still keeping up with my writing. Here’s to another random update from writing to traveling to just being still in no particular order. 1. For whatever reason, my new fantasy book won’t end. At the time of this posting, I’m 150,000 words in. That’s right, this is basically two books in one, at least if I’m looking at my older romantic comedy book lengths. This is not a romantic comedy. It’s a return to what I remember from Dungeons and Dragons with more angst, family dynamics, and for far too many words. There isn’t enough fighting, but then again, dialogue is more of my forte. While most fantasies lean towards lengthy, I didn’t expect to be working on one book since the end of March. 500 pages in and hopefully, within the next week or two, I’ll finally be at a good stopping point. 2. I should preface that the new book is taking more time because I’m only writing once daily for ninety minutes. I didn’t want to spoil one of the high points of my day, so as consistently as possible, I write from 7:15 to around 8:30 at night. Since I’ve been in Maryland, I have added editing to my morning plate for my new Polish travel memoir. Some might remember the name Forever Poland. That’s still the working title. It seems a bit over the top for me, so expect a change between now and the end of the month. 3. Bookbub promotion number two showed a significantly better return on investment simply from the cost point. I ran a Free Reads promotion for my The Fox and the Girl series book bundle and, as a result, got around 5,500 downloads from Kindle, 500-ish from Apple, 100 from Barnes & Noble, and 500+ from Google Play. That’s pretty good, considering I went into the middle-grades category at a total price of $40. I haven’t looked closely at the review ratings, save for Apple and Amazon, because that’s where the contrast was before with my Rusty Star promotion. With Apple, The Fox and the Girl (bundle) had one rating prior to the promotion and now has 12. Amazon went from 18 to 43. For fun, Google Play has 3-5-star ratings. In comparison, Rusty Star had about 16,000 downloads and currently has 122 Amazon ratings and 53 on Apple. I continue to give props to Apple readers who have a higher rate of reading and rating the books they download. Now, numbers aside, the big factor in discussing the return on investment is simply that I sold multiple copies of Lane (book 4 in the series) after all these downloads. Google Books generated 2 purchases, 4 from Apple, and 9 on Amazon. That’s around $60 in royalties and a net profit on this promotion. While this is great news, I was hoping it would be the same for my Russell Stokes books. I’m still in the hole close to $400.00 from that promotion run. So is life.  4. The new apartment in Wroclaw is perfect as a riverside vista and retreat can be. I slept in my new bed for three nights before taking the train to eastern Poland and then returning to the USA via Turkey. A fun fact I might have mentioned in passing is that I accidentally filmed my apartment building two summers ago, when I visited Wroclaw. I was trying to find my hotel for the evening and took a wrong turn. That turn brought me farther down the same street and, lo and behold, to my future home. 5. Białystok and I are still good friends, even though they continue to tear up my favorite park around Branicki Palace. Honestly, the entire area was fine when I first visited three and a half years ago. Clearly, someone didn’t agree, and the construction continues. Maybe next time, they’ll call it good enough, and we can go back to the way things were. The greater question is what happened to the Mona Lisa tattoo parlor? Now that was a special place.  6. Augustow’s train station feels like quite the walk to the city center. Upon first arriving, there are trees everywhere, and the mile and a half, maybe two miles to civilization keeps things interesting. According to Google Maps, there is a side trail through the woods that might shorten the distance, but when wheeling luggage, I didn’t want to take my chances. On a cooler note, the city is a perfect retreat. I wished I had been there more than one night, as it deserved more time. The water alone screamed for swimming and a proper boat ride along the different lakes and canals. 7. Suwałki is a quiet city, and that’s saying something. It’s the first place since Płock, where I wanted to just stay in my apartment and take in the silence. Even though I consider myself great with directional sense, I managed to misread a landmark and ended up at a ski mountain instead of the lake I wanted to visit. Speaking of said lake, the lack of a proper swimming hole was a bit of a buzzkill. Come on, how can you not have a few good swimming spots near a boat ramp? Where else do boaters go to cool off? Oh… that’s right, they can jump in from anywhere the boat goes. Note to self. 8. Ecoline buses are worth the price and the trip. I took a bus from Suwałki to Vilnius. Not only did the ride only take three hours, but the trip through the countryside of both Poland and Lithuania, with lakes, rivers, and fields, was something I didn’t know I needed until it happened. I know the train is functional too, but if I had to do this route again, bus, hands down.  9. I can finally count Turkey as a real country visit, having left the airport for once. Using the Turkish Airlines promotion, I was able to stay overnight between connecting flights. My hotel on the Black Sea was exactly as described. How can you beat pristine waters, gentle breezes, and views without an audience? To top it off, I met some very friendly tour ambassadors. Turkey pays these cats well. 10. Since my left calf refuses to give me the exact reason it won’t let me run longer than a few miles, I’ve turned to swimming since my return to Maryland. The last time I did any training in a pool was in 2012… That was a special period where I ran from side to side or in the deep end for an hour, hoping it would simulate running. As for actual swimming laps, I haven’t done that with any regularity since my senior year of high school. So let’s do the math, it’s been a while. Don’t worry, I bought googles and a swim cap since I have to at least look the part. 11. I took the train from Boston to Washington D.C. A few years ago, I took this beauty, the regional version, and paid heavily with a serious crick in my neck after a 12-hour ride stopping at every station along Route 1 and then some. Fast forward to 2026, I thought this trip might be different, with the Acela seven-hour jaunt. Days later, my neck still disagrees. To the old people who decided they would hoard all of the overhead bins, pretend you’ve been on a train before and know that the oversize bags go at the front of the car, not crammed in the bin across from you, because you don’t know how to manage your bags. Finally, the woman who rode next to me from New York City onward. I don’t know what was worse, watching you plug in across my legs, your computer, then phone, and then proceed to balance email, social media, puzzles, and actual calls. When it looked like you were able to maybe just be, more calls, a podcast no less, and the sushi dinner that had been sitting in your bag for two hours. No wonder my neck hurt from trying to ignore the noise by looking out the window the entire time.  12. Even a day trip to Lubec, Maine, is better than no trip at all. The stillness is one thing, the fog coming in another, and even better, the scent of sea roses is one that can’t be matched. Note to self: make a point to return in late June, after a recent rain, to take in that smell one more time. Honestly, there is nothing quite like it. Maybe next time the clam diggers will be at a different beach, giving you even more peace. If not, it’s still downright one of the more serene places to be in the States.
13. Last but not least, in vlogging news, I’m going a different route now. No, I’m not deleting the channel, that would be stupid. Instead, no more keywords, no more stupid SEO friendly titles that are overused and frankly not authentic. Let’s be clear: I like to walk around and take in the sights. There’s nothing crazy about this concept. If I’m doing this in Wrocław, one of the largest cities in Poland, I can’t say I discovered a hidden gem, or Poland’s best-kept secret, when there are so many other people living there. We’ll see what this means for views, but at least I’m no longer trying to sell an idea or catch phrase to get clicks when there’s so much more to life and other things to spend my bandwidth on.  I hope to stop back here and leave another message for other travelers this summer. I got a notification on the morning of June 6th, celebrating three years on YouTube. There was a brief smile and the realization that it was more like my 3.5 year anniversary, since there had been a channel before the current one. Oh yes, there was a glorious channel, maybe not glorious, but one molded out of significant travel and exploration of Poland and other countries in Europe, during my stint in Krakow. While those original vlogs no longer exist, as I deleted the first channel in an absurd move to find a better balance and clarity, or we should just label it as temporary insanity, the majority of those cities and towns have gotten new vlogs on the current channel, with only a few spots still needing further attention. Perhaps over the next year, once I’m back in Poland full-time, I will return to Lublin and Lancut to check those things off my to-do list. Then again, I doubt I’ll be heading to Kosice, Berlin, and Thessaloniki anytime soon, but hey, one never knows… Malta does need a return trip. I’m grateful that, even though I haven’t been able to vlog much this past school year, I was able to finish writing a travel memoir about my Polish travels while living in Krakow. With the plan to share that book later this summer, I know it will be a nice bookend for me, regardless of its popularity. With summer now underway, or pretty close, and no summer camp experiences or broken ribs to flip everything into an utter mess, I’m hopeful for a break that balances it all. Yes, travel, writing, and rest. What that means for my blogs, I’m not sure, save the occasional update, unless I feel the need to share my every move over this season. Still, expect Forever Poland news, Niagossi Dragon Traders updates, and some plugs for current books or vlogs.  A series with heart and purpose. See, I had a reason for writing today. Specifically, today is my latest BookBub. Yep, I got selected for a second Free Reads promotion, this time it’s for my Fox and the Girl series, a book bundle covering books 1-3. I feel for Luza and Keira. Honestly, my homage to Narnia deserves better, and between trying pseudonyms, changing book titles, and series names, I’ve managed to market these books in all the wrong ways. Still, the tweens and teens who have found the series generally enjoyed the adventure presented and the story of a bullied teen who found her way, her purpose, and a friend who turned into a sister. I’m proud of the books, and that’s saying more than puffing up my chest, bragging about sales (non-existent ones), but the fact that I know this story serves. Even ten years after Luza and Riley first released, I know there’s something special about their dynamic, the life they live in New Hampshire, and the world they have to face in unsettled times, just as many of us do daily.
If you haven’t checked out the series, it’s free for the next few weeks, so download a copy, and who knows, maybe you’ll want to buy the fourth book in the process. Till next update, enjoy the sun wherever you may be. JFK 
Note these are in no particular order, as random thoughts should be. I really missed Ryanair - the Greyhound of the skies. How it continues to amaze me, my fellow passengers, specifically the parents wearing their earpods or headphones while ignoring the fact that their children are blasting their electronics for the rest of us to enjoy.
Reflections on Memorial Day while living in Tangier The trail in Bray, Ireland While my family and friends back in the States celebrate another Memorial Day, where, honestly, people congregate to spend time together and open the summer season, especially in Maine and New Hampshire, I’m here in Tangier, looking for a well-deserved reprieve. Unlike my family, I worked on Monday but will be celebrating on my own later in the week. In a day or two, while the locals celebrate Eid, which I believe is the celebration of Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son to God rather than a sheep, I’ll be in England, rebooting and recharging. I’m confident, though, as I look across the Irish Sea, squinting towards Bray and Dublin, that I will remember my first trip to that area, the one I want to share now. While the original travel vlog is gone, the experience, the shared moment, and the reminder that we can all impact others in positive ways remain strong to this day. In honor of the those who have gone before us, especially my fellow veterans who paid the highest price on the field of battle, here’s a blog about making a difference, not because I necessarily wanted to, but because I could. That’s the truth,  Bull Island in Dublin, Ireland (Taken from an old blog I wrote on my first trip to Dublin in November 2022)
There was a point in the walk to Bull Island where I intended to share a short story, but between the wind and the run-in with the Easter Island statue, I dropped the ball entirely. You’ll notice as much when you watch the video. My apologies. With the holiday season underway, especially Thanksgiving, I can’t help but think about how important giving is in all our lives. Many struggle this time of year, far more than at other times. Some lack basic necessities, and others lack emotional or physical support. I don’t need to jump into war-torn areas, where we know the need is great, but as I look outside the door and those I pass on a daily basis, I have no other recourse. As a teacher in New Hampshire, I saw firsthand how school districts support those who don’t have enough food, clothing, or even shelter. Here in Poland, it’s a bit different. I know there is a need, but I don’t know what channels they have to provide. The number of Ukrainian refugees living here clearly shows that Poland is a country that embraces a giving mentality. Many Polish families welcomed Ukrainians into their homes with open arms. They allowed them a place to stay until a suitable arrangement could be made during this trying period. Even now, the country continues to support Ukraine in whatever way it reasonably can. Back in the States, many live in a bubble. I know I did until sixteen years ago when I transitioned out of the Navy and went back into education. I remember gathering the belongings I did have in Maryland and, to my surprise, finding that my favorite fleece blanket was gone. I looked around the house, in every drawer, closet, and box. The unicorn blanket had been a keepsake since middle school and a favorite of mine. I didn’t take it to South Carolina or Florida for fear of it being taken or lost, let alone knowing the blanket couldn’t be brought to boot camp or training command without ample ribbing. To say I was bummed was a bit of an understatement. When it came up in conversation at the dinner table, I found out why the blanket was gone and how. Stephen, in his overly generous nature, had given it to a homeless man in Washington DC. My first thought was you gotta be kidding me. Why did he take my favorite blanket? He didn’t donate his Grizzly Bear fleece, but I guess anything that wasn’t my twin’s was fair picking. That’s exactly what happened. All said, some clothes, a second blanket I overlooked, and the unicorn fleece were all thrown into Stephen’s truck and delivered to a homeless person he saw near the Days Inn in downtown Washington. I couldn’t be mad since it was for a good cause, but I found it fitting that my twin had only given up my belongings. I can hear his voice, “You weren’t using them.” From what I gathered, he did this multiple times. It was sort of a funny joke in the end because Stephen had passed eight months earlier, and I could hear him rationalizing his giving even without having a formal conversation. This was the same guy who, after the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004, said he was changing his life because if the Sox could come back from down 3-0, then he could do anything he set his mind to. Sadly, his own personal quest ended far too soon, but his legacy and the lessons he provided continue to this day. At the very least, I know my blanket found a good home. In Dublin, this specific memory popped into my head after I passed an old woman. Let me backtrack: this memory didn’t show up until a few hours later, on the return walk to my Airbnb. The first time we crossed paths, she was up against a derelict building door. She mumbled something, probably in Gaelic, and held up a paper cup. I waved slightly and carried on, more focused on finding Bram Stoker’s Park and his childhood home. A typical American, I blew by her, but not fast enough to lose sight of her condition or see the whites of her eyes. She was barely sitting up, and if not for the wall, I’m not sure if she wouldn’t be on her side. How she got to that spot, I couldn’t fathom, but at that moment, I also put her out of my mind. In Riga and now here in Dublin, seeing people in hardship pulled at my heartstrings, but I knew I couldn’t give to everyone I saw. There was no way to tell who was truly in need and who was putting on a show. Maybe that’s jaded, but it’s also the truth. Three hours passed, and I was cutting back after my tour of central Dublin. There was the old woman with the squinting eyes still against the wall. A light blue fleece blanket was wrapped around her legs. I’m confident there wasn’t one the first time we crossed paths. Again, she spoke, and I gently shrugged and smiled. Several seconds passed, and I kept walking. I felt for my wallet and wondered how much cash I had. I knew I didn’t have change or anything less than a significant bill. About that time, when I was rationalizing why I shouldn’t stop, Stephen and his unicorn snatching deeds came to mind. Possessed by Stephen’s memory and what was the right thing to do, I turned around. She didn’t see me coming as her back was turned. I tapped her on the shoulder. She lifted the cup, and I shook it off. Slowly, I knelt down and handed her the bill. Tears filled her eyes, and she spoke in Gaelic. I’m pretty sure I know what she said, but we’ll save that for another story. We didn’t have to exchange another word. I saw the angel looking back at me, a woman who hadn’t always been this way, who had a long life up till now, but had fallen on a rough time. I felt what she felt and knew this small gesture would help her more than it would help me find another place to stuff my mouth and fill my stomach. I walked home hopeful for the old woman. More importantly, I was thankful for Stephen, his memory, and the lesson he taught me years earlier. In this season of Thanksgiving, it doesn’t matter how much you give, but that you put yourself in the right place to help those in need, in a way that truly serves. If you happen to see a unicorn fleece blanket, do let me know.  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.  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? |
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. 
Archives
August 2026
Categories
All
Click to set custom HTML
|
RSS Feed