 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.
0 Comments
 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 Rediscovering Berlin, New Hampshire: A Journey Through History, Rumors, and the Great North Woods11/12/2025  I’ve traveled more than most, and yet I always find myself drawn back to my native state of New Hampshire, eager to explore the country roads and paths that others might not necessarily see or appreciate. When I last lived in the area, there was one northern city I had to get back to. As crazy as this would sound to anyone from the lower half of the state, Berlin was the goal. Exploring Berlin, NH: A Forgotten Mill Town with New LifeYes, that’s right, the capital of the Great North Woods. This is the same area where I’m currently finishing up my follow-up to Rusty Star. It’s where Russell Stokes investigates a double murder, in an area where people are rare and trees are mainstays, with riding trails crisscrossing the region for outside enthusiasts. Berlin is the hub of the action, not so much in my book, but it does get a comment or two, simply because there is one place in the city that took my breath away, that even now, years later, haunts my thoughts, and in Double Cross, Russell’s. Let’s be real, we’re not talking about Berlin, the capital of Germany, the city that was left in ashes after World War II. No, we are talking about a much smaller fish, but an important one all the same. You need to understand that my Berlin, the one of my youth, was a mill city, and a place that was more mystery and myth than anything else. History, Rumors, and the Roots of a Northern CityAt St. Michael’s Catholic Church in Exeter, the whispers among the congregation were that Berlin was where they sent the bad ones, you know, those priests with reputations that weren’t befitting our domicile and economic prowess. If you dig a little deeper, it was also where the Manchester diocese would often send others for a form of exile out of the public eye. To find out why these priests were being exiled, you can ask the diocese for their official statement or denials. Sometimes, I wonder whether any of this was true, but that’s what was said on the benches before Mass or during the coffee and donuts gossip hour. Sometimes, we even talked about it from the confines of our homes. The next time I heard of Berlin was when a classmate mentioned that he had family in that area and had just returned from a weekend of forced bonding. He likely mentioned something about four–wheeling. Still, since this was not something my family did for fun, I dismissed the comments as a hillbilly thing, not realizing that I was likely missing out on an incredible adventure. Instead, thirteen-year-old me focused on the more interesting part of his tale — the unique smell that permeated the entire area. This wasn’t a comment about body odor, but the paper mills and the distinct scent of paper burning and churning in that part of the world. Let’s just say one side of the river has significantly nicer houses compared to the other. I wonder if that has more to do with being downwind or away from the scent, even to the point where dogs might not want to sniff. I did some more digging, or asking around, to find out what was going on with this place. Was it worth visiting one day? Honestly, my family was worthless on this pursuit. Why would you want to go up there? My mom even said something like, “Don’t waste your time, Jonny. With the mills closing, there’s crime everywhere. A bunch of poor folk, and they have to pay more to entice good teachers to go up there.” I might have mentioned the new prison they built, but alas, with new jobs, it still didn’t solve the city’s misguided reputation. As President Biden would say, it was a bunch of malarky, but likely a combination of truth and misinformation. Why Berlin Is Worth the Drive North Berlin's Orthodox Church What I know is that I never got to the city until my late thirties, when I ventured farther north to Pittsburg. Why it took so long was simply a matter of circumstances, and because it’s a long drive from the coast, or it seems as such. Perhaps it has more to do with getting distracted by other places. If you take Route 16, North Conway gets in the way, and that ski town vibe with train rides to boot is hard to pass up. Jump on the Kancamagus and you aren’t going north, but west towards the Lakes Region, where the mountains and all their beauty have been replaced with lakes and ponds that will leave you wanting more or to stay put. It’s not that I didn’t want to visit Berlin, but why travel somewhere just to go for a three-hour drive, one way, if you can explore closer to home? That’s the truth of it, right? What eventually got me to visit the city wasn’t to refute the information of my youth, but circumstances. I wanted to hit a Walmart before a camping retreat on the Connecticut Lakes in New Hampshire’s northernmost town. Come on now, if the city has a Walmart, and a pretty one at that, it can’t be that bad? Honestly, I do love their Walmart. I wish I were making this up, but the color brick they used, and the lot directly across the road from the river, has a welcoming energy that, for whatever reason, seems like a great wayward point to restock and get those provisions for your stay. What you don’t realize after the Walmart run is that the only way north is through the city, and in turn, a glimpse into not only four wheelers and other UTVs sharing the roads, but a place that is undergoing revitalization, no longer defined as the paper mill town, but a hipster place and outdoor hub, perfect for launching into those adventures. On this first trip, I simply drove through, but I made a note to return sooner rather than later. There was the route to Stark, home of a WW2 German POW camp, no less, that begged for attention. Come on, talk about some irony, yeah? The captured Germans were brought to the middle of nowhere in the logging capital of the state, and they were put in encampments within a short distance of Berlin. It’s like a bad joke. Sorry, guys, we know you miss your homeland, so let’s send you to another Berlin where you can’t hurt anyone. I’m sure many of them found the humor in it. Then again, many POWs remained in the area, and those very barracks are now converted homes, with only a distant memory of their wartime past. The route I took on that drive was along the Androscoggin River. Once out of the city, that waterway is majestic, raw, and beautiful. It doesn’t take much for you to feel as though you are in the thick of a nature preserve, but really, it’s the entire region, with few people, and simply easy spots to pull over and trek across the bog, field, or forest to connect to the ancient tribal highway. A few months later, I returned to Berlin, not this time for a city tour, but to visit an Orthodox Russian Church, of all things. That’s right, named after a German capital, no less, but this northern city at the time of the lumber boom was full of French Canadians and Russians. I imagine part of it was from the immigrant population after the fall of the Russian Empire, which brought many Orthodox to the area. I have no clue how they learned of the city, but then again, the Russians had an enclave south of Augusta, Maine, as well, so maybe it’s simply word of mouth after one family came to start a new life. What I loved was seeing the familiar design of the church, with its distinctive onion shape, which I had also seen in Crimea and Yaroslavl during my studies. Who would have known that this would exist in New Hampshire? I wish I could say that I bought stock in Berlin at this point, and made it a point to explore it with the same veracity I would later on in my Polish travels, but alas, it was simply a visit to the church and then going home. More years would pass, and after I returned to the area, this time to nearby Maine, I felt drawn to explore Berlin, to give the city its proper due. While I would love to share every little detail of that trip, in this case, I will share the vlog below for you to set aside some time to see this unique city through my eyes. You can appreciate why the area resonates with me and how the Catholic Church catalyzed this trip. One step inside St. Anne’s made me appreciate the long journey, the years of speculation on the mystery that was Berlin, and how specifically, a historic interior, one I don’t believe there is a rival Stateside must have been a mainstay for their parishoners looking for purpose, family, and a connection, in between their long shifts at the mills and from their arduous wood cutting duties. I, for one, am glad I have found a reason to visit Berlin and hope in future visits to the state, I make the time to return. The city deserves the attention and an opportunity to show you why it’s worth the adventure, or even a future place to live.  Spain's southernmost point - Tarifa I told myself that my current project — the follow-up to Rusty Star — would be different. Unlike previous novels, I vowed not to grind away just because I had time or to fill my weekends with 5000-word goals, simply to get the project done faster. Honestly, that’s the most challenging part after getting into the characters, their motivations, and their stories. Often, it feels like I’m simply downloading dialogue and information, one big conduit at work. To that end, I have to watch myself so that I don’t overdo things and stretch myself thin. Currently, on 85000 words, there isn’t that much left for the story. I think it’s at least ten thousand more, maybe fifteen, but until Russell tells me everything is tied up in a bow, it could be a slow crawl to the end. Knowing this, I want to embrace these final days and weeks of the process. Am I drained? Absolutely, but not because of the writing, but from the emotional exchange that happens with certain scenes and situations characters find themselves in. A Writer’s Retreat Across the Water: Why Tarifa Was the Reset I NeededKnowing that the end of the book offers little to no reprieve, with continuous emotional hits on Russell, I took a retreat this past weekend to Tarifa, Spain. There were two vlogs I released in the spring on this little fishing haven and Kite Surfing retreat at Spain’s southernmost point that I won’t repeat, but will simply share below if you're interested in seeing more. Tarifa vs. Tangier: Two Shores, Two Very Different Energies Tarifa, Spain - A Kite Surfing Paradise Even though Tarifa is directly across the water —Tangier’s water twin, if you will — they couldn’t be more different. Tarifa is a small village, not even a city in my book, and a transfer point where people ferry across for the price of a Ryanair plane ticket, then take the shuttle bus onwards to Algeciras, and then to Marbella, Malaga, or Seville. Anyway, it’s an overnight stay at best, a pub crawl for the hardy, and for this guy, an energetic shift away from the heaviness that is Tangier. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure Tangier’s energy is a blessing to many, but in my case, from the get-go, the area grinds at me more than any other place I have lived. It’s an uphill struggle daily, and like Sisyphus, I climb the mountain and once at the top, I can rest, until the next day, when everything repeats. But as the boulder rolls down the hill, my reprieve is writing, unless of course, I get out of Dodge for a quick recharge. This past weekend, Tarifa was the place to be. It’s just far enough away that the current and the water flow behave differently. Where you get monster waves and a consistent wind that Wind and Kite Surfers adore, and a picturesque beach that goes on for miles, Tangier has some sand that serves as a rest stop. The water haphazardly comes in for a mediocre hive five and a promise that it might be fun, someday. While there might be a one hump camel or two roaming the sand for a quick buck and Arabian horses for the same, on Tarifa’s beaches, the dogs that visit are on vacation with their owners, basking in the sun no less, and topless nudity appears to be unisex in nature. More importantly, for this guy, the sand and the water, with the wind on my face, and the ability to grab an adult beverage if the need comes, is just what I need to recenter and find the energy to write again, let alone return to a classroom full of energetic wilderbeasts . . . I mean, wonderful children. Sometimes, I get too wordy. Of course, I meant wonderful, loving, polite children. That’s how it’s been at every location I have taught the last twenty-plus years. Cherubim and angels, gumdrops, and fairies, right? Tarifa, though, is a wonderful place to visit. It’s easy enough to see everything in the old town within twenty minutes. If you want to do the tapa thing, go for it — there are ample food choices to keep your interest, or, in my case, a Lidl with this delicious pecking snack of salted pork and fresh bread that cries out for my attention. On my last trip, I pretended to be a grand hiker, eager to see if I could meander my way onto parts of the El Camino de Santiego. Still, alas, I ended up in a cow pasture, staring down the locals, and wondering why an hour-long hike along the cliffs, looking out onto the ocean, was therapy for my soul. Finding Balance Between Writing, Travel, and the Need to BreatheIt doesn’t matter how long I stay in Tarifa, simply breathing the fresh air, smelling the salt of the Atlantic Ocean current, and taking a moment to sit and rest is honestly the best recipe for any ailment I’m suffering from. This weekend was a welcome reprieve, and I imagine there will be a few more trips in the months to come. If you ever find yourself eager to get to Morocco, veer off and check out this fishing spot; you might find a place you didn’t realize you needed. Or when you leave Morocco, take the ferry across and instead of pushing onwards to some ridiculous city that lacks charm and spirit, spend a few hours in Tarifa to see how the locals live and what honest Spanish living is all about. Tarifa - Travel Vlogs from April 2025The Storm That Wouldn’t Quit  Storm Amy (what was left of Hurricane Humberto) was ready to play Influencers never seem to show both sides of the traveling coin. Let me be the first to share that if you ever decide to book a flight and travel to some faraway land, there’s always the potential for disruption. Take this past weekend as an example for this seasoned traveler ― Storm Amy, formerly Hurricane Hermbato, decided to slap the British Isles with a taste of unsightly and less-than-travel-friendly weather. Thankfully, I wasn’t heading to some big city that depended on the perfect filming environment. For that matter, I simply wanted to get to my Irish seaside retreat of Morecambe to watch the tidal change and feel the cooler English air. Even with my travel ambitions known, it was still a chore to navigate. Before I even left Morocco, the trains were already disrupted for my return on Monday. Rumor has it that, in addition to Amy’s wrath, it was already decided that this would be the maintenance weekend for the Northern Railway, which means headaches to begin with, and for those smaller venues, outright cancellations. Familiar with the routes and NW England, the potential disruptions meant little to me, except for how I would adapt and modify the path to reach this holiday hamlet. Now, before you go nuts and ask why I would choose NW England, the Lancaster area of all spots to visit, restrain yourself because this is the real U.K. We aren’t in London, where it’s more of a glorified United Nations of visitors with exorbitant prices and a lack of English charm that does little to nullify the hole in your wallet. No, in Lancashire, it’s comfortable, honest, and authentic. There’s history everywhere you go. You can see it on your walks, with every building, corner, and even the trees. The entire area sings of days gone by, and the people you meet are the salt of the Earth and beyond pleasant. Knowing this, I was prepared for the potential disruptions, whether it was the flight in or the messy Saturday when Amy would be at full force. Thankfully, the Ryanair flight was, surprise, surprise, on time. According to the pilots, they were the only flight to depart Manchester on time that day and, in this case, arrived back in England with a few minutes to spare. Frankly, I should have taken this as a sign of what was to come. If Ryanair is on time, it means the rest of the trip is going to be an adventure. That’s just how the traveling fairy manages these experiences. With a sound sleep at the Ibis, with no noise whatsoever, I slept like a champ, renewed and ready for the coming day. Everything seemed to be in order. The train for Lancaster was scheduled for 10:27, and there we were waiting on platform 3A, although I admit I was looking for 9 ¾. By the time I did a walk-around, looking for Harry and the rest of the clan, what do you know but on the screen, the train had disappeared completely, replaced by a different, later, 11:00 route. That’s a bit awkward, and there was no notice. I checked my Trainline app and saw the route had been canceled. No worries, right? We would simply take the next train in and continue on our merry way. If only it were that bloody easy. The masses of people whose trains had been canceled decided to join the trip, and before we knew it, the 11:00 became the all-comers ride into Manchester Piccadilly. Many of us were trying to head north, but alas, so were the next wave of passengers rushing to get on the train. Not even one step in, and every seat was taken, the carriage was standing room only, and bags blocked the aisle. I felt blessed to have a seat and secretly smiled, knowing Lancaster was only a few stops away. Wouldn’t you know it, the Piccadilly stop was fifteen minutes long because they continued to fight to get on the train, and figure out where to put their baggage in the process. The number of times we were all asked to back away from the doors was comical, especially since no conductors were inside to manage the chaos. Still, I sat comfortably, believing everything would be all right. The train pulled away from Piccadilly, and the screen updated, canceling the entire route past Preston. Not only were they canceling the trip, but those sorry schmucks who just wanted a ride to Manchester Oxbow were now forced to stay on the train to Bolton because we were overpacked with passengers. I agreed to skip the next stop en route to Bolton, as it is usually a madhouse, and I didn’t like the idea of stopping again to see how people would disembark and potentially allowing one or two the opportunity to join in the fun. Others lamented the ongoing changes, ignoring the fact that the rain continued to fall, the wind battered the area, and anyone familiar with Scotland’s geography would know that the second part of the route was probably underwater. A couple behind us were trying to figure out how to get to Blackpool. They started in Liverpool, were redirected to Manchester, and now any train to Blackpool via this direction has been canceled due to Amy’s visit. Why they hadn’t considered the bus back at Liverpool Lime Street Station remains a mystery to me, but maybe they didn’t know any better. Sheesh, I would have grabbed a train to Southport and figured it out from there. One family was trying to get to Scotland with five bags in tow and was busy using the train app to screen potential routes once we arrived in Preston. That’s when it hit me that all of us, sorry travelers, were going to Preston and would be fighting the proverbial good fight to get on the next train northbound. Finding Calm in Morecambe A well deserved tea after a long journey to Morecambe I, for one, was not too excited about this opportunity. There would be more waiting, more pushing, and for what reason? Knowing that the next train was an hour out, or the potential of a way out, I did what was easiest. Uber was my path of least resistance, and the best $45 spent the entire trip. Not only did I get a roadside view of the countryside, but there were no other people to contend with, no stupid noises to hear, and the thirty-minute drive was relaxing. I even got to see the iconic Pennine Tower. I wish it were before 1989, when that futuristic tower and restaurant were still open. Still, it was a glorious sight to see on the M6, just as we were preparing for the final miles into historic and bucolic Lancaster. Lancaster was ready for our arrival, with a light shower serving as a proper greeting, only to shift to a full-on downpour. Note to self: packing a poncho instead of an umbrella was a bad idea, especially after I poked several holes in my Moroccan gem of a product. Thankfully, Primark and Poundland were open for business, although again I shunned a new umbrella, figuring the worst had passed. A quaint and delicious bread bowl venison stew at Zizzi warmed me right up, and before I knew it, I was back on the way to the train station for the final trip to Morecambe. True to form, that train was canceled with the next one, forty minutes out. I didn’t feel like waiting any longer, so I used the reliable Uber app to secure a ride to my final destination. Did the rain let up over the remainder of the day? Not so much, but it didn’t matter. By the time I was greeted by the wonderful host of Broadwater Guest House, I knew I had come to the right place to settle my nerves and get the reprieve I desperately needed. Thanks to Amy, my room was upgraded due to cancellations, and I was offered an Irish Sea view and the most comfortable chair to write from. My twin brother Stephen, who passed twenty years ago, must have been working his magic. The room number was 7, his lucky number, and the seagull that kept flying over towards the window was none other than Steve, a local friend who loved his daily breakfast morsels. Before I knew it, I had a fleece wrapped around my legs, the howling wind and rain pounding on the glass, while I enjoyed a pot of tea and a Danish to boot. There would be no further adventures for me on this trip; instead, I would have the time and space to recharge and renew along a coastline that many tourists will never see or learn to appreciate. While the trip involved adjustments and going with the flow, it was all time well spent and a story I can add to the books. Influencers can take their posed shots and compile their top ten lists, but at the end of the day, they are missing out on sharing stories that truly matter — the grit and the authentic experiences that define who you really are. In the spirit of my Poland travels, I've been working on a memoir that encompasses all of my trips while living in Poland. The working title of the book is Forever Poland. Right now, I'm about 50,000 words in. With the follow-up to Rusty Star ongoing, the second part of Forever Poland has to wait til January for the proper time to revisit the book and finish the remaining chapters. I wanted to share more of the writing process, so here's part two of my trip to Zalipie, which I also documented in a YouTube video blog on Travel with Mr. Jon. I'll include that at the end for your viewing pleasure. In the meantime, grab some coffee or tea and indulge in this first draft of my road trip to Poland's happiest and prettiest Village. The Final Drive to Poland's Happiest VillageRain seemed to follow me everywhere in Poland, and I wasn’t shocked it was on the horizon, nor that it wanted to do so on my final day vlogging in the country. As we drove away and found ourselves on yet another side road, it truly felt like a one-way route; I couldn't help but consider the weather. The idea of a flooded path crossed my mind again, even though I didn’t think it would happen to us at that moment. No, it made far more sense as several cars raced by us, with our vehicle hugging the side of the road, doing its best not to drive off the nonexistent curb, to have the weather come on the return drive. Only then could we embrace this road to its full effect and correctly figure out all the low points and where we might be stranded and fodder for the dziki. I took a moment to glance out at the fields and the marsh we found ourselves driving across, wondering what village we would explore next. While I know I counted down till our next pull over, the clouds continued to darken. Even now, I have to think to myself what the worst weather day I dealt with was. There was torrential rain in Pzemsyl a few weeks earlier. That had to have been the worst, as I was thoroughly soaked and had only found refuge in the churches of all places. True story, I knew I couldn’t make it to the hotel fast enough, but this one church I had visited before and been locked out of was miraculously open on my return trip, eager for my eyes and for me to sit, to get a break from the nonstop rain. Come to think of it, every church in that area was unlocked. It was divine intervention when I grabbed my umbrella and spent the next hour going in and out of churches while Mother Nature did her best to ruin my filming experience. We had no churches on this road to Zalipie, which was unpleasant to say the least. Thankfully, there were signs that we were close. Not even five minutes from the village, I spotted a shrine on the side of the road in front of a lovely modern family home. Dana pulled over to entertain my creative urge. I walked across the street and marveled at this dedication from 1903. I had no clue what the inscription said, and I should have asked for a proper translation, but what I did find that warmed my heart were the flowers on all four sides of the structure. Freshly painted, in the last year for sure, these were the Zalipie standard, at the very least inspired. Hand-painted with lots of color and designs, I knew we weren’t far from our final destination. These flowers were distinct in pattern and drawn the same way that had been passed down for generations, from the 19th century to the present. I loved the lupine and the roses. Honestly, each side felt like a touch of spring and summer. These were the wild flowers you would pick for your lover or your mother to smell and enjoy at home. Not far from this yard, we found ourselves at the wooden sign for Zalipie. If you weren’t looking for it, you would likely have driven right by on this busier main road, which made me think we took the scenic route. Had it not been for the metal fence barrier protecting the wooden structure from renegade bikes and perhaps an occasional car, we wouldn’t have spotted this side road entrance to the quiet village. The distinct folk art was out in the open with more flowers in what I would best describe as floral wallpaper for those who couldn’t afford any. Stenciling, gone mad, would be even more appropriate. Let's Paint EverythingOne more kilometer of driving and it was clear we had arrived at Poland’s happiest village or perhaps most gaudy. I kid a little, but when I spotted the fire department and saw the etched flower pattern underneath the windows and over the doors, it was a bit much for me. Granted, it could have been the contrast in colors, with the orange, yellow, blue, and red, but it seemed like they were forcing the tradition onto a building that didn’t need an arrangement. I’m sure Instagrammers would swoon over a fire department with hot red truck doors, a metal roof, and primarily a building in a greyish tone aside from the flowers and the red lining around the windows. I shrugged because I wanted to see the old village homes, one-room houses, or three-room dachas where you knew your grandparents were raised, and had to do everything without modern conveniences. That’s what I was looking for, not a bloody cement building that you tried to liven up with a stitch pattern. Still, at the fire department, the flowers were everywhere. Who cares if I felt like I was in Kansas, among crops, fields, and only the occasional tree? Across the street, I saw what I believed was a church from the distinct wooden cross. The building itself was nothing to write home about, but all the windows had large bouquets, adorning the area, making you feel as though flowers were growing on the walls and through the cracks. I knew, though, from my limited research, the real show was the inside. I decided at this point to keep walking and spotted a brand new cement one-level house farther down the street that required my attention. The perfect cobblestone driveway gave away the newness of this house, and more importantly, a weird vibe. Although these same flower designs were prevalent, they felt forced. Did I say I was disappointed? I’m not trying to be negative, but I'm being honest about the fact that I just assumed the only houses with flowers were the old wooden ones. To me, it seemed like whoever built this structure was like, “Oh, we better put some flowers around the windows. And instead of painting the outside white, as they would have done in the past, we’ll have sections that are white with colorful flowers. Let’s make sure these overhead spaces can be removed if necessary.” Honestly, it felt weird. I was more excited to get away from this building and walk down the street to Dana and the car, wondering if she had spotted the traditional houses or if this was going to be some sham tour. As I was about to ask her if she had found out anything new or seen something better than what I had, the wheat crop became the real show. Let’s talk about something cool. I'm in my early forties, and I have never stepped foot in a field full of barley. This was amazing and beautiful. Had the rain not begun to fall, I likely would have considered taking a run or at least a walk through this illustrious area, to take on the role of Maximus in Gladiator when he did the same at the end of Gladiator. Don’t get me wrong, this wasn’t Pienza, Italy, but the energy felt similar to me. Sure, the barley or wheat wasn’t that high either, but it was still in the same spirit. A Real House TourMy opinion of Zalipie began to shift at this moment. The modern build across the street, with its high-end metal gate and painted flower trim, did little to sway the fact that older homes on the horizon begged for attention. A house for sale on the right did nothing for me, but what appeared to be the original home in front made the folk art come alive. There was no denying the large dandelion bushes and the flower-filled bouquet on the backside of the building, with a complementary lower lining of brown daisies guarding the bottom. I still wanted to see more, as we were on the upswing. This street appeared to have more potential. As the houses were farther apart, intermittently placed with fields in between them and the occasional grouping of trees, the jackpot was a short walk away. Dana was indispensable at this point. Part of me was ready to simply film the outside of the best house we had found, one that could have been the selling part for any Instagrammer, but she was adamant that we go in through the gate and see about touring the house itself. I’ll be the first to say, I wouldn’t have done this without her. Even though this little hamlet is known to get tourists, as a New Englander, we don’t just walk into someone’s house without permission, let alone onto their property. Dana was confident we could. As I stood across the street and waited for the sign, she went across the threshold and talked to the older woman, the caretaker of the house. Only after getting her blessing, did I resume filming and take in what was the pivotal moment of this village tour. To begin, this house from the outside was immaculate. This woman and her family, for the previous sixty years, had painstakingly cared for this home. The grass was trimmed, flowers aligned the property, especially the rose bushes, which were cut back enough to allow each stem and blossom to flourish. It was a property that my grandmother would have been proud to see, and it brought me back to her rose bushes in Tucson, Arizona. I tried to take it all in, even as I provided commentary on my camera. Even now, as I think back, I rewatch the clips and smile. The metal gate had sections painted with white flower designs, and the outside of the house was covered in bouquets perfectly hand-drawn in between freshly painted window frames. I preferred the colorful assortment of flowers serving as the trim between the outer wall and the foundation. The fruit trees added to the ambiance, along with the hand-painted well, benches, and barn. Nothing was left untouched, even the pail that was used for the well, the flower pots, or the dog house. With each step, you were taken back in time, and got a glimpse of what these women did to brighten up family homes that were covered in soot. Crossing the threshold into the house, this wasn’t some hoarder’s home, but a real place you would look forward to visiting and spending time in. More art filled the walls, with the familiar trim and etchings of free-hand sketched flowers. In the United States, we might use wallpaper or stenciling to get the perfect alignment and array of these floral designs; this was an art form in itself in Zalipie. Our hostess explained how her great-grandmother had learned the craft and had passed it down through generations, with her now doing the same for her daughter. This wasn’t a gift for the men in the family to learn; they could only appreciate the tradition these women and others like them continued to share and imitate. What I loved the most from being inside, aside from our hostess’s hospitality, was the brightness of the white walls mixed in with all the flowers. Truly, there was such warmth in each room, especially where the food was prepared. The old wooden stove that I was more familiar with seeing in rural Ukraine was here as well. Just as with the walls, every surface was painted. Where the wood would be placed to keep the fire going, so one could boil their water or cook their afternoon meal, a myriad of bouquets and colors livened up the space. I wondered how long it took to paint these beauties and how often they would refresh. If these women were anything like my sister, who seems to repaint her walls on an annual basis, I would surmise that each season the walls were painted over in white, and then the flowers appeared shortly thereafter. They were too vibrant to have been there for a more extended period, but then again, I could be wrong. One Pretty House When the house tour ended and we were back on the roadside, I was relieved to get a proper glimpse into this area’s past and the traditions that had begun a hundred and fifty years earlier. Not far from this masterpiece, across the street, I found an even more delightful home. Between the white picket fence with our favorite flowers aligning every few posts and a handful of trees guarding the entrance, this one-level home with a red wooden thatched roof and white painted boards was what I hoped to encounter. Between the bright blue window trim and matching door, the flowers were simply the icing on the cake. Placed between each window frame, there was nothing left uncovered, and that was okay with me. This was just folk beauty at its finest. The best part was above the door frame. What I would label a little touch of heaven, placed over a simple red and purple design, was a horseshoe and dried up lavender, or perhaps mistletoe, mugwort, or some other bundle of dried herbs. I wasn’t sure as to the meaning of the placement, whether it was to ward off spirits or specific bugs, but I knew this was a proper folk tradition. Looking at the entire scene before me, with the fields and the storm passing overhead, I could imagine myself in 19th-century Polish countryside, and for that I was thankful. While my folk art palate was finally satisfied, I found myself crossing the street and down someone’s private road after I caught a glimpse of one of my favorite things to see in Poland. How I spotted this remains a mystery to me, especially as I walked for a couple of minutes past my new love, the wheat fields, and to the edge of someone’s house. There, on the edge, tucked behind the shrubs and a modern metal gate, stood a family shrine to Mary. I was tempted to open the gate and read the inscription, but it was enough to see the cross and Mary within the glass enclosure. First, Boratyn and then in places like Przemysl, Krosno, and Skawina, this was another fitting reminder of how things are done in rural Poland. Outside the big cities, these artifacts and relics show the Roman Catholic traditions of this country. Our journey to Zalipie concluded a few minutes later, but only after we found ourselves at the village center and their meeting house. With multiple maps, any visitor could easily see that Dana and I had only started the exploration of Poland’s happiest village. I was taken aback by the number of homes listed, and for that matter, the distances it would take to walk and explore each one. No, they weren’t all next to each other, not in the least. And yet, that was okay. We got a taste of the traditions that the women of the area had been passing down through generations to brighten their homes and so that other locals would know who the eligible brides to be were. As I did a final walk-through of the visitor center and explored the various hallways, adorned with the same vibrant flowers I had seen in my new favorite home, I heard and saw little girls running in the hallway. Laughter and giggles livened up the entire space, serving as a fitting tribute to their mothers, who met in the adjacent room, where they painted and stitched. While the wooden homes will eventually need to be replaced by more modern ones, it’s safe to say that the traditions will continue in this part of Poland, and for that, I’m grateful. I, for one, took this last vlogging trip in stride. As with many of my adventures, I didn’t know what to expect, what was real, and what was going to be grossly exaggerated. What was nice to see was the lack of tourists gracing this area, and that it was more than just flowers that made the journey worthwhile. Truly, the high points for me, aside from the company, were the elephants and the cemetery. I enjoyed the flowers too, but come on, where else could I relieve Maximus’s final dream sequence? Yes, that, my friends, is what Poland is all about. In the spirit of my Poland travels, I've been working on a memoir that encompasses all of my trips while living in Poland. The working title of the book is Forever Poland. Right now, I'm about 50,000 words in. With the follow-up to Rusty Star ongoing the second part of Forever Poland has to wait til January for the proper time to revisit the book and finish the remaining chapters. I wanted to share more of the writing process, so here's part one of my trip to Zalipie, which I also documented in a YouTube video blog on Travel with Mr. Jon. I'll include that at the end for your viewing pleasure. In the meantime, grab some coffee or tea and indulge in this first draft of my road trip to Poland's happiest and prettiest Village. Zalipie - The Drive InMy time in Poland was coming to an abrupt end, faster than I wished, but it was necessary because family obligations back in the United States demanded my attention. Still, I wanted to get out and see more of the countryside in those final days. Two weeks earlier, I had my return trip to Przemysl, and in my final weekend, I jetted up to Warsaw to pay my respects. The question remained, where else could I go close enough to Kraków and a manageable day trip? Remembering the incessant Instagram posts on what to do in Poland and several travel blogs listing the top ten things to see or visit in southern Poland, the quintessential Polish village kept being pushed to the forefront. Whispers became downright shouting about Zalipie, the place behind the linden trees. My coworkers mentioned how it was a must, and all I can ask to this day is whether they went to the place. Truly, that’s what I took after this midday trip with a friend. More on that in a bit. Note to self that sometimes the journey is better than the destination, and this trip was that for me. Before we try to put the horse back in the barn, let’s start from the beginning. When Dana asked if we could get together the day before I flew back to the United States, I half-mentioned that I had considered looking into one more travel vlog. Already, my travel partner for some other day trips from Nowa Huta, Poland’s Desert, and to a forest near Skawina, Dana was game for one more run. We likely could have found another spot in Kraków to take in, as there is so much to see and places many tourists overlook. And yet, I didn’t see the point in trying to top the Elvis Presley Monument, where I got to rub his head and wonder which superfan created this masterpiece. No, it was far easier to settle on Zalipie, the folk town where women painted flowers on all the homes and structures, passed down from generation to generation to beautify their gloomy, dark wooden homes, dealing with the grime of coal and other burning substances. Oh yeah, this seemed like a promising idea, especially since Dana’s kids weren't up for the trip, which made me wonder if it wasn’t as cool as social media had made it out to be. We had no idea what we were in for, except for what Google Maps showed by clicking on the occasional image. Having traveled many times this school year, I didn’t want to ruin the trip by seeing too much in advance. Why bother going if we can simply look at a photograph? There would be no further inquiries. I put further research aside. Dana input the village name into her GPS, and we set out mid-morning for a route none of us had previously experienced. Romanian by blood, Dana had done her fair share of exploring with her family. She had taken her kids to the desert, which prompted me to visit, although I questioned whether they enjoyed the location, especially since it was underwhelming to me. Maybe it’s because we are grown adults, and it just takes more to get one excited about different things. I hoped this would prove a better trip, one where both of us found the area intriguing and worth the gas mileage. We never took train trips together; it was always by car. I was already accustomed to Dana’s lead foot, which would make her a good fit with drivers in Maine or New Hampshire, especially on the highways. As we merged onto A4 and drove towards Tarnów, I found it fun to see the trains in the distance. On several trips, I had been on those trains, yet on this one, we were racing past the approaching trains as they made their final approach to the city. Our route was going to be straightforward with the highway as our focal point until we got to the outskirts of Tarnów. We were either in the vicinity or passing several areas I had penciled in on potential trips, and they had all fallen through for a litany of reasons. Wieliczka was the first place I saw on Rick Steeves's guide to the area. Known for the 13th-century salt mine, it was part tourist trap and part amazing. To this day, I wish I had ventured over via the train, the same one that goes back and forth to the airport on the hour, to simply explore the chapel of St. Kinga, which is made entirely of salt. I know pictures don’t do it justice, and yet I never found the time to visit. I believe it was the number of tourists I feared would frequent the same spot, and I didn’t see the point in paying an entrance fee for Mass. I recall reading that attending Mass only was free of charge, but I could never confirm. To that end, as we drove past the signs for that area, I was remiss about a missed opportunity. I might have dwelt longer on this until I saw the sign for Bochnia. Ironic as it may be, this is home to another mine, just not as popular as the one in Kraków. When I looked for alternatives to Wieliczka, this small city came up in my search. Unlike the latter, there is a water crossing within the mine. Instead of walking everywhere, this mine had an actual boat ride, perhaps the only one in Poland or Europe. I didn’t care enough to dig too deep on this one, but it was an alternative that passed the preliminary travel options on a future trip to Tarnów. Here we were driving by, but Dana had no intention of stopping, nor was I inclined to ask her to do so. Our mission today was to find Poland’s happiest village and hopefully some content that made sense. I lost track of the time, so when we turned off to Wierzchosławice and away from Tarnów, we were at the mercy of the side roads and heading north. What I do remember were fields, lots of them, and the occasional town. Nothing stood out until we were on 975 and driving through Radlow. I remember as if it were yesterday, even though I failed to catch it on camera. This is the fun part of the story because this trip was one that remains on my channel, and so I had an opportunity to watch and remember what we found and what made the cut. Truth be told, the camera was put away the entire drive up until this juncture. Who wants to look at the highway, signs, and in this case, fields? I told Dana to slow down as I saw this beautiful brick church off in the distance. The bridge we were on was the high point for this valley, with you guessed it, more fields, but the church, which seemed interesting enough that I considered asking her to veer towards its direction, until I didn’t. I might have said something had the GPS taken us in that vicinity, but instead, it had us taking the right between two vast cornfields. Only in June, the corn was growing, but not yet the high stalks we come to appreciate in the late summer season, let alone before they are ready to be plucked and harvested. The Cornfields - the Real ShowIn our favour, I looked out and spotted a cemetery to our immediate left. A tractor-trailer sped by, and I had to call out for Dana to stop. She knows of my obsession with cemeteries and had to make a phone call, so the timing was ideal, as is often the case with many of my vlogging sessions. I will share that this wasn’t some quiet road either. We weren’t the only vehicle driving towards Zabno. There wasn’t even a proper pull-off. This was the countryside, and had it not been for the cemetery and the poorly maintained grass, Dana would have had to park off kilter on the edge of the road. I got out of the car and walked towards this beauty of a memorial. I had to laugh because, truly, corn was planted around every part of this thing. The fact that there was a path of sorts seemed weird, but then again, this cemetery in the middle of a cornfield and high-voltage power lines was equally amusing. The obelisk with the distinct cross towered over the crops, a full eleven meters high, and made this resting place for World War I soldiers even more fitting. A sign indicated that this was from late 1914 and early 1915, and soldiers from multiple sides were stationed in different sections of this relatively small outdoor shrine. A lone poppy grew proudly near the remains of some British soldiers. I spotted the German and Russian markers before climbing over the rock wall to take another look at the corn that enwrapped itself in this resting place for these soldiers. Unlike cemeteries I had traveled to and explored over the past year in Poland, this one was different. The energy alone was unique, and these graves made me reflect on war, and how these soldiers were put here out of convenience, much like many others in this part of the countryside. I wasn’t aware until after the fact, how many WWI graves are littered across these small towns, villages, and cities. I saw larger, more significant resting spots for these armies in places like Przemysl and Giżycko, but here was fitting for men at war who traveled to a foreign land, and this was what they had time for. It wasn’t glorious, nor did these men get much recognition for their efforts, and yet this proved they weren’t forgotten either. Truly, as I walked back to the road and spotted another plot across the street, nestled between a grove of trees with a cornfield as its perimeter, this felt fitting and peaceful. The grave marker told me everything I needed to know, with something like two hundred and ten Russian soldiers placed in a mass grave. This walk was a longer one, set farther back off the road, and yet more inviting. Four crosses took my breath away, and yet I focused on the fact that we had two small cemeteries with all this fertile land around them. I used the analogy on camera about how, even in death, there was a sense of renewal and rebirth that tied everything together. As I circled the wall, with only one entrance, I spotted more information about the five mass graves and three individual ones. Indeed, learning more about this place was informative, but the crosses over the mass grave were not what I expected. They spoke to me at some level. The trees surrounding the wall seemed like the rear guard, standing watch over these brave men who lost their lives. More than one hundred years after the fact, I could get a sense of the toil, the struggle, and perhaps even, as a veteran, I could relate to this loss of innocence and what these soldiers experienced, and those who served with them. The place was surreal and not an expected layover or wayward point. And yet, finding these cemeteries on the way to Poland’s happiest village seemed ironic and fitting at the same time. Dana missed all the fun, but then again, I don’t think she realized this might be the high point of our adventure. We might have been on the high ground, because for the next few minutes we continued to drive in this low-level area that I swore was more of a flood plain, or a potential one. I even imagined the river overflowing and then feeding and nourishing these fields to produce the corn that would make even Kansas proud. My New Favorite Team Zalipie was still several minutes out, and I couldn’t tell either way what, if anything, we would find. Flashbacks to our trip to the desert continued to linger, not because the desert was underwhelming, but from the anticipation we had near the Eagle’s Nest and the many side roads we found ourselves swinging onto, looking for the remnants of Poland’s castles and keeps. We can leave out the variety of those ruins and being charged for a relic that was a waste of time for a series of stones that barely resembled any structure, and yet, if we hadn’t gone in that direction, we would have missed that town with the old manor that begged for more attention. I was banking on the same win, if you will, as we drove along the outskirts of Zabno. The first thing of notice was the stadium adjacent to a few streets of homes. This mammoth structure looked out of place among the low-lying plains that we drove through to reach the parking lot. We didn’t even stop for the football component, because as I shared freely in my vlog, I’m not the biggest fan. Granted, this has changed slightly, in that now I can boast of going to a Premier League match in the UK, but I wouldn’t say I’m more than a cursory viewer who simply checks scores and now wants to see what Jamie Vardy is up to. As for Polish football, I can tell you next to nothing save that many of the cities I explored have some decent-sized stadiums, especially Opole and Rybnik, which was a bit surprising considering they aren’t huge cities. Out here in the sticks, we found ourselves parked out front of the 4500+ seat Bruk-Bet Termalica Nieciecza home field, which looked cool among the fields and the ominous storm clouds that decided to visit us. I got out of the car quicker than I should, considering the subject matter, but where else do you find giant elephants roaming? That’s right, I was suckered in at the front gates by not one, but two elephants that demanded a photo op. I was surprised at my eagerness, but then again, these life-size cuties were worth the few-minute detour. The finishing on both of them was quite life-like between the soulful eyes and the tusks. I believed I took to them so much that I used it as my thumbnail for multiple media sites. People were expecting painted flowers, but I gave them elephants. (No wonder my channel has never taken off. I digress for a moment.) I thought that would be the end of it and a quick return to the car, but no, I had to walk to the entrance to get a glimpse of the stadium. Part of me wanted to be able to go in and film these hallowed grounds, but alas, I kept walking the perimeter of the stadium only to walk away empty-handed. When I thought the exploring was over, in the back fields, the best part of this place came into full view. Don’t get me wrong, I spotted several homes with a gluttony of fresh flowers in full bloom, certainly a preview of what was about to come, but no a short walk from a portable toilet, I found more elephants. These elephants were glorious. In the center of the cul-de-sac, with a few homes in the background, a large field, a cemetery, and those storm clouds that I knew were going to wreak havoc shortly thereafter, the family of three was beyond adorable. I don’t know whether it was the green astroturf skin, although maybe it was real grass, but between the dad with his tusks, the mom, and the baby that I got to pet, these elephants were a sight to behold. Talk about a family to have in your front yard. If I’m being entirely honest, I was a bit jealous of the two kids on their bicycles circling these fine animals as they turned for some midday cemetery riding. After paying my respects to the trio that I wished were back at my school, guarding the entrance, as opposed to looking like they were getting ready to partake in a football game, I took one final look at the storm clouds. It wasn’t a matter of if the early summer thunderstorm would come, but more of a when. The darker the clouds became, the sooner it would be. The question remained as I got back in the car, as to whether we would skirt by the edge of the storm or get walloped. One would be preferred over the other as we hadn’t even gotten to the village yet, and filmed what was supposed to be the apex of this travel vlog. Still, it was beyond our control, and it’s not like I hadn’t trekked across this country in good and bad conditions. Heck, in Warsaw, I got stuck in a bloody hailstorm while finishing up a vlog en route to a date that I wish had never happened. I take that back; the Indian restaurant was worth trying, but the remaining hours of aimless walking and sitting in a café were not on my to-do list with a person I didn’t truly resonate with. Rain seemed to follow me everywhere in Poland, and I wasn’t shocked it was on the horizon, nor that it wanted to do so on my final day vlogging in the country. As we drove away and found ourselves on yet another side road, it truly felt like a one-way route; I couldn't help but consider the weather. The idea of a flooded path crossed my mind again, even though I didn’t think it would happen to us at that moment. |
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
January 2026
Categories
All
|
RSS Feed