JONATHAN KUIPER
  • Blog
  • About
  • Contact
  • Fiction
    • A Stokes Case
    • The Fox and the Girl
    • The Marcus Files
    • Jones Family
    • The Vincent Chronicles
    • Seli
  • Non-fiction

Flying with Ryanair: Seat Swaps, Bare Feet, and a Miracle Arrival

11/19/2025

0 Comments

 
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

River in Cambridge England, Robinson Crusoe IslandThe 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 Atrocities

I 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
0 Comments

Behind the Scenes: Double Cross-A Russell Stokes Case Gets Its Official Description

11/16/2025

0 Comments

 
With my escape to England now complete, it only makes sense to share a proper description for my new Russell Stokes book. Let's be clear now, this description is simply a preview for the upcoming book that will be out in spring 2026.  I still have to send it off to my copy editor before I can schedule the actual release date.

The greater question is does this book interest you? Have you read the first book in the series, because if you haven't that's where we first meet Russell and see the events that immediately lead to Double Cross. I know I'm tooting my own horn, but it's honestly worth a look. As for the new book, I think it's the best one I've written out of the twenty one books composed over the years.
Picture

Double Cross: A Stokes Case #2
Three ghosts. Two murders. One man running out of second chances.


Haunted by the death of the woman he loved, former Navy investigator Russell Stokes is barely holding it together when an old service friend drags him into the cold. Tommy Delaney is wanted for a brutal double murder in northern New Hampshire—and he insists he’s innocent.

​Heading north, Stokes finds more than he bargained for: a town that guards its secrets, a trail of blood, and a plea from his former mentor, Rear Admiral Radner, to find Grace—the missing daughter of Stokes’s estranged former commanding officer, whose actions forced him to resign his commission.

As the murders and Grace’s disappearance twist together, Stokes is forced to confront loyalty, guilt, and corruption in ways he never imagined. Every choice tests his conscience, every lead reveals a betrayal, and every step brings him closer to the truth—and to the ghosts he can’t outrun.

Double Cross: A Russell Stokes Case is a gripping, fast-paced New England thriller of loss, redemption, and the thin line between justice and obsession.
0 Comments

Rediscovering Berlin, New Hampshire: A Journey Through History, Rumors, and the Great North Woods

11/12/2025

0 Comments

 
New Hampshire mountains along the Kancamagus Highway
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 Life

Yes, 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 City

At 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

Orthodox Church in Berlin, New Hampshire 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.
0 Comments

Finishing “Double Cross”: Writing Through Chaos in Tangier

11/6/2025

0 Comments

 
Tangier Bay with water view of Spain and Gibraltar.Early morning in Tangier as I started the last chapter in Double Cross.
An amazing thing happened today; relatively speaking, I finished Double Cross, the second book in my Russell Stokes series, A Stokes Case Novel. That’s right, time for a good old pat on the back while I hear the saws in the distance, hammering, and whatever else this blasted city of Tangier feels the need to throw at me during this writing escapade.

Trust me, it was one. I started back in mid-September, intending to be done one way or another by November 6. This might seem like an arbitrary date, but I also occasionally play a travel vlogger, and frankly, I didn’t want to balance both when my fall and winter travels started. It’s one thing to work on a memoir like Forever Poland, as it’s a different type of writing, but fiction and travel vlogging are on different ends of my creative spectrum. The headspace it takes to deal with Russell and his life doesn’t translate at all to walking around city streets, exploring parks, churches, and cemeteries. I wish it did, but I need proper recovery after being in Russell’s world. 

Speaking of his world, the final numbers for Double Cross are 107,856 words for draft number one. We might lose a few thousand words once the edits are complete, or then again, we might gain a few. Every book I write is unique in that phase of the writing process. All told, though, this is my third-longest book written and the longest in ten years. Yes, ten years or is it eleven when I wrote Swimming with Angels and Going Home?

Initially, I thought I might finish Russell’s second story up last weekend, but after a pivotal scene, the final act of the book took longer than expected. It wasn’t from a lack of trying to tie things up, just sometimes the characters lead you in different directions, and you have to stay aligned with the story that is being told. 

In true Tangier, Morocco fashion this last week has been anything but easy. I had comments due for end-of-quarter grades, which again taps a different mindset, and the city itself wanted to rear its noisiest, most unruly self in months, by giving me three straight days of music outside my apartment window. I could have managed with a jazzy ambiance, but the bloody drummers and screeching singer straight from my wedding hell story in Asilah showed up again. This time, we had the echo effect in full force, with fireworks for added flair, and two hours of performing, followed by a one-hour DJ interlude, a few stories below my apartment window.

The glorified Thai Wok restaurant, which also poses as a pizza and shwarma destination, deemed it necessary to crank the bass after this show, forcing me to retreat to my back bedroom, close the doors and windows for a bit of sanity, all while I rushed to complete more of the story. I might have laughed it off, but the owners of the apartments above and below mine decided this was also the weekend and early week time to start their annual renovations. 

You try writing anything with intermittent hammering echoing through your writing cave. It’s not easy, and frankly, it's more draining than crafting the story itself. For whatever reason, any construction has to take place on Saturday from morning into the evening. There was no reprieve. And if it’s a holiday, don’t worry, there seems to be even more noise and construction to contend with. 

Even now, as I compose this piece, the bastard hammering away, on a Moroccan holiday no less, could give two hoots at the creative juices I’ve attempted to spew and share. 
Sunday was more of the same, but this time we replaced the wedding horror music with dance music that had no business being played at any time of day, let alone an outside venue. I practically prayed for more hammering to mask the sounds, but alas, the construction detail only showed for the morning hours before the restaurant had even opened. 

Fast forward to the last three days, and my internet connection has been spotty at best. Currently, it’s not even connecting because Orange has decided to perform maintenance again, just as they did in June, when I didn’t have working service for three weeks. If my memory serves, they claimed it was from the Spanish power outage, but news flash: is Morocco part of the same power grid, or do we just want to blame vacation time and shoddy service? I lean towards the service side of things, especially since the credit they gave me was never actually applied, and they simply collected payment as though nothing had happened. 

I would wave to the Orange sales center directly across the street to expedite things. Still, if it’s anything like June, the unhelpful sales clerk will direct me to call customer service, which refuses to put English speakers on the line because it hurts their customer service ratings. No joke. I wonder if they are up and running or if it’s just my building suffering through the dark void of no internet. 

That put a hiccup on looking up things to finish the novel, but again, we persevered. To celebrate this monumental accomplishment, it’s time for a proper rest, and I’ll get back to it early next week. In the meantime, if you haven’t checked out Rusty Star, the first book in this series, it’s out and waiting for your eyes only. Double Cross will join the fray in the spring. 

Till next update, have a good one.

Drumming that I tried to write through
(True to form, the internet connection delayed this posting. We don’t want things to be to easy, do we?)
0 Comments

Tarifa, Spain: The Windy Haven Across the Water from Tangier

11/5/2025

0 Comments

 
Picture of Tarifa, Spain beach and mountains, Spain's southernmost point, taken by author and vlogger Jonathan KuiperSpain'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 Needed

​Knowing 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

Picture of Tarifa, Spain beach, Spain's southernmost point, taken by author and vlogger Jonathan KuiperTarifa, 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 Breathe

It 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 2025

0 Comments

Mean People Suck: What a Decade of Writing (and Living) Has Taught Me About Toxicity

10/29/2025

0 Comments

 
Symbolic photograph of weight on people during the holidays as shown with a ton of snow on the back porch.The weight of the world for many of us during the upcoming winter season.
Dare I say these words in the first sentence of today’s blog ― you know those words ― mean people suck. Maybe something more substantial is needed. Let’s not just say all people, like I’m classifying every single person in the world. No, I’ll be more specific this morning and focus solely on my fellow Americans, especially the Karens and all those entitled schmucks who think their opinion is the only one that matters. 

Granted, I will admit it’s a tough lead to start with, especially as I’m writing this with the intention that says my opinion is more valid and important than these sorry individuals. But then again, you’ve come to this forum for Jonathan Kuiper, so here’s an opinion you might want and a perspective that could be helpful in the days ahead. Especially, with the holidays fast approaching, tensions are stoked everywhere, and people continue to lose patience with one another. Everyone has an opinion, so you decide if it’s worth the money you paid for it. 
​
Did you see that joke I made? That’s taken right from Dave Ramsey’s mouth and his radio show. I got to give credit to the source on that one. I digress . . .

When Everyone Has an Opinion (and None of Them Are Kind)

Let’s dive into the topic at hand and what’s got me thinking this morning about people, toxicity, and how it emanates everywhere. 

Here in Morocco, it’s a different beast altogether, simply because I don’t understand the language or culture enough to state whether it exists at all. I imagine it does, but still, I work at an international school, so I’m around kids, adults, and the entire educational dynamic that is a microcosm for the same issues we will be diving into. Not wanting to focus on work for a moment, because who cares about that, let’s talk about My Shenandoah Love instead.

I wrote this new adult romance in the summer of 2014. I remember it well because it was right after I grinded away at Going Home. The story was a perfect reprieve and counterbalance to Vincent and Christian, and their final story together as lead characters. For two weeks, I was consumed with Hannah’s story. 

Quick side note. I had just moved from my writing retreat for the summer, a studio apartment in Newmarket, New Hampshire, to an in-law loft studio in bucolic Gilmanton, New Hampshire. Surrounded by lakes, trees, and peace of mind, this was my stomping ground for the upcoming school year. I might have been there a day or two, waiting for my furniture to arrive, when I drove over to Johnson’s Dairy Bar in New Durham, where this beautiful woman with long, flowing, strawberry blonde hair captivated my attention. 

To this day, I have no clue how old she was, but I’m confident she was late teens or even twenty, a college student working her summer gig before returning to school in the fall. I remember getting my ice cream from this girl and then retreating to a picnic table to savor every lick and bite. By the time I was done with my dessert and driving home, Hannah Jones had been created.

Knowing that I needed some conflict and a proper love triangle to be set up, I brainstormed salacious ideas. Why not make one conflict where Hannah and her mother were interested in the same married man? I know, scandalous, right? It gets better, let’s throw a minister into the mix who can’t keep his Johnson under control (see that another joke) while he’s with one woman, but trying to make his best move on young Hannah. This is the perfect combination for disaster, and someone’s getting hurt in the end. 

Just thinking about the storyline makes me smile, as the character dynamics were interesting and, honestly, truthful to how people really are. That’s where we shift to the topic of the day. After the book was written, I had my editors go through the manuscript and release the story. For some reason, most likely to get new readers, I posted the first chapter on a writing community website challenge.
​

What Writing Taught Me About Toxic People

Funny picture of three stuffed animals, a fox, a deer, and llama pretending to post hateful comments onlineEven animals get in on the online hate.
Let me tell you this: most of my fellow writers are a-holes. Sorry, it’s true. At the very least, many are difficult people. Seriously, you get people of all walks on these sites. Many have an axe to grind and are simply on it to ruin another person’s day. They also believe that public forums are fair game to share uncensored opinions, right or wrong. We have those across the spectrum, with some who look for the positive, some who post irrational responses, and others who just want attention. I imagine there are other categories I’m leaving out, but you get the idea. 

Anyway, on this community site, I had the book up for three days, maybe less, when the comments started coming in. One reader (writer in disguise) wanted me to know that my northern Virginia location wasn’t authentic to the area. Newsflash, the story takes place in Front Royal, where I worked for five years. I’m pretty sure it’s authentic unless you live in a hole. Another reader said the entire exchange between mother and daughter was unrealistic. No mother would call their child names, let alone the words I used. While I would love to share those words with you, they weren’t nice ones, but having been around teens, young adults, and parents for years, let alone going through the life cycle myself, I can assure you that some families swear at each other.

Then the real heavy hitters came in, those readers who wanted me to know that my story wasn’t politically correct. OMG, the horror of it all. What was I doing? There were other, more telling ways to create this tale of new adult woe, without using obscene vocabulary and having characters put down one another. Didn’t you know that no one ever puts anyone down? No one swears in this world? And a sixteen-year-old having a crush on the early twenties deputy, that would never happen. 

I took the posting down, annoyed with the feedback. There was no need to play the game, nor was I going to have a chance to win the contest that was being offered, simply because the comment police was out in force and had missed the fact that I’m a product of the 1980s and won’t cave to a climate where people in books are fake and not real to the reality we live in. The next time you see college students speaking Old English or with a Victorian vernacular, do let me know where the performance is being held.

That being said, I gave up on putting my books or samples on writing community sites. If you are only going to read the first page and miss the entire purpose of the story, it’s all good from my perspective, but I don’t want or need to hear your opinion on the matter. For me, this shifted the narratives for book reviews, period. Amazon, at the time, was notorious for letting anyone post a review even if they clearly didn’t read the book, let alone purchase the work. I had one person for Running With Vince, write something like, “No one cares about you and your twin brother. This book sucks.” 

Then again, I had readers who were simply stupid. Did you read the book summary before opening it? If you knew it was in the first person, why did you keep reading? Because I couldn’t resist, look at these two reviews for Our Place by the Sea from Amazon. “A very short story. I dislike storytelling in the first person. I felt sad after finishing the story. I was bored reading it.” Or “I did not enjoy reading this, very self-absorbed, so I stopped reading. It is not about nature, as I had hoped.”
​

Choosing Empathy in a World Full of Karens

A picture of Relax - Apple Juice from CzechiaPerfect advice for us all in this Internet-Social Media Era
I’m sharing this because everyone is honored for their opinion, simply by merit, but then again, it’s how we choose to respond to those opinions that matter. In writing, at this stage, ten plus years later, I don’t care either way. Whatever the story becomes is true to what I wanted readers to encounter. If you think it’s not realistic, fine, bless your heart. If you don’t like the story, for any reason, that’s fine too. I hear there are millions of other books, including AI ones, that will tickle your fancy. 

My issue continues to be with people who make comments not on my books, but just online, period, social media, YouTube, who I know are hiding behind their screens and wouldn’t do it in person. If they did it in person, we all know it would be a different encounter completely. That’s not intended to be a threat; I’m simply sharing that many people think the screen is a place for them to spew out whatever they want, regardless of the consequences. 

By spewing out hate, for many of them, it’s created such a toxic climate that many of us don’t want to doom scroll, check the news, or do anything online, because it carries over into the real world. I certainly don’t need to see or want in my feed political commentary that in my younger days was not posted for the entire community to see.

Words, at the end of the day, can be hurtful. It’s true, and we don’t know the reader’s perspective or their life story, so posting or commenting on something in a manner that creates divisiveness is irresponsible and creates a dark cloud over the entire matter. That’s the bottom line. 

At least with a book, if you don’t like it, you can put it down and read something that is more aligned with your values and thought patterns. We can’t necessarily do that when we are posting pictures or videos for friends and family, in an attempt to maintain connection (and sometimes for validation) only to get knocked down repeatedly by the trolls out there.

In school, I see this daily. Kids are simply trying to find their way in this world and discover who they are, but their community and their families impact how this path will go. You can’t model hateful, entitled things and not expect the next generation, the one you are raising, to do the same. 

Again, books are books. It’s a fictional release, just like a horror movie is going to create a thrill or a fright; it’s not reality, and can be swapped out. But when people belittle others in a public place, a restaurant, because their food was too cold or not enough salt was added, or the item they purchased was missing a bloody screw, it’s not the person’s fault who is dealing with the brunt of the attack. 

Even if it was their fault, what right do you have to take it out on them? Does it really matter in the scheme of your life whether a cup of coffee was hot enough? Are you so important that if someone who is consumed with their family struggle cuts you off on the highway, that it means you need to do the same? 

At the end of the day, on the web or in person, people are doing their best to manage. We can either make it easier on each other or be the reason another person’s day shifts to a more miserable one. As we shift to Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the New Year, do you need to be part of the problem or part of the solution? That’s what you have to ask yourself. Is it really worth posting that comment or can you let it be? 

Just some food for thought, from somebody who cares. 
​
0 Comments

When Ryanair’s On Time, You Know You’re in Trouble

10/22/2025

0 Comments

 

The Storm That Wouldn’t Quit ​

Storm Amy in Morecambe Bay, storm clouds, rain, and low tideStorm 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

Tea Time in Morecambe at the Broadwater Guest HouseA 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.
Cat mural in Morecambe
Delightful, guest lounge in Morecambe
A reprieve from Storm Amy - sunset in Morecambe Bay
Full English Breakfast in Morecambe
Irish Sea, tide is going out in Morecambe
0 Comments

NaNoWriMo and the Myth of the 50K Novel

10/15/2025

0 Comments

 
Laptop, notebook, and coffee on a desk -- symbolizing a writer reflecting on NaNoWriMo and the process of daily writing.
National Novel Writing Month is fast approaching. The question remains whether I will officially participate this year. Those who know me already know the answer. Still, during the pandemic, I thought that joining the movement would prove beneficial not from a writing aspect, but from building book awareness and gaining potential readers. Indeed, not for altruistic reasons. I certainly wasn’t joining to meet other authors to talk about our respective stories. I was a participant for 20 days...

There’s a website where writers can sign up and post their progress as a motivational tool. If I remember correctly, you can even get awards or virtual stickers for each stage you complete. At first glance, it seemed like fun, as though posting my daily word count was a badge of honor. Truthfully, when I’m in a writing groove, 50,000 words in thirty days is a joke. That’s not meant to be a flex; it’s simply a fact that once the characters start talking and dictating the story, the writing becomes easy. 

Even now, in the midst of writing Double Cross, I’m around 52,000 words in 25 days. The word total should be much more, but I’ve purposely set a minimum goal each day and stuck with it, because I want to enjoy the writing process, not just grind through pages.

Back to NaNoWriMo, there are plenty of blogs discussing whether to do it or not. Personally, I get a kick out of the bloggers who are telling you it’s a flawed challenge because who is to say 50,000 words is enough for a proper story, let alone a novel? How is it fair to have people write 1667 words a day for a month, when that takes time, depending on your ability to craft the words? The fact that people feel it’s necessary to judge whether it deserves merit or not is ridiculous. 

I would group this challenge as similar to what people who are setting out to train and complete a marathon face. Some do it for bragging rights. For others, it’s a life goal or something on their checklist that they want to accomplish. Then there are the real runners — yes, I went there — who have done enough marathoning that it’s no longer about the marathon, but the process. The training, the act of getting up, building a base, and completing something to fruition, is the real reason. Again, it’s not even about the marathon or setting a date to complete the race; it's about the daily runs that create the real value.

With this perspective, NaNoWriMo can be viewed in the same vein. Storytellers want to craft, they want the toil. They don’t need a word count, a time frame, or anything else to share a proper story. The last time I checked, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe had a word count of around 37,000 words. Would that not count for the challenge? The Great Gatsby is at 47,000 and Little Women (both parts) a meaty 190,000 words. 

Does it really matter when you write your story or how long it is? As for the challenge, if you are at that life stage that needs validation, have at it, but you might be missing the point of why you are writing and telling the story in the first place. I, for one, will just keep plugging away, seeing where Russell takes me.
0 Comments

Zalipie – Inside Poland’s Painted Village (Forever Poland Excerpt, Part II)

10/12/2025

0 Comments

 
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 Village

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. 

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 Everything

One 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 Tour


My 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

Author Jonathan Kuiper in Zalipie, Poland, pointing to a traditional wooden cottage decorated with hand-painted floral folk art, part of his Forever Poland memoir travels.
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. 
0 Comments

Zalipie – The Drive In (Forever Poland Excerpt)

10/5/2025

0 Comments

 
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 In 

My 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 Show

In 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 

Author Jonathan Kuiper posing with the elephant mascot of Bruk-Bet Termalica Nieciecza football team in Poland.
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. 
0 Comments
<<Previous
Forward>>

    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. 
    Check out this occasional writing forum, book plug locale, and YouTube presser for the latest.

    YouTube Channel
    Rusty Star book cover – gritty private investigator mystery, Stokes Case Book 1 by Jonathan Kuiper

    Archives

    January 2026
    December 2025
    November 2025
    October 2025
    September 2025
    August 2025
    July 2025
    June 2025
    May 2025
    April 2025
    March 2025
    February 2025
    January 2025
    December 2024
    November 2024
    September 2024
    August 2024
    July 2024
    May 2024
    April 2024
    March 2024
    February 2024
    January 2024
    November 2023
    July 2023
    December 2022

    Categories

    All
    Books
    Musings And Random Thoughts
    Teaching Abroad
    Travel
    Writing Life

    RSS Feed

    The Fox and the Girl book series cover – YA and tween fantasy adventure by Jonathan Kuiper, includes Luza, Riley, and Valo.
    Running With Vince book cover – A contemporary fiction novel by Jonathan Kuiper, inspired by true events, exploring grief, friendship, and healing after loss.

      Want to know when a new book is coming out?

    New Release Updates

 
Proudly powered by Weebly
  • Blog
  • About
  • Contact
  • Fiction
    • A Stokes Case
    • The Fox and the Girl
    • The Marcus Files
    • Jones Family
    • The Vincent Chronicles
    • Seli
  • Non-fiction