Dear reader, I think I have made it quite clear over the years that I am, for a myriad of reasons, simply not a sports person. I don’t typically watch or participate in many sports, nor do I have any particular inclination to change that. I have nothing against them, of course. Why should I advocate for depriving someone else of an activity that brings them joy?
Yet over the past few weeks I found myself, quite unexpectedly, drawn into the orbit of soccer—or football, as nearly everyone outside the United States insists on calling it. (I’m beginning to suspect America simply enjoys being contrarian.)
The World Cup had arrived, and suddenly it seemed to be everywhere. Friends hosted watch parties. Restaurants filled with cheering fans. Social media overflowed with celebrations, dramatic finishes, and clips of supporters singing in unison. Perhaps it was because the tournament was being played on home soil, but even people I had never known to care much about soccer suddenly had passionate opinions about offsides, penalty kicks, and championship predictions.
Watching all of this unfold, I experienced something surprisingly familiar.
The fear of missing out.
It wasn’t that I had suddenly developed a deep appreciation for the sport. I hadn’t. It was the feeling that everyone else was participating in a shared cultural moment while I stood quietly on the outside looking in.
Perhaps I should learn the rules.
Maybe I ought to watch a few matches.
Should I start reading about the teams so I can contribute to the conversation?
If you’ve ever felt that little tug, you know exactly what I’m talking about. FOMO has very little to do with the activity itself. More often, it stems from our deeply human desire to belong. We see everyone around us enjoying something together, and we begin to wonder whether we should be enjoying it too.
But somewhere along the way, I realized something.
I didn’t actually want to watch soccer.
What I wanted was the feeling of being included.
Those are not the same thing.
There is something wonderfully liberating about recognizing the difference.
In recent years people have begun talking about JOMO—the Joy of Missing Out. Rather than anxiously trying to participate in every trend, every event, every conversation, JOMO invites us to make peace with the opportunities we choose not to pursue.
Not everything has to become our hobby.
Not every cultural phenomenon needs our attention.
Not every invitation must be accepted.
Every “yes” we give something is also a “no” to something else. Our time and attention are finite, and spending them intentionally is one of the greatest gifts we can give ourselves.
For me, that meant happily scrolling past match highlights while smiling at the unmistakable enthusiasm of Dutch fans dancing in brilliant seas of orange. Their joy was contagious, even if their pastime wasn’t. I could appreciate their excitement without feeling compelled to make it my own.
Perhaps that is the real lesson.
We do not need to borrow someone else’s passions in order to live a meaningful life. We simply need to cultivate our own.
So the next time the entire world seems to be rushing toward the newest trend, the latest series, the biggest sporting event, or whatever everyone insists you simply must experience, remember this:
It is perfectly acceptable to let other people have their joy while you quietly pursue your own.
Sometimes the greatest peace comes not from doing more, but from realizing there was never any need to join the crowd in the first place.
Ever curious, I pressed my hand against the weathered wooden door beneath an otherwise unassuming sign. My eyes struggled to adjust from the brilliant Florida sunshine to the dim interior where a carved wooden mask silently greeted us. Tropical plants spilled from every corner, framing walls covered in intricate carvings. A smiling hostess emerged from the shadows.
“Two?”
Following after her felt like stepping into another world. Everywhere my eyes wandered I discovered something new: mischievous masks peering from the walls, towering totems, dancing island maidens frozen in carved wood, and ceramic mugs shaped like volcanoes, sea monsters, and forgotten gods. Bamboo, woven rattan, stained wood, and shimmering tile blended together into organized chaos. Colored lanterns bathed the room in a warm amber glow while deep rhythmic drums pulsed beneath the conversations, as though the building itself had a heartbeat.
I had heard of tiki bars before, but I never understood why people became so enamored with them.
Trader Sam’s Grotto
The tiki bar as we know it began during the Great Depression when Ernest Raymond Beaumont-Gantt, better known as Donn Beach, opened a Polynesian-inspired bar unlike anything Americans had seen before. It wasn’t meant to be authentic Polynesian culture so much as an elaborate fantasy, complete with exotic décor, inventive rum cocktails, and the promise of escaping everyday life for a few hours. After World War II, America’s fascination with the South Pacific exploded, and tiki bars flourished throughout the 1950s before gradually fading into kitsch. Thankfully, the craft cocktail movement of the early 2000s rediscovered what made those original bars so magical.
Now, I should confess that my first tiki bar experience wasn’t exactly inspiring.
Back in the early 2000s I found myself sitting beneath a thatched roof at an outdoor bar in Atlantic City during Biker Weekend, surrounded by enough leather jackets and chrome to outfit a small motorcycle dealership. Palm trees had been added with varying degrees of enthusiasm, the drinks were decent enough, and I left wondering why anyone made such a fuss over tiki bars.
Nautilus Drink at Trader Sam’s
Years passed before my boyfriend insisted we visit Trader Sam’s Grog Grotto at Disney’s Polynesian Village Resort.
Apparently, getting inside is something of an adventure. Guests begin lining up well before opening just to earn a place on the waiting list. After finally securing our names, we were quoted nearly a two-hour wait, so we wandered over to Adventureland. Since we were already embracing the tropical mood, we stopped at Walt Disney’s Enchanted Tiki Room to visit the singing parrots before boarding the Jungle Cruise, a leisurely voyage powered almost entirely by terrible puns.
Halfway through the afternoon we discovered we’d missed the phone notification summoning us back forty-five minutes earlier than expected. We hurried across the park, explained our predicament to the hostess, and, thankfully, she smiled and waved us inside.
Behind the ordinary wooden door waited tropical magic.
Storm clouds rolled overhead. Thunder cracked across the room. Ancient gods awakened. A volcano erupted. Every specialty cocktail seemed to trigger another hidden surprise as lights flashed, effects sprang to life, and the entire room joined the performance. We shared appetizers served on a surfboard while chatting with another couple eager to recommend their favorite drinks and point out effects we hadn’t yet witnessed.
Naturally, we ordered the cocktail that required sacrificing to the gods in hopes of calming their wrath and preventing the volcano from erupting.
Interactive dining at its finest.
The gods were angry!
One sip later, I understood.
The drinks weren’t simply fruity cocktails dressed up in novelty mugs. They were surprisingly complex, balancing citrus, spice, bitters, and multiple varieties of rum into something far more sophisticated than I expected. Combined with the immersive atmosphere, the whole experience felt less like visiting a bar and more like stepping onto the set of an adventure movie.
I was hooked.
Now, one might think Disney had perfected the tiki experience.
In Lancaster, that may very well be true.
Max’s South Seas Hideaway
But my boyfriend, being from Michigan, introduced me to a place that somehow raised the bar even higher: Max’s South Seas Hideaway in Grand Rapids.
Home to one of the world’s largest private collections of tiki artifacts, Max’s feels less like a themed restaurant and more like an interactive museum where someone happens to serve exceptional cocktails. Every wall, ceiling beam, corner, and shelf is covered in carvings, masks, vintage mugs, outrigger canoes, glowing lanterns, tribal artwork, and enough hidden details to reward several laps around the building. Upstairs, the bar recreates the deck of a Polynesian sailing ship, complete with a carved mermaid figurehead extending proudly from the bow.
The cocktails are every bit as memorable as the décor, but be warned, dear reader: one or two are more than enough to leave even the most steadfast landlubber feeling delightfully unsteady.
As for the food, order the pu pu platter.
Not because it’s the best value, though it is.
Order it because it arrives at your table surrounding a miniature bonfire.
Because if you’re going to escape to paradise for an evening, your dinner really ought to be on fire.
the famous pu pu platter!
How can you go on your own tiki adventure?
Of course, dear reader, Google is always happy to point you toward the nearest tiki bar. But if you happen to find yourself traveling through one of these cities, these are a few destinations that have earned a reputation among tiki enthusiasts for transporting guests far beyond their front doors. Consider them worthy additions to your own bucket list.
Smuggler’s Cove (San Francisco, CA) – Often considered the gold standard of modern tiki, with an extraordinary rum selection and immersive pirate-inspired décor.
False Idol (San Diego, CA) – Hidden behind another restaurant, this intimate speakeasy-style tiki bar feels like discovering a secret island.
Latitude 29 – Created by legendary tiki historian Jeff “Beachbum” Berry, this New Orleans favorite is a pilgrimage site for cocktail lovers.
Trader Sam’s Grog Grotto – Disney’s delightfully interactive bar, where cocktails can literally change the room around you.
Max’s South Seas Hideaway – Home to one of the world’s largest private tiki collections and, in my admittedly biased opinion, one of the most immersive tiki experiences anywhere.
Three Dots and a Dash (Chicago, IL) – A hidden basement escape serving exceptional cocktails in an unforgettable setting.
The Inferno Room (Indianapolis, IN) – Equal parts restaurant, museum, and tiki bar, with authentic décor and fantastic food.
Undertow – Designed to make you feel as though you’re aboard a nineteenth-century trading ship crossing the Pacific.
The Sorrow Drowner – A newer addition to the tiki scene that has quickly developed a devoted following.
Tiki Tatsu-Ya (Austin, TX) – A wonderfully theatrical blend of inventive cocktails, immersive storytelling, and excellent food.
Whether you’re planning a cross-country road trip or simply looking for an excuse to escape reality for an evening, perhaps there’s a little tropical paradise waiting just around the corner. Sometimes all it takes is opening an unassuming wooden door.
Dear reader, life does not always go as planned. There are times when fires, storms, and even pandemics disrupt our carefully laid plans. We are, after all, but mere mortals battered about by fate’s whims. That does not mean we should throw in the towel. Quite the contrary, we should throw our hats into the ring, step forward to meet fate where she stands, take her hand, and dance.
Which is exactly what I did on a recent trip to Michigan, where the bucket list adventure happened not at my destination but somewhere along the journey.
I certainly had no intention of adding an airport to my bucket list, but when life hands you lemons, make lemonade, or perhaps lemon drops if you’re inclined to add a little vodka and triple sec (and I am inclined). But I digress.
The plan had been simple: depart from Harrisburg, make a brief connection through Chicago O’Hare, and continue on to a small airport in Michigan. As it turns out, dear reader, one ought to be cautious about booking evening flights to the Midwest during thunderstorm season. A powerful summer storm settled over Chicago, grounding flights for hours.
Consider this your bonus travel tip: Don’t schedule evening flights in the summer if you’re going to the mid-west.
At first, I did what nearly every traveler does when a delay appears on the departure board. I sighed, checked the app for the tenth time, looked hopefully toward the gate agent and realized I had a decision to make; chance going to Chicago once the ground order was lifted and potentially miss my connecting flight late that night or wait until the next morning and have a significant layover.
After discussing my options with the gate agent, it was clear that if I missed my connecting flight there wouldn’t be another flight until nearly 1 pm the next day and if I went out the next morning on the first flight out I would still be stuck in the airport for hours until 1 pm. I opted for the second option rather than chance a 15 hour layover in an airport. I wasn’t going to chance falling asleep and then missing my flight.
Regardless, I found myself red eyed in the wee hours of the morning in Chicago sighing in frustration wondering if I shouldn’t have chanced it the night before.
Then I realized something.
How often does one actually have the opportunity to explore one of the busiest airports in the world?
Normally airports are places we hurry through with singular determination. We race from terminal to terminal, clutching boarding passes, eyes darting from gate numbers to departure screens, scarcely noticing where we are. This time, however, there was nowhere I needed to be except exactly where I already was.
Freed from the tyranny of the boarding clock, I began to wander.
Sunlight poured through towering vaulted windows high above the concourse, washing the polished floors in warm afternoon light. Massive American flags hung proudly from the ceiling while a giant globe floated overhead, quietly reminding travelers just how many corners of the world intersected beneath this roof. Off to one side, almost hidden from the hurried crowds, I discovered displays detailing the airport’s history, small exhibits that most people likely rushed past without ever noticing. Another terminal displayed banners from all over the world proudly declaring all the destinations one might jet off to if only one could secure a boarding pass.
The airport itself felt less like a transportation hub and more like a bustling indoor city.
The aroma changed every few dozen steps. Fresh coffee drifted from cafés just opening another pot. Warm pretzels perfumed the air outside bakeries while cinnamon, butter, and freshly baked pastries tempted even those who had no intention of eating again. Somewhere nearby onions sizzled on a grill while deep-dish pizza disappeared into ovens. Every restaurant seemed to compete with the next, each trying to lure weary travelers in with one more irresistible smell. I found the juxtaposition of a restaurant pretending luxury next to a kiosk of questionable food to be quite curious. Where else can one find the appearance of luxury sitting so comfortably beside convenience?
The shops were equally fascinating. Tiny storefronts overflowed with merchandise, every square foot carefully maximized. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling. Jewelry glittered beneath bright display lights while colorful clothing spilled from crowded racks. Stacks of books, souvenirs, snacks, electronics, and travel gadgets filled every available corner, transforming even the smallest kiosk into something resembling a magician’s cabinet of curiosities. Of course, basic necessities were priced for desperation, but we’ll leave the commentary on exploitive practices for a different author.
Then there were the people.
Thousands upon thousands of them.
Business travelers marched purposefully toward their gates while families attempted the impossible task of shepherding overtired children through the crowds. Couples wandered hand in hand. Flight crews glided confidently through the chaos as though they possessed some secret map unavailable to the rest of us. I caught snippets of conversations in languages I couldn’t identify. Some travelers wore tailored suits destined for important meetings while others looked as though they had rolled directly out of bed and into the security line. Matching family vacation shirts mingled with backpacks, hiking boots, designer luggage, and neck pillows.
The people watching alone was worth the delay.
My favorite moments, however, were the unintentionally comedic ones. Travelers had surrendered completely to exhaustion, sleeping wherever they could find an empty patch of floor. Some curled up beneath windows. Others stretched across rows of chairs. One industrious soul had somehow wedged themselves into a quiet corner between two pillars, blissfully oblivious to the constant parade of rolling suitcases. Nearby, passengers jockeyed for position as boarding announcements echoed through the terminal, each convinced that standing in line fifteen minutes early would somehow get them onto the airplane faster. Even if they did manage to get on sooner, it’s not like the plane was going to leave until everyone in the line was on. Such a curious practice, I never did quite understand.
Naturally, I couldn’t leave Chicago without adding one more item to my bucket list: eating Chicago-style pizza in Chicago. Was it the greatest deep-dish pizza ever created? Probably not. But considering I have little intention of making a dedicated trip into the city itself, I decided this was my one and only opportunity, and it seemed a shame to let it pass me by.
Another traveler might have grumbled about their bad luck. Instead, I found myself unexpectedly grateful.
Normally, I write a paragraph about how you can experience this for yourself. However, this is one instance in which the only advice I offer is this:
Sometimes the greatest adventures arrive disguised as inconveniences. They invite us to slow down, pay attention, and discover that even an airport, a place designed simply to move us somewhere else, can become a destination if we are willing to wander.
Perhaps the next time your carefully crafted itinerary falls apart, don’t immediately look for the nearest customer service desk. Look around instead.
You may discover your next bucket list adventure waiting exactly where you never intended to stop.
Dear reader, we often look to our bucket lists to enrich our own lives. We book the trip, enjoy the experience, collect the memory, and savor moments of joy. There is certainly nothing wrong with that. However, a life that is truly enriched is not one that focuses only on ourselves. It also includes generosity toward others.
Some of the most meaningful experiences on my own bucket list have not involved airplanes, tickets, or distant destinations. Instead, they have involved people.
As a social worker, giving back to the community has become part of my everyday life. Currently, I work with children experiencing serious emotional disturbances and adults with ADHD. Before that, I spent several years working directly with individuals and families experiencing homelessness, helping to run a winter shelter as well as a year-round housing program.
The mission of the shelter was simple: provide a warm, safe place to spend the night. We also offered case management services designed to help people navigate their path from homelessness to housing. Yet despite all the paperwork, referrals, and housing applications, I eventually came to believe that the most important thing we offered was something far less complicated.
Many people experiencing homelessness report feeling invisible. They describe being judged, avoided, or treated as though they are somehow less worthy than everyone else. The shelter sought to counteract that experience by creating a place where dignity came first.
When guests arrived, they were welcomed by friendly volunteers and staff. They were offered a warm meal, a hot shower, a safe place to sleep, and perhaps most importantly, a sense that they belonged.
The shelter itself reflected that philosophy. It was bright, clean, and carefully organized. We tried to create an environment that felt welcoming rather than institutional. Volunteers dressed professionally because we believed our guests deserved the same level of respect one would show anyone else. Rules were kept to a minimum whenever possible. Choices were offered whenever safety allowed. Trauma often strips people of control over their lives; restoring even small opportunities for choice can help rebuild a sense of dignity.
Round tables were placed throughout the shelter rather than rows of isolated chairs. Guests gathered to talk, share meals, play cards, and simply spend time together. Staff and volunteers joined them whenever possible. We listened without judgment and encouraged people to become the authors of their own next chapter rather than telling them what that chapter should be.
We also worked to connect people with resources beyond the shelter itself. Workers from the county crisis system visited regularly so guests could meet certified peer supports, individuals trained to provide assistance who also brought the wisdom of lived experience. If someone arrived without clothing, local community partners made it possible to ensure they left with what they needed. Every piece of support communicated the same message: you matter.
One might wonder how something as simple as connection could make such a difference.
Research consistently shows that people experience better outcomes when they feel connected to their communities. Trust, belonging, and social support influence everything from physical health to mental well-being. Before someone can trust a service, a program, or a housing plan, they often need to trust the people offering it.
Many individuals experiencing homelessness have experienced profound losses of trust. Sometimes systems have failed them. Sometimes people have failed them. Sometimes both. When your experience has taught you that help often comes with judgment, conditions, or disappointment, accepting assistance can become incredibly difficult.
That is why volunteers were such a vital part of the shelter’s mission.
While I was often occupied coordinating services, addressing crises, and making sure the shelter operated smoothly, volunteers had the opportunity to do something equally important. They sat down. They listened. They played cards. They shared meals. They learned names and remembered stories.
Often volunteers were the first to notice when someone seemed unusually withdrawn or discouraged. They noticed the quiet guest sitting alone in the corner. They noticed when something wasn’t working. They became advocates, encouragers, and companions.
And the benefits were not limited to the people we served.
Many volunteers arrived hoping to help others and left with a broader understanding of their community. Homelessness stopped being an abstract social issue and became a collection of human stories. Assumptions were challenged. Empathy grew. Many volunteers told me they felt more connected to their neighbors and more grateful for the relationships in their own lives.
I wish I could say that everyone who walked through our doors found permanent housing. Unfortunately, that is not how these stories always end.
What I can say is that people found warmth. They found safety. They found kindness. They found a place where they were treated with dignity.
Over the years, I frequently heard guests describe us as the best shelter in the county. Other organizations occasionally visited to learn what we were doing differently. The answer was never a secret. We simply tried very hard to remember that people are people first.
If there is anything you should add to your bucket list, it is volunteering.
It does not have to be at a shelter. It could be a nursing home, an animal rescue, a food bank, a literacy program, a soup kitchen, a community garden, or an environmental cleanup. The specific cause matters far less than the willingness to show up.
We often think of bucket lists as collections of experiences. Perhaps they are better understood as collections of connections.
If you are not sure where to begin, many communities maintain volunteer opportunities through their local United Way, community foundations, or 211 information services. A quick visit to their websites will often reveal dozens of organizations looking for helping hands.
You may discover that the most meaningful adventure on your bucket list is not the place you travel to, but the person you take the time to see.
Dear readers, I have been in the midst of an ADHD hyperfixation.
Poetry.
For the past three months, I have been utterly consumed—writing forty-plus poems in three months, which even I have to admit is a slightly absurd amount of poetry
Now, I shalln’t subject you to the entirety of the collection. However, I have shared a few with friends and family, who have begun to gently (and not so gently) encourage me to seek publication. After all, it seems such a shame that such a collection should simply languish on my desktop.
Suddenly, a list of journals sits before me, complete with deadlines looming and pressure quietly building. Some even come with significant cash prizes if the poems are selected.
The crocheter is asked when she’s opening an Etsy shop. The painter is asked if they’ve considered the local gallery. The yoga enthusiast is told they should teach. The baker is suddenly “volunteered” for every birthday cake in a five-mile radius. And the poet, inevitably, is encouraged to submit to journals.
And it sounds reasonable, doesn’t it?
We are constantly told to pursue our passions. To follow what we love. To “do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.” A beautiful idea. And also… a slightly suspicious one. Because somewhere along the way, we stopped asking whether turning everything we love into something productive might quietly change the thing itself.
There was once an experiment with children who loved to draw. They were divided into groups—one received an external reward for drawing, the other did not.
The result was surprisingly consistent: the group that drew without reward maintained their interest. The group that drew for the reward lost motivation over time. And the group that received an unexpected reward? They also maintained their enjoyment.
In other words: motivation thrives not on chasing reward, but on the absence of needing one. We are most creatively alive when we are not negotiating with outcomes.
Another study, this time with adults, found something equally odd. One group completed a deliberately dull task before being asked to solve creative problems. The group that had just done the “boring” task actually produced more creative solutions.
Which is funny, because some of my best poetry has never arrived at a desk. It arrives while driving. While walking. While weeding the garden or cleaning something I definitely didn’t want to clean. It arrives when the conscious mind is occupied just enough to step aside.
But that kind of mental spaciousness is hard to come by when every hour is accounted for, optimized, monetized, or squeezed into productivity. And that’s where hobbies quietly begin to change shape. Because turning a hobby into a side hustle sounds empowering—until it isn’t.
At first, it’s just sharing something you love. Then it becomes selling something you love. Then it becomes needing to sell something you love. Then it becomes needing to make something people will buy. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the question shifts from: “What do I want to make?” to “What will perform well?” The hobby is still there. But the play is not. And without play, something essential quietly drains out of the work. Not always immediately. Not dramatically. But steadily—like a color fading from fabric left in too much sun.
The uncomfortable truth is that most side hustles do not pay nearly as much as we imagine they will. Often, the return is small compared to the time invested. Sometimes it amounts to a few dollars an hour—or less—once everything is accounted for.
Which would be fine, if the primary goal was joy. But when the goal becomes income, validation, or traction… the relationship changes. We stop being in conversation with the thing we love. And start being evaluated by it. And I think that is the part we rarely say out loud: Not everything we love is meant to be optimized. Not everything we create is meant to scale. And not everything beautiful needs to become a business plan.
Sometimes the point is simply that it exists at all. Sometimes the point is that it made you feel alive while you were making it. And perhaps the real danger is not that we fail to monetize our passions… But that we succeed in doing so, and lose the ability to enjoy them without permission. So for now, I remain in my poetry hyperfixation. Not as a product. Not as a strategy. Just as a person who has been, for a while, deeply interested in making things that do not need to become anything else.
Oh do not get me wrong, dear reader, I will submit things to journals here and there, but not for any other reason than to put them out into the world. But mostly, I shall continue to focus on having fun.
Not through it. Not as a window or a drinking glass or the screen you are likely reading this on. I mean truly looked at it.
Hold it up to the light and watch it catch the sun. Run your fingers across its perfectly smooth surface. Notice how something so rigid can seem almost fluid, bending and reflecting the world around it. It is such a common part of our daily lives that we rarely stop to consider what a marvel it truly is.
After all, who looks at sand and imagines it becoming something so beautiful? Pick up a handful and let it run through your fingers. Feel the grit against your skin. It seems impossible that the same material could one day become a crystal-clear vase, a stained-glass window, or the screen of a smartphone. Yet mix it with soda ash—not the kind you drink—and limestone, heat it to thousands of degrees, and transformation occurs.
Perhaps that is why glass has always seemed a little magical to me.
I grew up attending the Renaissance Faire and was familiar with the art of glassmaking from the many demonstrations. It was fascinating watching artisans transform solid minerals into a glowing liquid and then cool them back into entirely different forms. One could only conclude that magic, at least in a sense, was indeed real as dragons, unicorns, flowers, and delicate ornaments emerged from what had once been little more than sand.
Glassmaking is a tradition thousands of years old, originating somewhere in the ancient world, perhaps Syria, perhaps Egypt. However it began, one cannot help but marvel at the discovery. Imagine being the first person to witness the transformation. One day you are standing before a furnace filled with sand and stone. The next, a strange translucent substance emerges from the flames. It is easy to understand why ancient peoples often blurred the line between craftsmanship and magic.
It was this appreciation for its rich history and fascination with magic that seemed just out of reach that piqued my curiosity to seek out a glassblowing class during the midst of COVID restrictions. Yes, flights may have been canceled, cruise ships docked, some states open, others shuttered. Travel seemed impossible, and any chance at adventure seemed out of reach. However, for someone who knows that adventure can be just outside the door, it seemed like the perfect time to explore opportunities closer to home.
Besides, what better activity could there be in a pandemic than one that involves blowing into glass that’s thousands of degrees while the vents continually suck out the air, ensuring one is only breathing fresh air? Any germs you may have will certainly perish in the flames of oblivion. Forgive the dramatic flair, but this is my blog, and I can be dramatic if I desire.
I set out in the beginning of July, just when the first COVID restrictions were being lifted in my home state of Pennsylvania. We reached out to a local craftsman who offered classes and booked a session for two to make glass ornaments. We met with a very friendly teacher, Michael, who first assured us of the safety of the activity before launching into some of the science and history of glassmaking.
Even though it was mostly review for the two of us, we still listened with rapt attention, barely containing our excitement. He explained how we were going to add color to our glass and gave us an overview of the technique: how to blow and turn to keep the glass even, and how quickly the glass cooled despite the heat, making it a little tricky to manipulate. Then we were able to start.
The workshop itself sat open to the warm Pennsylvania summer. One entire wall functioned as a garage door and had been rolled up to welcome the evening air. Beyond it stretched fields and trees glowing beneath the golden light of late afternoon. It was a surprisingly peaceful setting for an activity centered around furnaces hot enough to soften stone.
Inside, the studio pulsed with heat and orange light. Glass gathered from the furnace emerged glowing yellow-white before fading through shades of orange, amber, and red as it cooled. Every few moments Michael would send us back to the furnace to reheat our work before the glass stiffened once again.
It was both easier and harder than I anticipated. The glass came to temperature and cooled more rapidly than I thought it would despite his warnings. I had fun experimenting with twisting it and manipulating it into various shapes, not much minding whether it turned out to be a piece of art or not. After all, the idea was simply to experience the process, not necessarily to create something worthy of display.
Although, I must say, for a first attempt, I did quite well.
As the lesson progressed, I became so focused on the task that I barely noticed the passage of time. My attention narrowed to the rhythm of turning the blowpipe, reheating the glass, and carefully shaping it before it cooled. Only occasionally would I glance up and realize the world outside had changed.
The bright summer afternoon had softened into twilight. Long shadows stretched across the fields beyond the open doorway, and the golden light that had greeted us slowly gave way to the blues and purples of evening. Somewhere between the furnace and the workbench, hours had slipped away unnoticed.
How can you create your own magic?
If reading this has awakened a bit of curiosity, you may be surprised to learn that glassblowing classes are more accessible than you might think. A quick search for “glassblowing classes near me,” “glass art studios,” or “glass workshops” will often reveal local artisans offering beginner-friendly lessons. Community art centers, craft schools, and independent studios frequently host one-time classes where no prior experience is required.
Perhaps you will make an ornament, a paperweight, or a vase. Perhaps your creation will emerge a little lopsided, much like mine. That hardly matters. The real magic lies in stepping through the studio door, feeling the heat of the furnace, and experiencing an ancient craft with your own hands. You never know what wonders may be hiding just around the corner of your hometown, waiting to transform an ordinary afternoon into an adventure.
The other weekend, on a rainy afternoon, my sister and I ventured into a massive indoor antique store housed in an old warehouse. Two stories of treasures stacked on top of each other unfolded into a sprawling maze of booths, each one as varied as the colors of the rainbow.
Old uranium glassware sat beside vintage clothing. A now-derelict gas pump stood comfortably next to forgotten household tools. It was a hodge-podge of decades and even centuries, all jumbled together in a kind of quiet, chaotic harmony. A cacophony of objects, each with its own story, none of them particularly concerned with being organized by time period.
We happily set off on a kind of treasure hunt, letting whatever caught our eye guide us. There is something uniquely joyful about wandering without purpose except curiosity, being delighted by strange finds and pausing often to compare notes.
Being both history nerds, we took turns educating one another, filling in the gaps of each other’s knowledge as we went. “Oh, that’s a…” inevitably became the start of several long conversations that may or may not have been entirely accurate but were delivered with great confidence nonetheless.
What makes antique stores so uniquely fun is that unlike museums, where objects are carefully preserved behind glass with a strict “do not touch” policy, here you are invited to engage directly. You can pick things up. Turn them over in your hands. Imagine not just where they came from, but what it would feel like to let them live in your space now. History becomes something you can hold, not just observe.
My sister and I have many fond memories of antiquing with our mother when we were younger, learning about objects we didn’t yet have the language to name, and giggling over cultural relics that felt ancient at the time but are now beginning to resemble our own childhood.
There is always a slightly unsettling moment, of course, when you realize something from your own past has made its way into an antique store. Yes, I am approaching forty, but are we really prepared to call the Tamagotchi “historical artefact” rather than simply “vintage nostalgia with battery anxiety”? Time, it turns out, is a bit unkind that way.
But that is part of the charm. Antique stores collapse time in on itself. What was once ordinary becomes curious again. What was once discarded becomes interesting. And what was once personal history becomes someone else’s discovery.
It turns out you don’t always need a destination to have an adventure. Sometimes you just need a rainy afternoon, a large warehouse full of forgotten things, and someone beside you willing to say, “Wait, come look at this.”
My sister, in her own successful treasure hunt, found a brass penguin, her husband’s favorite animal, which will now take up residence in her living room as a small but very specific piece of joy.
I, on the other hand, left empty-handed in the most literal sense. Well… almost.
There was an adorable purse shaped like a magazine that I briefly considered adopting. Unfortunately, it failed the most important test of all: it would not fit my phone. And if a purse cannot carry the one object I am legally required to bring everywhere, then it is more sculpture than accessory.
Honestly, my phone has probably saved me more money on impulsive purse purchases than any amount of self-control ever could. Perhaps it has already paid for itself in avoided financial mistakes alone.
And yet, even without a purchase, I did not leave empty. Because sometimes the point is not what you bring home. It is what you notice along the way.
How can you experience the thrill of the hunt?
If you ever find yourself with a rainy afternoon and a bit of curiosity, I would encourage you to go on your own treasure hunt. You never quite know what you will find when you let yourself wander without expectation. What’s wonderful is that antique stores litter the US so you’re almost certain to live nearby one. Of course, you will be hard pressed to beat Adamstown, the Antique Capital of the United States (located conveniently in my backyard), but don’t let that discourage your treasure hunt!
If you do it right, you might even come home with something unexpected. Maybe a story. Maybe an object. Maybe both. Or, if you are my sister, a brass penguin that now lives quite happily on a living room shelf, quietly reflecting on the meaning of life but never sharing.
There is a particular kind of exhaustion that does not come from doing too much, but from feeling like your life only really happens in rare bursts. Oh certainly vacations, “milestones”, trips and celebrations are all well and good. After all these are the “big moments” which make everything else feel worth it. Or are they?
Because if that’s true then….everything in between starts to feel like waiting. Waiting for the next thing that will make life feel real again.
I think, in some quiet way, many of us fall into this pattern without noticing it. We begin to outsource our sense of aliveness to future events. We tell ourselves, I’ll feel better when I travel, or when this season is over, or when things finally calm down, or when I get to that version of my life that feels more like mine. And slowly, without meaning to, the present becomes something we are simply passing through.Not living in. Just moving through.
Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing inherently wrong with looking forward to things. Anticipation is a form of joy. But there is a difference between anticipation that enriches your life and anticipation that replaces it. One expands your experience. While the other quietly erases it.
Modern life does not exactly discourage this pattern. If anything, it reinforces it. We are surrounded by highlight reels, curated moments, and constant reminders of what life could look like if we were elsewhere, doing something else, being someone slightly different. So it becomes very easy to believe that life is happening over there rather than here or now. I am tempted dear reader to quote Yoda when he was talking to Luke Skywalker “All his life has he looked away… to the future, to the horizon. Never his mind on where he was. Hmm? What he was doing.” Forgive me there are just some temptations I cannot deny.
If you are not careful, your ordinary days begin to feel like maintenance. Something to get through. Something to manage. Something to endure until the next meaningful thing arrives. But a life that only feels real in its highlights is a fragile kind of life. Because highlights are, by definition, rare. And everything else is where you actually live.
This is where the trouble starts. Not in the big moments themselves, but in the assumption that they are the only moments that matter. Because if that is true, then most of your life becomes a kind of emotional outsourcing. You send your sense of meaning elsewhere and wait for it to return in concentrated form. A weekend. A trip. A breakthrough. A celebration. A “milestone” (whatever those actually are).
And in between those moments, you are left with everything else. The ordinary. The repetitive. The unglamorous structure of being a person who still has to answer emails and wash dishes and figure out what dinner is going to be. It is easy to dismiss those moments as unimportant. But they are not the exception to your life. They are your life where you wish to admit that or not.
And this is where things begin to shift, because once you notice this pattern, you start to see how much of life is not actually made of peaks, but of repetition. The same mornings. The same responsibilities. The same quiet routines that shape your days more than any single highlight ever will. So the question becomes not how to eliminate the big moments, but how to stop abandoning your life in the meantime.
Because a life worth living cannot only be something you visit occasionally. It has to be something you can exist inside of. Something that does not require escape in order to feel bearable. This does not mean every moment must be exciting or meaningful in a dramatic sense. That would be its own kind of pressure.
Instead, it might mean learning to notice what is already here, even in its simplicity. The small textures of a day that is not special, but is still yours. The way light comes through a window. The rhythm of familiar tasks. The quiet continuity of being alive without anything particularly remarkable happening.
And sometimes, it means gently asking yourself what you are waiting for. Not in a harsh way. Not as judgment. But as awareness. Because often, when we are honest, we are not waiting for one specific thing. We are waiting for life itself to begin feeling like it counts.
If you’ve ever watched or read the play “Our Town” there is a specific scene in which a woman, Emily Webb, has died in childbirth and asks to go back to relive parts of her life. She’s warned not to pick a big day like her wedding because it will be too much. No, she’s told to pick a quite ordinary day and so she picks her birthday as a young girl. She is immediately overwhelmed by how young and beautiful her mother looks, but she is instantly struck by a painful realization. The living are moving too fast, completely caught up in the routine details of the day. When her mother hands her a birthday gift without truly pausing to look at her, Emily experiences a rush of grief. She sees that human beings are blind to the preciousness of the present moment, treating time as if they have a million years to waste.
How often do we live that way? How many times do we not really look at one another and savor the small moments of connection?
But life is not waiting for permission to be meaningful. It already is happening. Even here. Even now. Even in the in-between.
“Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you. Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it—every, every minute?” – Emily Webb “Our Town”
So perhaps the invitation is not to chase fewer big moments, but to stop outsourcing your aliveness to them. To let the big moments be a part of your life, not the place where your life finally starts. And to remember, gently, that a life well lived is not built in rare highlights. It is built in the ordinary days you stop overlooking.
There are some places that aren’t readily accessible by taking a train or plane. Because it isn’t a place that one can easily get to through travel, at least not through any normal means. Places that require a little sideways step and a wink at quantum physics, because the place one is trying to get to is lost in time. I speak, of course, of managing through some quirk of the universe to go back to a time before, to re-experience what has now been forgotten or perhaps experience for the first time things we never had the chance to do.
One must slip in between in order to step back and Decades is exactly one of those sorts of places where time doesn’t quite behave the way it should. Tucked in the far northern corner of Lancaster this 95 year old gymnasium has been transformed into a full-service restaurant, bar, six-lane bowling alley, and retro arcade. From the moment you step foot inside you know you’ve left the 2020s behind for some strange pocket of the universe where the late decades of the 20th century have collided together.
High above the vaulted ceiling, bright lights spell out the name “Decades.” Friendly faces greet you at the front desk like agents of time itself directing you through the confusing maze of games and tables. After all, with all these time warps one must be careful not to get too sucked in. To the right, a bowling alley straight out of the 1980s harkens back to the days of your father’s and grandfather’s bowling league. Perhaps you may glimpse a phantom in the timestream sending a ball down for a strike.
To the left is the arcade and restaurant. The old wooden floors creak softly beneath your feet with the sort of comforting wear that only decades of use can produce. The lighting shifts strangely as you walk, never quite settling into a single mood. One moment you stand beneath the icy blue glow of a racing game, the next beneath the feverish reds and yellows of a fighting cabinet. Neon flashes ripple across the floorboards and tables so that the whole arcade feels alive, constantly changing depending on which machines are calling out nearby. Along the far left wall stretches a long polished bar lined with gleaming glasses and rows upon rows of illuminated bottles, half hidden behind the dense forest of arcade cabinets like some secret oasis for weary travelers lost in time. Beside nearly every machine sits a small table thoughtfully placed for drinks and baskets of fries, allowing patrons to linger between rounds as though there is nowhere else in the world they need to be.
Games from the late 1970s sit proudly beside their more modern cousins from the early 2000s. The evolution of technology can be a bit jarring when one is able to compare them side by side.
I felt this contrast the most with the two Terminator games that I played. The first one was fully immersive, a gun with real-time feedback requiring a frantic reload through a cartridge at the bottom of the weapon. The second was a janky stationary gun mounted behind glass and pointed at what looked like an aging television screen. Oddly enough, both had their charm. The newer one was undeniably smoother and more exciting, but there was something endearing about the older machine’s clunky stubbornness. Still, I spent a good hour gleefully blasting killer androids into scrap metal.
But I digress, the arcade was not my first impression. My first impression was the restaurant. In the back is a set of booths which provide a bit of respite from the constant chorus of arcade jingles, pinball clatters, and bowling pins crashing in the distance. The menu consists mostly of standard American fare: burgers, sandwiches, wings, and fries. They certainly have salads and your typical appetizers as well, pretzel bits, tacos, pierogies, and onion rings. Now most of these have a different twist than one might expect. For example, the Irish Breakfast Burger consists of a beef patty, portobello mushroom, bacon, sausage, smoked gouda, fried egg, tomato jam, and mayo. Meanwhile the Fire & Ash Burger is stacked with smoked blue cheese, scorched earth sauce, charred leeks, and lemon aioli.
Be warned dear reader, this particular burger is not for the faint of heart. It is quite spicy and left my lips tingling for hours. It was delicious and I highly recommend it for the thrill seekers among you. As one can see, the chefs here are as peculiar as the setting itself. For those concerned by the oddities I’ve just described, worry not. The chef has not taken complete leave of their senses and has mercifully left several menu items unchanged from expectation.
The drink menu is equally surprising in the twists it offers the usual fare. Of course there are sodas and beers, but there is also a delightful collection of specialty cocktails and mocktails for those who do not wish to imbibe. Watching the bartenders work beneath the dim amber glow of the shelves behind them almost feels theatrical, as if one has wandered into some hidden establishment where arcade champions and bowlers have gathered for decades.
After dinner, it really is recommended that you purchase a cup of tokens to enjoy the full bounty of games available across the spectrum of time. There are plenty of games for a whole group to enjoy or for the lone wolves among you.
I had met a few friends there from the sci-fi podcast that I run. Scott was visiting from Europe and we jumped at the chance to spend quality time with him. We updated each other on our lives and made plans for the upcoming summer, the local sci-fi convention, and movies that will be coming out shortly.
Naturally, we engaged in the games, some cooperative and others competitive. I already spoke on my fondness for the Terminator game. Dave was particularly good at it as he placed fifth on the machine. I did manage to beat him in kill count during one of the rounds, so naturally I was quite proud of myself. Scott managed first place in a racing game while Miles took his turn conquering Space Invaders.
True to its nature, Decades managed to warp the passage of time as well, for it seemed that I had only blinked and hours had passed in the outside world. Perhaps that is the true magic of places such as these. Not merely nostalgia, nor novelty, but the rare ability to make adults forget the clock entirely.
How might you find such a place?
And should you wish to find an antique arcade of your very own, I encourage you to seek out the strange little corners of old cities and forgotten downtowns. Often these places hide inside repurposed factories, aging theaters, old gymnasiums, or warehouses whose glory days seem long behind them. Look for neon signs glowing faintly against brick walls, listen for the distant chorus of pinball bells and synthesized music, and do not be afraid to wander through an unassuming doorway. Every now and then, if the universe is feeling particularly generous, you may just stumble into a pocket of lost time yourself.
Cost: $50 (that covered two drinks, my Fire & Ash Burger and my arcade experience)
Budget Bliss: Bucket List 