Category: Experiences: Adventure

Paris, Part 5: A Perfectly Imperfect Weekend

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The day was winding down. The museum had closed, and the sun was beginning its slow descent. Erika and I stepped out into the cool, crisp spring air, the kind that carries just a hint of evening chill beneath the fading warmth of the day.

The urgency that had driven us, our mad dashes across the city, our constant checking of maps, began to dissolve. In its place came something softer. A quiet curiosity. Without a list to check off, we were once again free to fully embrace the moment. 

We wandered without purpose through streets washed in dusky light, watching as Paris slowly stirred to life for the night. Café lights flickered on one by one. The low hum of conversation drifted out onto the sidewalks. Glasses clinked. Laughter rose and fell like a tide.

Paris, it seemed, was just waking up.

It was in this gentle wandering that we met Julian and his girlfriend, Sandra.

They asked what had brought us to Paris, and we answered in kind. Soon, we were deep in conversation, trading stories of our lives, ours in America, theirs in Paris. There is a certain kind of fleeting camaraderie that forms in moments like these, where neither side expects permanence, and yet both lean fully into the connection.

For a few hours, we were simply part of one another’s stories.

They led us to a club, one far removed from anything we had originally planned.

It was the sort of place where locals belonged, where the rhythm of the night pulsed differently. It was tucked along a street. Do not ask me where, for I doubt I could find it again. With a nod from Julian to the bouncer, we slipped inside, crossing an invisible threshold into another version of Paris.

The air was warm and thick with music. The dim light created an intimate atmosphere like it was holding a secret only Parisians knew. We sipped wine and talked, our voices rising to meet the hum of the crowd as the hours stretched on.

And then, suddenly, the room erupted.

A woman appeared, dressed in something delightfully eccentric, a candle balanced atop her head (and I am not entirely sure if her chest was bare, she had on quite the number of necklaces). She sang loudly, joyfully, with a theatrical abandon, moving with a confidence that demanded attention. The crowd joined her instantly, clapping, singing, cheering.

Sandra leaned in to tell us it was her birthday.

It was not how I would have chosen to celebrate, but who was I to question a Parisian in her element?

As the night wore on, exhaustion crept in, the kind that settles deep in your bones after days of walking, of seeing, of feeling everything all at once.

Reluctantly, we apologized and said our goodbyes.

We exchanged Facebook information with every intention of keeping in touch. But as life so often goes, we never did.

Some things, perhaps, are meant to remain exactly where they happened.

In Paris.

Back at the hostel, I checked my email and confirmed our meeting place with Frieman.

The next morning, we set out once more into the city, this time successfully finding him. Though we did not have long together, we lingered over lunch, swapping stories and savoring the flavors of a city that had already given us so much. He drew me a small Eiffel Tower on a napkin, the perfect memento of my trip. 

After lamenting our struggles with the metro, Frieman kindly took the time to explain it to us. Confident now, we set off to retrieve our luggage before catching our train.

We followed his directions carefully.

At least, we thought we did.

Emerging from the metro into the bright spring afternoon, we found ourselves somewhere entirely unexpected.

The red light district. 

We stood there for a moment, taking it in, the bold storefronts, the neon signs, the unapologetic nature of it all.

Then we looked at each other and burst into laughter.

Never one to miss an opportunity, I leaned in and said, with what I hoped was convincing innocence, “Well… since we’re here, and we’re both engaged, we may as well find something memorable for the honeymoon.”

Smirking and trying not to laugh too loudly, we stepped into a shop and that may or may not have been our only stop.

What exactly we purchased shall remain between Erika and me, and left to your imagination, dear reader.

But we did make certain to stop for a picture in front of the Moulin Rouge before making our way back to the hostel… and eventually, to the train. Only stopping a few times to ask for directions from bemused shop owners. 

All in all, it was a weekend in Paris well spent.

A true bucket list adventure, full of mishap and magic, art and laughter, wine and wandering, fleeting friendships and unexpected stories.

And perhaps that is what travel is meant to be.

Not a perfect itinerary.

But a collection of moments, some planned, many not, that come together to form something far richer than anything we could have designed ourselves.

Paris Part 4: The Paris You Don’t Plan For

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We left our story (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3), dear reader, at the steps of the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur, with the universe laughing as I stared in disbelief at a place I had already declared far too distant to reach that day. In the years since, I have often found myself accomplishing things that once felt equally out of reach. When doubt creeps in, I return to this memory. The path may not be direct, but you will arrive. The trick is learning to enjoy the detours.

And perhaps, if I am being honest, that is part of why I share stories like this at all.

Occasionally, I wander further afield in these tales. Not to abandon the spirit of this blog, but to present it honestly. Some dreams require more than staying close to home. Some experiences ask you to stretch beyond your usual borders. I have no desire to present a life neatly curated into something it is not. The truth, as it turns out, is far more interesting. And far more instructive.

Had we marched straight to Sacré-Cœur, we would have missed the Eiffel Tower and the Archaeological Museum entirely. Travel, when approached with openness, teaches far more than what sits behind glass displays.

The Basilique du Sacré-Cœur stood in quiet contrast to the more widely known Notre-Dame Cathedral. There was a preserved sacredness here. Where Notre-Dame hums with the steady rhythm of tourism, Sacré-Cœur felt… guarded. Not unwelcoming, but intentional.

No photographs. Voices lowered to a hush. Nuns gently, but firmly, reminding visitors that this was not merely a site to be consumed, but a space still in use, still sacred.

Some may find that restrictive. I found it grounding.

We were the ones intruding, and we were given boundaries. Watching worshippers in quiet devotion, I felt something I can only describe as a pull upward, a stillness that settled over the space and demanded respect. It remains one of my favorite memories, not despite those restrictions, but because of them.

We left eventually, though I could have lingered longer, stepping once more into the lively streets of Paris as though emerging from another world.

Our destination was the Musée d’Orsay, home to some of my favorite artists. In those pre-smartphone days, coordinating across countries required optimism and a bit of guesswork. When the appointed meeting time with Frieman came and went, we were left waiting… and waiting… only to discover later we had managed to wait for one another at entirely different museums.

A perfect summary of early 2000s travel, really.

Accepting defeat for the day, we went inside anyway, trusting that an email later would sort things out.

The Musée d’Orsay itself deserves more than a passing mention. Once a grand train station, its soaring ceilings and iron framework still echo its former life. There is something poetic about a place once built for movement now holding stillness. Light pours in through enormous windows, illuminating canvases that themselves chase fleeting moments.

We wandered slowly, letting the space guide us. Monet’s work shimmered with that signature softness, as though the world itself refused to stay still long enough to be fully captured. Renoir’s figures felt alive in a different way, their warmth and movement drawing you into their world. Impressionism has always felt less like observation and more like memory, imperfect, glowing, and deeply human.

With our plans unraveled, we turned next to Sainte-Chapelle.

There are beautiful places, and then there are places that feel almost unreal.

Sainte-Chapelle belongs firmly in the second category.

The structure itself nearly disappears, replaced by walls of stained glass that stretch impossibly high. Over a thousand panels catch the light and fracture it into color so vivid it feels alive. Reds, blues, and golds spill across the floor and over the people standing within it. You do not simply look at the windows. You stand inside them.

It is overwhelming in the best possible way. Quiet falls over the room, not because it is enforced, but because it feels required.

Still caught in that awe, we wandered into the gift shop, and it was there that something clicked into place.

I had been seeing unicorn tapestries everywhere.

At first, I dismissed them. Tourist fare. Decorative patterns meant to evoke something vaguely medieval. But they kept appearing, on bags, on notebooks, in displays. Persistent.

Curious, I asked the woman behind the counter, half expecting a vague answer.

Instead, she smiled and told me exactly where they were.

Right here. In Paris. At the Musée de Cluny.

Now, dear reader, it should come as no surprise that I love unicorns. This is me after all.

(If you’d like the full story behind that lifelong obsession, and a deeper dive into the tapestries themselves, you can read it here.)

This is not a casual appreciation. This is a lifelong commitment.

My very first stuffed animal was a unicorn named Rainbow, a music box that played Somewhere Over the Rainbow. She traveled with me across countries and still sits on a shelf in my room. Growing up in the 90s, unicorns were not nearly as easy to find as they are now, which only made each one feel that much more special. Books, toys, anything I could find, I devoured it. Really today’s children have no idea how easy it is to find them!

And somewhere along the way, I discovered The Lady and the Unicorn.

A series of six medieval tapestries, each rich with symbolism, each woven in the millefleurs style—“a thousand flowers”, their backgrounds alive with intricate botanical detail. Created around the turn of the 16th century, likely in Flanders, they depict the five senses: taste, touch, smell, sight, and hearing. The sixth, bearing the phrase À mon seul désir, “to my only desire”, remains something of a mystery.

Interpretations vary. A renunciation of earthly pleasures. A declaration of free will. Perhaps even a representation of a sixth sense, something beyond the physical. I have always liked that it resists certainty.

It felt fitting.

Armed with directions and far too much enthusiasm, Erika and I set off at once. My feet protested. Fifteen miles the day before had seen to that. But there are moments when discomfort becomes irrelevant.

This was one of them.

There were unicorns to see.

I did my best to behave like a reasonable adult upon entering the museum. I failed. Spectacularly. While I attempted to maintain composure, I am fairly certain my barely contained excitement gave me away. To her credit, Erika insisted we take our time, lingering over artifacts, allowing the museum to unfold properly.

I tried.

I truly did.

And then we reached them.

The tapestries did not merely meet expectations. They erased them.

Reproductions flatten them. They shrink them. They strip away the very things that make them extraordinary. In person, every thread is visible. Every flower distinct. The scale alone is commanding, but it is the detail that captures you. And I apologize dear reader that my photos do them little justice. As it was the early 2000s technology was woefully lacking and I did not use flash photography. However, the ones you see are the ones I took.

You begin to think about the time embedded in them. The hands that worked them. The months, perhaps years, of labor required to bring them into existence. These were not casual creations. They were declarations of wealth, of artistry, of devotion to craft.

In a world where we can summon decoration with a click, it is difficult to comprehend that level of patience.

As I stepped into the dim gallery, my excitement softened into something quieter.

Awe.

My breath caught as I approached, drawn forward as though the space itself required stillness. I do not know how long I remained there. Time loosened. I studied each panel carefully, tracing patterns, noting symbols, wishing—once again—that I knew enough about botany to name every plant.

I said very little.

What could be said?

Some things refuse translation. They must be experienced fully, in person, to be understood at all.

Too soon, we moved on. There was still more of Paris waiting.

And so, from a missed meeting, a chance question, and a persistent pattern I almost ignored, we found ourselves swept into yet another unexpected adventure.

Paris, Part 3: Secrets Beneath the City and a Lesson in Letting Go

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We continue our journey through beautiful, enchanting Paris.

It is important, dear reader, that when traveling one is not too set on any particular place or thing, lest you miss out on a spectacular find or hidden gem the guidebook overlooked. This is one of the reasons I rarely book a full day of activities. I like to leave space for moments of serendipity to take hold.

Which is precisely where we found ourselves next.

For beneath the vaulted ceilings and looming gargoyles, the Lady of Paris holds a small secret: the Archaeological Crypt. A title, as you know, certain to get my attention.

Just as we were about to leave the cathedral in search of the Eiffel Tower, we stumbled upon a small sign beckoning us to explore below.

It felt almost mythical descending the steps into the dimly lit corridors of the crypt, as if stepping through a portal in time.

Unlike most museums, where artifacts are removed, broken apart, and neatly arranged in brightly lit halls with placards explaining their importance, this space preserves them exactly where they were found.

The layers tell the story of Paris.

Stone remains whisper of traders calling out their wares, pilgrims making their way to holy places, children laughing in the morning sun. The quiet of the crypt stands in sharp contrast to the cacophony above.

Most tourists pass it by in their rush toward the next “must-see.” They do not pause to reflect on the centuries that built this city.

Yet the stones remember.

Roman ruins: wharves and docks once used for trade. Bathhouses where elites conducted business. Defensive walls against invading Germanic tribes. Medieval streets leading travelers toward the cathedral. Remnants of an ancient chapel. Foundations of a Renaissance orphanage.

Today, the museum includes interactive displays that bring the past to life. But even without them, I could feel the weight of history, a hundred generations whispering across time.

We emerged from the crypt back into the sunlight, now drifting toward the horizon.

Consulting our map, we had two more “must-sees” to check off our list: the Arc de Triomphe and, of course, the Eiffel Tower.

Now, dear reader, a word of warning. The Arc de Triomphe sits in the middle of a very busy traffic circle. Do not do as we did and dart across the road, flirting equally with traffic and death.

There are underground entrances, as we later discovered, that allow for safe and easy access to this memorial honoring those who fought in the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars.

To be honest, while impressive in size, it lacked emotional weight for me. In contrast to the crypt, it felt flashier but ultimately hollow.

Perhaps for a French citizen, it carries far greater meaning, standing as a reminder of the blood shed for their country. But for me, it was something I could have skipped in favor of lingering in a café.

And then, of course, the Eiffel Tower.

What other landmark is more instantly recognizable as the symbol of a city, or even a country? A single silhouette, and the mind goes immediately to Paris.

Dear reader, I highly recommend visiting the tower at dusk.

The daytime crowds begin to thin, and a kind of hush settles over the air. Oh, there are still tourists milling about, but there is a softness to the evening, as if people have remembered that life is not about rushing, but about savoring small moments.

We approached the tower after a long day of walking and purchased tickets for the elevator (though today, you would be wise to book ahead).

The top level was closed for renovations, but we did not mind. We could still visit the café and take in the view.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the city transformed.

Lights flickered on like scattered stars. Colors softened into shades of gray. And the tower itself shimmered to life in a glittering display.

We sipped warm hot chocolate and looked out across the city, quietly content.

Exhausted, famished, and thrilled, we made our way back toward the hostel, stopping at a restaurant for dinner.

I had taken one year of French in eighth grade, which proved entirely useless when attempting to decipher the menu. I could identify mushrooms and cheese in a few places, but the rest was complete gibberish.

Hungry and overwhelmed, I did not relish the idea of struggling through a back-and-forth with the wait staff.

So I employed a trick that has served me well ever since: I asked the waiter what his favorite dish was and told him to bring me that.

He seemed delighted that I was entrusting my palate to him.

This approach is not for picky eaters, but I am fairly adventurous. In fact, there are only two foods I genuinely detest: pickles and Jell-O.

In the years since, this trick has never failed me. Wait staff often know the menu better than anyone. They return to the same dishes again and again, and those are often exactly what you want to try.

Now, I would be remiss not to mention the shameless flirting that followed, nor the belated April Fool’s joke he played on two unsuspecting Americans.

Having entrusted him with our meal, we had also, to some extent, entrusted him with our wallets.

So imagine my surprise when he returned with a bill for nearly 300 euros, entirely in French.

Unsure what else to do, I prepared to pay it. After all, we had ordered the food. If there had been a misunderstanding, I was ready to take responsibility for it.

I believe he was just as surprised by my reaction as I was by the bill.

Instead of arguing, I simply accepted it.

Fortunately, he did not take advantage of my naivety. He laughed and revealed it was a joke, much to my immense relief.

He did, however, invite us dancing. We politely declined. We were both spoken for and had no desire to lead him on.

The lesson here is simple: if you let someone choose your meal, have them point to it on the menu. No surprises.

And do not be intimidated by a language you do not know. A little pointing and a rough mental tally go a long way.

We were fortunate. The lesson came through humor rather than costly experience.

Late that evening, we wandered back to our hostel through quiet, darkened streets.

Surprisingly, whether due to youth or good shoes, I was not footsore despite walking all day. Instead, I was happily exhausted, my head filled with history and excitement.

It felt like a waking dream. Paris was no longer an abstract idea, but something real and tangible.

Still, exhaustion finally caught up with me, and I fell asleep almost instantly.

Morning came with sunlight streaming through the window.

I stretched lazily, not quite as energized as the day before, but still eager to see what lay ahead.

As we discussed our plans before meeting Frieman later, I happened to glance up.

There, just beyond the buildings, stood the white dome of the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur.

I turned to Erika.

“Remember how I said there was no way we were walking all the way across the city to see that church?”

“Yes?”

“Well… we already did. Because it’s right there.”

Oh, how the universe laughs, dear reader.

Paris, Part 2: Walking the City and Choosing What Matters

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Forgive the brief interlude in my tale of Paris, but as you well know, I always sprinkle tidbits of wisdom between my stories of adventure. After all, I don’t just want you to go off and have fun. I truly hope this is a place where we can grow together and create lives punctuated by adventure rather than longing for it as an escape from daily misery.

Now, we left off, dear reader, with my arrival: tired and exhausted from a sleepless night but pumped full of adrenaline, the equivalent of five or six cups of coffee coursing through my veins.

I had already gotten thoroughly lost on the way to the hostel and had largely given up on public transit as a viable means of navigating the city. Honestly, that’s only a feat a young twenty-something can get away with.

Now, I’m not entirely certain what the rules are for crossing the streets in Paris, but they did not appear to follow the ones I had grown up with. There were multiple occasions when the light was clearly red and people were walking, and others when it was green and everyone simply stopped.

Both my travel partner and I were quite confused by this apparent inconsistency.

It was decidedly not like Germany, where people display an almost obsessive adherence to rules. Even if there isn’t a car in sight, they will dutifully wait at the crosswalk until the light indicates it is time to cross.

However, after one or two close calls with traffic, we simply looked at each other, shrugged, said “when in Rome,” and followed the Parisians for guidance, forgoing the lights entirely since they clearly could not be trusted.

Our first stop was the Louvre, which is a must for any lover of art and history. Not only does it house one of the most famous paintings on earth, it is also the largest and most visited art museum in the world.

Originally built as a fortress and later expanded into a royal palace, the Louvre now spans roughly 2.3 million square feet. Of its approximately 380,000 objects, around 35,000 are on display at any given time.

Considering it would take over three months to see the entire collection, we decided to focus only on the highlights and the pieces that spoke most to us.

There are plenty of guides that will tell you the “must-see” works at the Louvre. But if something doesn’t speak to you, skip it. Focus on the areas of art and history you genuinely enjoy.

I, for one, would recommend skipping the Mona Lisa.

All it really amounts to is a photo opportunity for social media. It’s tiny, placed behind thick glass in a poorly lit room with hundreds of people pushing and shoving for a better look. You’re honestly better off googling a picture for all you’ll actually see.

Any contemplative awe you might have felt is drowned out by the din of the crowd and the smell of raised armpits as phones are hoisted into the air for a better shot.

If you aren’t paying attention, your belongings might get nicked, and you could spend the rest of your Paris trip trying to recover stolen credit cards while cursing the day you were introduced to the pernicious lady with her sly smile.

After all, she too was once stolen. Why not cavort with thieves once again?

As I’ve said in other posts, don’t let other people’s opinions dictate what you do or do not do. So if you must see the Mona Lisa, I shall not judge you for it.

Just remember that the Louvre houses centuries of art, offering millennia of history to explore, not just stuffy Italians and pretentious French painters.

Its oldest piece is estimated to be around 9,000 years old and is well worth the trek to see.

Since I was traveling with an archaeology major, we spent most of our time in the Greek and Roman sections, along with some of the French collections.

My personal favorite was the sculpture Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss. Not because I have a particular fondness for eighteenth-century French sculpture, but because one of my favorite books is Psyche and Cupid by C. S. Lewis.

Art isn’t always just about what the artist intended, its place in history, or the techniques used. It is also about what it evokes in us.

I would argue that this is what art is most about: what we bring to the moment of encounter.

When I looked at that sculpture, I did not simply see the Greek myth. I saw it retold through a different lens. A revival not just of Psyche, but of myself.

Small tip: book your ticket in advance.

Prior to the pandemic, the best way to get into the Louvre was through one of the side entrances to skip the long lines. However, with its ever-growing popularity, daily visitor numbers are now capped, meaning the only way to guarantee entry is with a pre-booked ticket.

Sorry to all my free-spirited wanderers.

Having conquered a small portion of the Louvre, we ventured forth to the Lady of Paris: the Notre Dame Cathedral.

Walking through Paris instead of taking public transit allows you to experience the city in a completely different way. You breathe it in.

On foot, you notice the small shops and hidden corners that would otherwise blur past from a bus window or subway seat. The scent of coffee lingers in the air as you stroll by cafés, while the temptation of fresh-baked bread drifts from bakeries onto the street.

In early spring, the flowers spill across the sidewalks and painters emerge as if the season itself has burst through the concrete, refusing to remain buried beneath winter any longer.

Everywhere is a riot of color and life. Musicians greet you with cheerful melodies, and you cannot help but sway your hips just a bit in time with the music.

It was on our way to Notre Dame that we stumbled upon an artist selling watercolor paintings of the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame, and the Basilica of the Sacred Heart of Montmartre.

For a set of four, it was perhaps forty euros, an absolute steal, and it was there that my habit of buying art as a souvenir was born.

Erika and I split the cost and decided we would determine who received which painting at the end of the trip.

Long before we saw its doors, the twin towers of Notre Dame rose proudly above the surrounding buildings, beckoning us closer.

The cathedral was completed in 1260, though additions were made in the centuries that followed. Like any church nearly eight hundred years old, it has seen its share of glory and hardship: wars, neglect, desecration, and most recently, fire.

Fortunately, we visited before the fire and the subsequent debates over the restoration of its windows.

As a Christian myself, I was fascinated by the displays of Catholic artifacts that told the story of the church’s role in medieval Europe. I saw relics carefully displayed and read about how the church intersected with everyday life in the heart of France.

However, much like the Mona Lisa room, it was not a place of hushed awe but rather a chaotic stream of tourists passing through.

Contemplation was not something I readily found there. (For that, I recommend seeking out some of the lesser-known churches.)

By this point my legs were beginning to feel the day’s journey, but that did not dissuade me from climbing to the top of the cathedral to take in the city below.

From there we saw, glittering in the bright spring sun, the white dome of the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur.

At the time, I must admit my ignorance. I had never heard of the church, and neither had Erika.

She suggested we should visit it.

I squinted across the grid of busy streets at what appeared to be an impossible distance to walk and declared quite confidently that there was absolutely no way I would trek all the way there.

Oh, dear reader, how the universe loves to laugh at the things we believe are beyond us.

For unbeknownst to me, I would indeed walk there.

But that is a story for another day.

And so, in the interest of time, I must pause my tale here.

You will have to return for Part Three.

Reverse Bucket List: A Weekend in Paris (Part I)

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“How do you feel about a weekend in Paris?”

I twirled in my chair, hair whipping across my face, and fixed my friend Erika with a look that needed no elaboration. Her response was immediate. A squeal. A clap. An emphatic, “Yes.”

After all, what else does one say to Paris in the spring?

Such spontaneity, dear reader, is only possible when you are determined to drink deeply from the cup of life while living abroad. For an American especially, there is something intoxicating about the ability to hop on a train and cross into another country before lunch. When you come from a place where a single state can rival the size of an entire nation, the idea feels almost illicit, perhaps even scandalous.

So without further ado, we secured tickets on the high-speed train from Frankfurt to Paris. Arm in arm, we walked toward the station, already breathless with plans: art, museums, music, culture, food, people. And what a people!

A sudden unplanned Paris in a weekend?

Madness. An affliction surely.

Which is precisely why we had to do it.

The true catalyst was a message from a dear friend who would be spending a week in the city and wondered if I might join him for a day. An afternoon in Paris with a friend who happened to be an artist of some renown? The answer could only be yes. After all, who could be the more perfect tour guide?

This was before smartphones lived in our pockets. Before we had google at our fingertips and the assuredness that comes with having all the answers tucked away. We packed lightly, wrote down the number of the American embassy, ensured we had our emergency contacts into our bags, and armed ourselves with a travel guide and a healthy dose of gumption. Travel then required nerve. Trust. If you got lost, you figured it out. If you mispronounced something, you survived the embarrassment. There was no digital rescue waiting in your palm. Which is honestly, what I miss most about travel these days.

The train hurled us across the countryside, fields bursting with early spring color flashing past the windows. I could not help comparing it to Pennsylvania. Lancaster County, in particular, bears a resemblance to parts of Germany, and for the first time I understood, in a small but tangible way, why so many Germans had settled there. Hiemweh melted away leaving a strange sense of coming home even across an ocean.

Three hours is long enough to plan a city and short enough to realize you cannot conquer it. We trimmed our ambitions to a few must-sees and a handful of hopefuls. The Louvre alone could swallow a week. Paris, we decided, would not be conquered. It would simply be experienced.

Crossing the border was almost anticlimactic. An announcement crackled overhead. That was all. No passport stamp. No interrogation. It felt like slipping into Ohio, except the anticipation hummed in your bones. No offense to Ohio of course, but really are we going to say it compares to France?

And then we arrived.

First Things First: Find the Bed

Before romance, before art, before croissants on café terraces, there is one universal truth of travel; You must find where you are sleeping.

Armed with a folded map and confidence wildly disproportionate to our navigational skill, we set off to locate our hostel.

Now, in our defense, the streets of Paris are confusing.

Unlike the tidy grid systems Americans grow up with, Paris feels as though it was designed by someone who enjoyed curves, diagonals, and the occasional act of mischief. Streets fork unexpectedly. They change names without warning. A road that appears straight on a map somehow bends in real life. And the street signs? They are affixed to the sides of buildings, charming blue plaques that would be immensely helpful if they were not routinely obscured by graffiti, peeling posters, or layers of mysterious paper advertising concerts long since passed. It was an exercise in hopeless confusion and frustration.

More than once we stood directly beneath a sign, craning our necks and squinting upward, trying to determine whether we were on Rue de Something Important or merely staring at a band flyer partially concealing our destiny.

And then there was the metro.

For the uninitiated American traveler, the Paris metro is not transportation. It is an initiation ritual.

Lines spiderweb across the city in a dizzying tangle of colors and numbers. Trains are labeled by their final destination rather than the direction you believe you are traveling, which requires you to know far more geography than you actually do. Stops are announced quickly, sometimes swallowed by the metallic roar of the car, and the maps inside the train might as well have been abstract art for all the clarity they offered at first glance. Especially, if one has never traversed public transit before. Which alas, many Americans have never been on anything more than a school bus.

You descend into the underground with confidence. You emerge twenty minutes later into a vast plaza with six exits, each pointing toward a different arrondissement, blinking in the daylight thinking, This seems right.

It is rarely right.

One exit leads you in the exact opposite direction. Another deposits you onto a boulevard you did not know existed. A third leaves you staring at a fountain that looks vaguely familiar but is, in fact, not the fountain you were seeking.

Given these small obstacles, I consider it nothing short of miraculous that after a few wrong turns and some enthusiastic but misguided pointing, we found our hostel at all. 

Little did we know, this was only the beginning of our navigational adventures and given the amount of confusion the metro caused, we determined that the best way to get anywhere was by foot. Yes, you read that correctly. I walked Paris in a weekend. I estimated that I traversed at least 15 miles. Though as this was before the popularity of step counters, I only have my best estimates.

The hostel itself was functional in the most generous sense of the word.

If you have never experienced a European student hostel, allow me to clarify something, it is not glamorous by any stretch of the imagination. It is economical. And it is very much a young person’s sport.

The shower required physical encouragement. You had to press the button, and water would flow for approximately twelve optimistic seconds before shutting off again. Want to rinse shampoo from your hair? You had to keep pressing it like you were negotiating terms. The “hot” water hovered somewhere between hopeful and politely lukewarm.

Breakfast was included, which sounded promising until we discovered that “included” meant toast, jelly, and coffee. For Americans raised on sprawling hotel buffets complete with eggs, waffles, fruit, yogurt, and pastries, this was a humbling cultural exchange. There was no omelet station. No waffle iron. There was toast.

And you were grateful for it.

We adapted quickly. A stop at a neighborhood grocery store provided bread, cheese, and sliced meat. It was the perfect strategy: sustain ourselves during the day, conserve our funds, and reserve our modest budget for dinners out in the evening. For two college students, it was a masterclass in practical travel. Frugal by day. Indulgent by night.

The hostel was never meant to be the highlight. It was the launchpad. A place to drop our bags. A place to sleep. A place from which to begin.

And begin we did.

What followed was a blur of museums and miscalculations, attempted French and accidental detours. We wandered into neighborhoods we had only read about. We misread maps. At one point, quite unintentionally, we discovered that we had strayed into the red-light district. There is nothing quite like realizing you are lost in a foreign city and that the neon lighting is… intentional.

But that, dear reader, deserves its own telling.

Because Paris was not merely art and architecture. It was a lesson in courage. In frugality. In friendship. In the quiet bravery required to step into the unknown without guarantees and trust that you will find your way.

This is what I mean by a reverse bucket list. Not the grand achievements we hope to accomplish someday when everything is perfect, but the moments we dared to say yes to when they appeared. The train we boarded. The map we unfolded. The hostel we made work. The city we entered anyway.

A fulfilling life is not built by waiting until conditions are ideal.

It is built by saying yes before you feel entirely ready.

In the next post, we will step fully into the city itself. The beauty. The bewilderment. The glorious inconvenience of getting lost in Paris.

And why, sometimes, that is exactly the point.

Beneath the Blooms: Sakura Dreams

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I believe it shall come as no surprise to you, dear reader, that I’ve long held a dream of visiting Japan and count myself as a bit of an otaku. I’ve imagined seeing Mt. Fuji rising above the mist, taking in the sights of Tokyo, enjoying the fashion, engaging in traditional dances, exploring vibrant festivals, wandering through a pagoda, pausing at a temple, sipping macha in a teahouse, visiting a cat café, contemplating nature in a garden and, of course, strolling beneath the cherry blossoms.

A few of these I’ve managed to do here in the States. Others remain only possibilities, others still achievable only if I someday find myself walking on Japanese soil.

Each spring, I see flowering trees dotting my neighborhood and lining the roads, and I sigh wistfully. They tease me with just a taste of what could be. My social media feeds fill with dreamy pictures from the far East (or perhaps more accurately, the West?). Japan’s landscape becomes a fleeting spectacle of pink and white blooms, a soft riot of ephemeral beauty.

This delicate flower, sakura, is more than just a seasonal joy. It is a cultural icon, deeply rooted in Japanese tradition and mythology. The goddess of blossoms and delicate matters is said to have nurtured the cherry trees. One beloved tale tells of Princess Sakura, cursed to bloom and wither like the trees she loved. Only a prince who could watch her fade without despair could break the spell. The blossoms have graced artwork for centuries, inspired poets, and appeared again and again in anime and manga as symbols of renewal and hope.

Is it any wonder, then, that I too have fallen in love with this flower?

So, each spring, I look longingly at the blooming trees and wish I could follow the blossoms across Japan, chasing their brief splendor up the country. Imagine my delight, then, when I discovered that a nearby town is home to a row of 150 cherry trees that burst into bloom each year. Naturally, I set out on a quiet morning to witness the display.

The trees stood in a stately row, forming a tunnel of soft pink. The delicate scent hung in the air, and a gentle breeze coaxed the blossoms into a graceful dance. Bicyclists glided past on the quiet street, and two painters sat capturing the season’s glory on canvas.

I wandered beneath the trees, breathing in the fragrance, taking photos to help preserve the memory. There was no formal path beneath them, just dark, soft earth that yielded slightly beneath my feet. The blossoms hadn’t yet begun to fall, though a few brave petals had already drifted to the ground, a gentle reminder that all too soon the branches would give way to summer’s green.

I was in good company as several painters were scattered along the row of trees. It was a delightful treat to be able to watch them capture the beauty of the trees extending it beyond the ephemeral spring season.

While it may not rival the landscapes of Japan, it was a small and beautiful taste of a dream. I’m glad I made the short journey to Marietta to witness their bloom, even if only for a moment.

How can you stroll beneath the cherry blossoms?

You may not need a passport or a plane ticket to find them. Sometimes, the dreams we tuck away for “someday” bloom quietly just down the road. Perhaps your local trees are smaller, or fewer, or missing the dramatic backdrop of a mountain temple, but their beauty is no less worthy of awe. A few trees in a quiet town, the whisper of petals in the breeze, and a moment stolen from the rush of life to simply stand and marvel, that, too, is magic.

So, dear reader, look around. Google may be your travel agent, but curiosity is your compass. The world, as it turns out, is blooming right outside your door.

Completed: 2025

Miles from home: 20

Cost: Free

Don’t forget to look around the rest of my Bucket List and Reverse Bucket List to get your curiosity going!

Instagram Lied: Travel Is Gross, Beautiful, and Worth It

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Ah, social media. A window to the wider world, filled with sweeping drone shots, glamorous airport lounges, perfect sunsets. A bastion of lies and filtered falsehoods.

I particularly love the “expectation vs. reality” videos: serene music turning to off-key chaos as the camera pans from a peaceful mountaintop to the hordes of tourists swarming the same spot. A perfect reminder that what’s posted is rarely what’s actually experienced.

Most social media travel stars wake up at 4 a.m. to beat the crowds and capture that “authentic” moment. What they don’t show? The sweaty hikes, the blistered feet, the questionable toilets, the stress, the transit delays, and the minor existential crises that often come free with your ticket.

A crowded beach on the pink sands of Bermuda.

Let’s be honest, travel isn’t always glamorous. Plane rides can feel like being packed into a flying sardine tin. That dreamy Airbnb may smell like artificial lavender death. And the less we say about the bathroom situation in some places, the better. Seriously, though.

Even the photos lie. Take the pyramids, for example; they’re usually depicted as isolated wonders in the desert. In reality? Turn around and there’s the city of Cairo, complete with a McDonald’s. The rainbow hills of Peru? Instagram makes them look like Lisa Frank threw up on the Andes. In person, they’re fascinating but much more subdued.

And even when something is worth the hype, there are still snags. During my trip to England, I didn’t plan for a closed castle (thanks, high winds) or a GPS signal that vanished the minute I needed it. I didn’t expect public transit to lack accessibility for my mom, or for delays with the trains. My trip was amazing and beautiful; it was everything I would have hoped for, but there were still moments that kind of sucked.

2017 Solar Eclipse

The 2017 solar eclipse? Cloud cover rolled in exactly at totality after I waited sweating in the southern heat for hours! Nature has a sense of humor.

Closer to home, even my local excursions are rarely perfect. The Firebird Festival? Visually stunning, yes, but also freezing cold and delayed by 30 minutes. My toes were plotting a rebellion as soon as they were thawed. The Tea Festival? Lovely, but forced into a crowded church basement by rain. Less “royal tea” and more “steamy sardine can.” That long-awaited hot air balloon ride? Grounded due to “iffy conditions” on what looked like a perfectly fine day. Perhaps, the balloon was sick.

And yet, those imperfect moments are the ones that stick. They’re the ones you tell stories about. They’re the quirks that make a trip memorable instead of just photogenic.

An intimate Japanese Tea Ceremony

When the Firebird crowd chanted “Light the bird!” in shared frostbitten frustration, I joined in. It was hilarious. When the rain forced us indoors at the tea festival, I ended up experiencing an intimate Japanese tea ceremony I otherwise would’ve missed. The cancelled balloon ride meant exploring a unique Star Barn one of the last in the nation. And a delayed train led me to a delightful conversation with fellow travelers about the cultural quirks of the U.S. and the U.K., a highlight of that entire trip. Getting lost in Washington D.C. led to snagging the last tour of the Congressional Building.

Setbacks create space for serendipity. They force us to slow down, reframe, or reroute, and in doing so, they give us something richer than a postcard-perfect moment. They give us stories, growth, and sometimes even stronger relationships.

That attitude—embracing the obstacle—has completely transformed how I travel. My sister and I started tackling trips together we never thought we could. Our bond has grown deeper because of the messiness, not despite it. I’ve even expanded my circle because of the chance encounters that travel disasters can bring.

Perfect trips don’t exist.

But imperfect trips?

They make perfect adventures

Tea at Sea!

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Alright gentle reader, technically, it was a bay and not a sea. However, I did get to hoist the sails and attempt to steer the ship. Yes, technically it was a boat; although I”m not sure I know the difference if we’re being honest. Regardless of the pesky nomenclature, I provided an excellent afternoon tea out on a large body of water in a sailing vessel of some sort. Additionally, I made sure to be properly attired for a day’s outing on the water. With the help of a well placed hat pin not even the wind could dissuade me from my determination to have a little extra flare. After all, where would we be as a society if we allowed ourselves to descend into the mundane and boring, especially when it comes to fashion?

In the midst of COVID, with everything shut down and limitations on movement and gathering, the small but scrappy non-profit I worked for decided to offer its employees a day out with one of our board members, Peggy, on her private boat. To say that I was excited is truly an understatement. It was once again, one of those Bucket List Items that I had mentally placed under “most likely not happening any time soon” as I thought it would cost a lot of money to go. This might be the reason I was a little over the top, but honestly that’s part of who I am. I’m the woman who will put together an entire costume or outfit for even the most slightly themed party or obscure holiday. 

It was truly the morale boost that we needed. To avoid a disruption of vital client services and given the size of the boat, we divided ourselves into two teams which would go on two different days. We also divided up bringing food and other snacks to share. I led the way with letting them all know that I was going to have us do a tea at sea, I would provide the sandwiches, the tea cups, scones and clotted cream. Was it the more costly and time consuming option? Yes, but I was going to take this opportunity that the universe presented me and make the absolute most of it. Before you question my judgement of bringing tea cups on board a ship, know I take quite good care of my china and wouldn’t subject them to the dangers of the open waters. I found these absolutely gorgeous paper cups online! 

We loaded ourselves up early that morning, crammed into one of my co-worker’s vans like the start of some quiet, well-mannered heist armed with gps and good humor. I had chosen to go with the more reserved, soft-spoken of my co-workers. What can I say? They paired better with tea than with the loud, pirate-hearted group that went the day before, I am fairly certain they snuck booze despite the prohibition against it, like I said, pirates. Not that I couldn’t hang with both, I absolutely could. And the temptation to burst into sea shanties was quite real, I assure you.

As we drew closer to our destination, the world around us began to shift. The foliage thinned, and the trees gave way to the briny breath of the sea. The air changed too, tinged with salt and carried on a breeze that hinted at something just beyond the horizon. We heard the call of gulls before we even saw the water. Then suddenly, there it was—a small forest of masts rising from the docks like white trees, standing in quiet anticipation.

Waiting for us at the dock was our fearless leader and Executive Director, Deb, who waved us down with her signature confidence. She led us up the wooden planks to our boat, where we were introduced to our captain for the day, Peggy’s husband, Captain Bob.

I was surprised by the size of the boat as it was deceptively spacious, like a magician’s trick. Every inch of it had a purpose. Storage tucked into nooks, seating that converted, a compact bathroom that came with very specific instructions. Bob walked us through the essentials with the seasoned calm of someone who knew that one improperly flushed toilet could quite ruin the whole experience.

After a short safety overview, it was time to sail. Bob asked for volunteers, and I naturally stepped forward to hoist the sails. He called out instructions with the steady ease of a man who’s done this a thousand times, while Peggy provided cheerful backup support. I took hold of the rope with both hands to gleefully, heave ho and all that. The wind caught, the sails filled, and the boat surged forward with a kind of wild grace.

From that moment on, everything shifted into something more elemental. The boat leaned into the wind, the ropes pulled taut, and the world became motion and sound—the rush of air, the splash of spray, the low groan of wood and rope in motion. It felt like stepping out of the everyday and into something ancient.

Those brave enough made their way to the prow, legs dangling over the edge, laughing as waves splashed up to greet them. Time didn’t pass in hours out there. It passed in shadows, in sunlight shifting on the water, in bursts of laughter and long silences where we just watched the horizon breathe.

Then came the offer I hadn’t expected, Bob asked if anyone wanted to steer.

Of course, I wanted to steer the ship!

Taking the wheel was like grabbing hold of something alive. The boat didn’t just move; it responded. The wind pulled one way, the water pushed another, and the rudder spoke a language I didn’t quite know but instinctively wanted to understand. Every twitch of my hands echoed through the vessel. I had to fight the urge to overcorrect—big boat, big movements, right? Wrong. It was the subtle shifts that mattered. I wasn’t just steering a boat, I was holding a moment in my hands, trying not to crush it. I shall admit, I was not the best helmsman, but it wasn’t bad for a first go! 

At lunchtime, I unveiled my small, slightly theatrical feast of tea sandwiches and scones. Though there was no clinking of teacups, people were quite amused by them. A delighted Peggy gasped when she spotted the clotted cream asking for where on earth I had found it; she hadn’t had clotted cream since she was in England years ago.

I smiled and told her, with all the drama she deserved, “The local grocery store.”

We laughed, we feasted, we sipped, and apart from poor Beth, who succumbed to a bit of seasickness, our tea at sea was a grand success.

The rest of the sail was a blend of freedom and focus, the hiss of waves, the sudden thrill of turning into the wind, the scent of salt and sun warming the deck. It was chaos and calm, all wrapped into one. I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day for checking off my list. . 

By late afternoon, we returned to the dock. We changed into swimsuits and slipped into the pool, letting the cool water wash away the heat of the day. We splashed and floated, reluctant to let the water go.

That evening, we gathered for dinner at a local seafood spot, the kind with fresh-caught fish, buttery hushpuppies, and that oh, so infamous, Maryland crab. I will say the crab practically demanded a moment of silence in appreciation. Luckily for the crab, eating is just about the only time I am quiet. And just when we thought the day had ended, someone suggested a detour when they spotted a sign for ice cream. Because some days deserve a sweet ending. And this one? This one absolutely did.

So how can you enjoy a sailing adventure?

I’ll admit, not everyone has a friend with a boat—or a boss generous enough to invite you aboard. But that doesn’t mean a day at sea is out of reach. You can always charter a boat for yourself and a few intrepid comrades. Prices can range from around $200 to upwards of $2000, depending on the type of vessel and the duration of your trip. That said, splitting the cost among your group makes it much more manageable. If you’re like me and pack your own feast, you can trim expenses even further. The boat we sailed on would’ve likely cost each of us about $50 to $75 had we booked it ourselves. Sure, we probably wouldn’t have been trusted to hoist the sails or steer, but with seven of us, the cost would have been quite reasonable. 

This was one of those rare gifts from the universe, an unexpected adventure in the middle of a pandemic, at a time when most people could only dream of checking something off their list. I felt deeply grateful, especially after working so hard to help people who were experiencing homelessness with nowhere to go. Those long hours, with little reprieve and a general feeling of hopelessness at times to solve the problem can begin to wear on a person’s spirit. Sometimes, when you’re out there trying to do good, life surprises you with something beautiful in return.

So go ahead, pursue the good. You never know where it might take you, gentle reader.

How can you enjoy a day on the water?

Cost: Free (food was about 50) 

Miles from home: 115 miles

Completed 2020

Ready to break out of the mundane for something new? Check out my Bucket List and Reverse Bucket List for inspiration!

Tales from Abroad: Stonehenge

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I am, as of this writing, recently returned from a trip to Merry Ol’ England after finding myself with the unexpected invitation to join a family friend, Shelia, at her long term rental in the beautiful Penzance area of Cornwall. The previously unaffordable trip of plane tickets, lodging, food and sightseeing, suddenly became much more affordable with her willingness to host myself and my mom for over a week. Naturally, I did not let such an opportunity slip through my fingers as England was home to one of my top Bucket List items, Stonehenge.

Now, my non-American readers may be a bit perplexed at my excitement of going to Penzance when Stonehenge is a good four hours away. You may very well think, it’s so far, you couldn’t possibly add that on to your trip! First, dear reader, you underestimate the American enthusiasm for driving. After all, the road trip is a quintessential American experience! Besides lacking any sort of reasonable public transit, driving is just what we do and if you’re like me who drives for a living (at the time of this writing) spending several hours in the car is nothing. I had a co-worker who regularly thought nothing of driving 8 hours every other weekend up to New England to help take care of her ailing mother. Americans love driving. 

Second, given that in order to have the opportunity to see Stonehenge again I would need to take another 6 hour flight after needing to take up an additional 2 to 3 hours just to get onto the flight after arriving at the airport after a 2 hour drive to the airport, and another 2 hours driving from London to Stonehenge, I think I can afford the day trip back and forth when considering the time and money it would cost to do at a later date. It was this cost analysis that really tipped the scales in favor of renting a car and visiting this site. As I am always reminding you, dear reader, that when one travels one ought to maximize the opportunity in order to get the most bang for your buck. We are, as much as it pains us all to admit, on a budget and when’s the next time we’re gonna be able to hop a plane to England from America? Exactly. 

After determining that in addition to Stonehenge there were sites scattered about Cornwall that were simply too inconvenient to get to via bus (why they don’t go to the neolithic sites like the Merry Maidens or the Cuny Village is beyond me) and given that taking multiple taxis in a day would prove to be quite expensive to do multiple trips to various places around Cornwall in one day, renting a car ended for the week ended up being the optimal solution of almost $175 in savings when I broke down the costs. Plus, I didn’t have to wait around for rides or worry about meeting my taxi driver at a designated pre-booked time. Once again, my cost benefit analysis kicked in and it tipped it in favor of car rental as much as I prefer relying on public transit.

Now, the best laid plans of mice and men will go astray. In this case, the hiccup I encountered was my phone’s gps. Despite paying for the ability to roam and setting it up ahead of time, when I arrived in England my phone refused to connect and kept telling me that I needed to turn on international data. I would go into the phone settings to see that it was indeed turned on and got a text message from my provider stating that it was turned on. We tried several different work-arounds suggested by the internet once I got to my friend’s place and was able to connect to her internet but nothing worked. Luckily, Sheila allowed us to use her phone for the day to get around. With the crisis adverted, we set out in the wee hours of the morning to make it for our 10 am admission time. 

I had downloaded music to my phone for us to jam to and decided to put my newfound mastery of the British road system to the test. I had (smartly in my estimation) scheduled Stonehenge for the middle of the week in order to give me two full days of test driving on the opposite side of the road in more rural areas before trying to go to more populated and congested places. I actually took to it quite well and credit my dyslexia for being an advantage as I really could hardly tell the difference. I just kept the steering wheel in the middle and followed the visuals provided by the gps rather than following her left or right turns since I can’t do that anyways. So, cross off driving on the opposite side of the road as a bonus!

The way up to Stonehenge was relatively uneventful and I got to really take in the rolling English countryside. The morning started out with classic English weather of rain. However, by the time we reached our destination the rain had cleared leaving a mostly overcast sky that threatened sunshine. 

Now to say that I was excited to see this legendary place, is bit of an understatement. Of all the monuments and sights in this world, Stonehenge is without a doubt one of my top destinations and probably one of the first places I ever truly longed to visit. I was fascinated by the ancient world of Great Britain and Ireland, obsessed with learning about them even though I could (when I was younger) find very little about it. It was this blank hole of questions that burned into my mind, what were they like, why did they build this, how did they build it, what spiritual meaning did it have, how did it connect to other sites and on and on these questions plagued me. I loved the theories, no matter how crazy or outlandish they were. And what I love is that we’re still uncovering things about it, only just last year they did yet another study of the stones and discovered that they come from all over indicating that this may have been a unifying project to unite the island.How does that fit with other archaeological evidence for the rest of Britain? There’s just so much we don’t know. 

Stonehenge is over 5,000 years old and is the largest neolithic monument in Britain. There is evidence of important structures and even other henges prior to the building of Stonehenge in the general area marking it as an important or prominent site in the stone age. Some of those sites are from 8000 BC You may be forgiven dear reader for thinking it’s just a stone circle, as impressive as that may be; it actually sits upon an earther work with a marked avenue leading up to it. A “heel stone’ marks the alignment with the summer solstice. This avenue and stone is the reason we can say it aligns with solstice and not some other random astrological event. It is also not just one stone circle but two concentric circles and other stone pieces to create a masterpiece of that era.

I am standing by the “heel stone” which marks the line of the summer solstice

It took over 1,500 years to complete in four different stages. The first stage was in 3100 BC, the second stage occurred in 2500 BC; the third took place 150 years later and the final stage occurred in 1,500 BC. This is when the stones were rearranged into their iconic horseshoe shape. There were about 60 stones originally, but sadly many are broken or even missing today.  Despite the presence of human remains, it is not believed to have been a burial site but that these remains were utilized in religious ritual. Although if you read other people’s opinions they’ll tell you that it was a burial site. See? So much mystery!

It was being armed with this knowledge (and much more, but I shalln’t bore you with all the details), that I practically squealed in sheer anticipation more than once as we approached. I was finally actually there, instead of seeing it on a screen or in a book. There was equal parts excitement and awe as we drew closer. The thing about the site is it is actually located in an almost surreal location because one expects that it would be in an area relatively built up. However, it is just out in the middle of nowhere surrounded by sheep and farmer’s fields. Yet, it fits exactly in the landscape that one finds it in because thousands of years ago the builders may have had sheep. For all we know sheep have been hanging out near those stones this entire time.

I loved being able to closely study the stones, to see how they may have been joined together by the knobs at the top of some of them and to picture how it may have once been so many years ago. I marveled at the craftsmanship that must have taken to hew rock into rough formations of giant blocks and to lift them up atop each other. 

What was particularly nice was that I went at the slower time of the year for England, choosing to go right before spring at the end of winter, so it was relatively uncrowded. I didn’t have to fight to look at it and I was even able to snag pictures without people in them. Most pictures contained very few people. This also meant that I was able to really focus on what I was seeing without having to worry about what everyone else was doing around me. After my first circle around the stones snapping lots of pictures, I put my phone away and made another loop so that I would be able to just enjoy the place taking in the sight and locking it in my memory. Too often we are so busy “documenting” our experiences we forget to actually experience them. I was determined to not make that mistake. 

After spending nearly two hours at Stonehenge, we journeyed back on the bus to the visitor center for a quick bite to eat before departing. There was a reconstructed Stoneage village that I took a brief detour in. But having been in the ancient village of Carn Euny the day before (another post on that later), I didn’t spend very long. They also had a small museum of the artefacts found in and around Stonehenge which is very informative if you haven’t spent a lot of time studying the site. 

How to visit Stonehenge (and other suggested sites): 

I’ll not insult you with instructions on how to get to England. However, it is important to know Stonehenge is located about 2 hours south of London making it a fairly easy trip for most people who are intended to tour the country. It is a far less easy trip if you’re flying into Scotland. My American readers may be forgiven for underestimating the size of Great Britain as it is about a 7 hour drive between the two and while we do love driving that is a bit of a haul even for us unless it’s part of an entire road trip especially since most of us only have two weeks of vacation a year.  

However upon arrival, you have two options to see the actual site. Option 1: Is paying the admission ticket (and parking) to Stonehenge which grants you access to the bus transfer over, the reconstructed village and museum. The main advantages to this option is the bus transfer if you’re with someone with mobility issues and the ability to walk around the entire site to see it from all angles.

Option 2: Is parking a little away from the site and accessing the footpath which traverses right next to the walkway in front of Stonehenge. It does require a bit of a hike to get from where you can park the car and Stonehenge. The path isn’t well maintained, in part because while the English have the right to roam on the ancient footpaths, the right to roam doesn’t necessarily convey the promise that someone will be maintaining those footpaths. It also only allows you to really see the front, but it is the best and most famous vantage point. If you go during the peak season you’ll probably be disappointed by the sheer number of people blocking your view and any pictures you’ll want to take. If you go during the non peak season you will probably be able to get a decent view and maybe a few pictures with only a few people milling around in the background. It honestly depends on your priorities. 

My wonderful and amazing mum!

For me, I was traveling with my mom, who doesn’t have the best health and needed the extra support with mobility. I also wanted to be able to get as close as I was permitted. There was an option to get there at 8 am, pay a lot of extra money and be able to go into the circle at sunrise, but I would have needed to leave by like 3:30 am, wake up at like 2:30 am which would have meant no sleep for me and I didn’t want to be driving that long on no sleep as driving without sleep is akin to driving drunk. I wanted to see Stonehenge, not die in a car accident on the way there. Remember we want to check off our bucket list, not hurry the bucket along. 

Now, you may be thinking that there is absolutely no way that I could possibly write a list of “good enoughs” when comparing them to Stonehenge, but it entirely depends on you as an individual. For me, Stonehenge has been a top priority since childhood, so when given the opportunity I jumped on it. However, there are many Neolithic sites and Neolithic stone circles scattered not only across Britain and Europe but also throughout the world and you may be closer to them than you think. Granted there aren’t many that are quite as old as Stonehenge but there are many that are within the 3,000 – 1,000 range. 

If you don’t care much about the size of the stone circles, Britain, Ireland, and Brittany (France) has over 1,300 circles. Many are quite impressive in their own way. They are also less visited and often allow you to be able to go right up to them without needing to pay for tickets or have them roped off, meaning you don’t have to fight with crowds, you can actually touch them and you can enjoy them more as they were intended, as places of spiritual connection, celebration and reflection.

The Merry Maidens of Cornwall!

Stone circles aren’t just found in Europe. There are stone circles in Australia which are sacred to the Aboriginal peoples like the stone arrangements in Victoria at Carisbrook. You may also be surprised to find out that Japan has stone circles from the late Jomon period located in the northern region. Like Stonehenge the Japanese Stone circles contain an inner and outer ring which is aligned with solstices. Even the states has its own stone circle in Wyoming called the Medicine wheel. There are other less famous circles hidden in Nebraska’s Sandhills and Bluemont Virginia.

If you don’t really care what formation a neolithic site takes, then the world is truly your oyster because scattered throughout the globe are sites from ancient pre-civilization peoples. Ohio is famous for its Great Snake Mound as well as the Newark Earthworks. White Sands New Mexico has footprints from over 20,000 years ago – take that Stonehenge! Colorado is home to the Cliff Palace located in Mesa Verde National Park. New Mexico has its own cliff dwellings as well as Aztec ruins. The small island of Malta has Megalithic temples. Ireland is home to Newgrange. One of the oldest known megaliths in the world, Gobekli Tepe, can be found in Turkey. Spain is home to the Dolmen Menga. India has its own dolmens in Marayoor Munnar and I could go on. As you can see dear reader the world is awash with ancient monuments if you know where to look. You may very well be shocked at how close you are to one. So don’t feel the need to put Stonehenge on your list of “must-do’s” if you haven’t already developed an obsession like me, but if you happen to find yourself in England the it is decidedly something I would recommend you make part of your trip.

Cost: $50*

* give or take with the exchange rate, going during non-peak season for a “super saver” discount and pre-booking online for an additional 15% discount and then accounting for the gas to arrive there from the rental.

Miles from home: 2,000

Miles from rental: 200 miles

Cost accounting for plane tickets, etc.: $150*

* You may wonder how I arrived at this number, it’s simple, I took the total cost of my travel (planes, buses, taxis, etc.) and then counted up all the places I checked off my list as a result of traveling to England, divided the total cost of travel by the number of places I got to go to arrive at about $100 per place. As it turns out England has a lot of places and experiences that are on my list which is why it was a top place to visit. I made certain to check off that list to maximize the money I was spending. Using this basic formula is something you can do when deciding where to go and what to do in order to maximize your travels. Yes, the upfront overall cost is quite high, but when considering how many things you can do at once, it may be worth the cost.

While this post was from an adventure many miles from home and involved a plane ride, many of my adventures were just a short drive away. Be sure to check my other posts listed on my Bucket List and Reverse Bucket List.

Baldwin’s Bookstore: Beautiful Books! 

Published on by BudgetBlissLeave a comment

Book lovers know the allure of bookstores and libraries. There’s something about walking into these sanctuaries of knowledge and stories. The distinct smell of the books, the quiet atmosphere that is seldom found in other public spaces, the aesthetic symmetry of rows and rows of carefully shelved worlds. The promise that an entire universe may be unlocked with just the turn of a page. The stories almost seem to whisper an invitation and your fingers start to itch with an eagerness to begin the search. So many dance partners want to fill your card and it is almost dizzying. 

There is even something extra special about a bookstore that offers a little more. Beautiful bookstores, charming bookstores, the ones with cats and tea, the ones with stacks upon stacks of books. Ones that even use books as structures like the book tunnel in L.A.’s famous Last Bookstore. Baldwin’s bookstore is just the sort of bookstore for booklovers. Named one of the most beautiful Bookstores in America, this hidden treasure of Chester County can be easily overlooked if one is not careful. 

Seriously, you can drive right by it and not even notice that you’ve passed it as outside it is an unassuming stone barn. One would never guess that it houses 5 stories of books and has a sizeable collection of rare and antique books. As it is primarily a used bookstore, it is always a treasure hunt and one never knows what one will find tucked away on the shelves. It is so large and extensive that it has a map for visitors at the front and even with the map, one can find oneself semi-lost among the stacks of books. 

A quirk of the bookstore is that many of the shelves are not shelves at all, but rather nailed together crates. This charming store invites you to venture up stairs to ever higher levels. Tucked around every corner are chairs, some more enticing than others, for you to sit and read to your heart’s content. It would be easy to spend hours if not days inside the store. 

My sister and I ventured forth on a cold’s winter’s day after grabbing breakfast together at a coffee shop near my house. We had saved this particular outing for the colder months as we are not overly fond of extreme hot or cold weather. It is always good to have a few indoor activities in your back pocket for those times when it is simply too miserable to spend much time outdoors. 

Upon entering the store, we were greeted by a delightful display of older and rare books. We breathed in deep, savoring the familiar smell of books. The older gentleman behind the front desk said good morning and inquired as to whether it was our first time to the store. He showed up the map and politely explained the general layout of the store and encouraged us to peak in the backroom which housed a few artifacts from when this barn was also a home. After the short orientation, we began our exploration of the store. 

We carefully meandered through the rows of books of over 300,000 books, stopping to peruse for overlooked gems. One of the gems was the map of Philadelphia from over 100 years ago displayed on a table (not for sale). Both my sister and I adore old maps, so it was an unexpected treat to be able to sit and study it before continuing our book adventure. 

One thing of note for the taller readers, there are numerous signs to “duck” when going up and down the stairs, so be wary when transitioning between floors. Despite being in a barn, most of the areas were quite comfortable with only one or two places lacking in proper insulation for the temperature to be comfortable. We did stop to take a few pictures of ourselves in the books. 

It was easy to see why it was named one of the loveliest bookstores both inside and out. The original stone building was built in 1822 and the rustic shelving and floors only add to its charm. Sadly, I did not spy any of the rumored cats said to be residing in the barn. It is possible they were sleeping in a corner somewhere or perhaps they were no longer in residence.

My sister and I found a few treasures and made our way down the steps to the front of the building for our purchases. Satisfied with our treasure hunt, we went home to enjoy our books. I am certain that I will make the journey again for another visit. After all, with an ever changing inventory there is certain to be other diamonds in the rough to find in the future. 

How can you visit a beautiful bookstore?

Bookstores abound and business is booming. Something good that came out of the pandemic was the increased demand for real things, real recommendations from real people. We’re wired for community and connection, something that a digital reality can’t really replicate (though they do try). Not only are books a form of entertainment, but also people are forming communities around books. Bookstores are also one of the few places that seemed to sell a variety of board and card games aimed at adults. Bookstores have become hubs of community and connection. 

Going to Indie and used bookstores like Baldwin’s is often a treat not only for finding books but also for the atmosphere they provide. I encourage you to seek out the hole in the wall places. They don’t necessarily have to make a list of “most beautiful” because with all the hundreds of bookstores, how could a writer of a popular magazine or blog really know if they missed yours? And besides beauty is in the eye of the beholder.