Category: Sights to See & Things to do

The All Hallows Market: A Curious Day Among the Gravestones

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It’s spooky season! So naturally, I headed to the graveyard for a market day.

Browsing a curious collection of curios, crystals, preserved specimens and skulls, I wandered along winding paths lined with vendors offering their strange wares among the gravestones. It may seem odd to set up a market in a cemetery, or even a bit disrespectful to disturb the peace of the dead with the living, but I like to think they rather enjoy their visitors. Besides, everyone was respectful of the graves, staying on the paths as they browsed.

Funds from the vendor fees go straight towards the preservation of Mount Bethel Cemetery, the oldest burial ground in continual use in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. Dating back to 1730, it is the final resting place of more than ten thousand of the borough’s former residents, including many significant figures from its rich history. Some of its oldest gravestones date back to the eighteenth century, including a legible marker from 1758 belonging to William Campbell, a trapper said to have carved his own headstone after contracting rabies from his dog. There’s plenty of history among these gravestones, if you know where to look.

The event, called The All Hallows Market, was organised by the Curiosity Shop of Columbia, known for its rather particular selection of shop pieces, ranging from taxidermied bats to antiques. Naturally, a market organised by a shop like that was never going to be your typical Saturday shopping trip.

And thank goodness for that.

The vendors offered an eclectic assortment of wares inspired by Victorian fashion, steampunk, pagan traditions and modern Gothic aesthetics. There were curiosities for collectors, treasures for the unusual-minded and plenty of things that wouldn’t look out of place in a witch’s parlour or a Victorian naturalist’s study. It was the sort of gathering where a skull could be a decorative object, a preserved specimen could be a conversation starter, and nobody would bat an eye at either.

For anyone who loves Halloween, it was a little slice of seasonal heaven.

The day itself seemed determined to cooperate. The weather was warm, but there was a distinct scent of autumn in the air. The leaves on the nearby trees had only just begun to change colour, offering the first hints of the season to come. It was that lovely in-between moment when summer hasn’t quite let go, but autumn is already waiting in the wings.

I’d started the day at one of my favourite coffee shops, where a friend joined me before we headed over to the cemetery. We were greeted by a parade of hearses, which felt like an entirely appropriate arrival for an event of this particular character. Nothing says spooky season quite like a procession of vehicles traditionally associated with the dearly departed.

One of the hearses was particularly worth investigating. Peering inside, you could see old medical equipment, adding another layer of macabre history to an already wonderfully peculiar afternoon. It was the sort of thing that made you wonder about the stories behind the objects, and perhaps whether you really wanted to know all of them.

Then there was the vendor selling an actual skeleton.

Now, dear reader, I have questions. Far too many questions. Where does one even acquire an entire skeleton for resale? What sort of paperwork might be involved? And perhaps most importantly, how does one decide that a skeleton is precisely what one’s home is missing?

I didn’t ask, but I certainly thought about it.

Not everything was quite so existentially questionable. One of my favourite booths sold steampunk journals, each with its own distinctive character. I have a particular fondness for objects that feel as though they belong to another era, or perhaps to a fictional world just waiting to be discovered. A journal is already an invitation to adventure, but a particularly unusual one practically begs you to fill its pages with something interesting.

Another vendor was selling wonderfully amusing earrings, which presented an entirely different sort of dilemma. There was a cute little ghost reading a book, an accessory that felt almost suspiciously tailored to my interests. Then there were the toe bones of a raccoon.

Yes, dear reader. Raccoon toe bones.

There is a very particular sort of shopping decision that can only happen at a market like this. Do you choose the adorable ghost engrossed in literature, or do you embrace the sheer absurdity of wearing a raccoon’s toe bones as jewellery? Both have their merits. Both would make excellent conversation starters. And both are considerably more interesting than another pair of ordinary earrings.

I debated the options, because of course I did. Sometimes the hardest part of an adventure is deciding which peculiar little treasure deserves to come home with you.

There was even a pop-up tattoo booth for anyone feeling particularly adventurous. I considered the idea in the abstract, as one does when faced with an opportunity to do something unusual. But a spontaneous tattoo is a rather more permanent souvenir than most of the things one finds at a market, and I’m not quite ready to add that particular experience to my bucket list. If I ever do, I suspect it will require a little more thought than a spur-of-the-moment decision among the gravestones.

In the end, I left empty-handed.

Not because I wasn’t interested. Quite the opposite. There were plenty of things I could have happily brought home, from the steampunk journals to the ghost earrings and, purely for the conversation it would generate, perhaps even the raccoon toe bones.

But I didn’t need to own any of them to enjoy them. The afternoon had given me plenty to take home already: the sight of hearses lining the entrance, the wonderfully strange assortment of vendors, the questions raised by an entire skeleton for sale, and the memory of debating jewellery made from the toes of a raccoon.

Sometimes the best souvenir is the story you get to tell afterwards.

And that’s part of what I love about these sorts of adventures. You don’t have to travel far, spend a fortune or even come home with anything in your shopping bag to have a worthwhile afternoon. Sometimes all you need is a nearby event, a friend who is willing to indulge your interests, and a willingness to follow your curiosity somewhere a little unusual.

A market in a cemetery might not be everyone’s idea of a perfect autumn outing. But between the strange treasures, the hearses, the changing leaves and the history beneath our feet, it was exactly the sort of wonderfully peculiar adventure that makes life a little more interesting.

Besides, if the dead really are watching, I hope they appreciated the company.

Happy spooky season, dear reader. May your autumn be filled with curious places, unexpected adventures and just the right amount of the macabre.

Oktoberfest in My Own Backyard

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It was the accordion music pumped from the stage that sealed the deal. A crowd gathered on the dance floor, raising a hundred glasses in unison as we chanted, “Zicke-Zacke, Zicke-Zacke, Oi, Oi, Oi!” and drank as one.

Beer sloshed over the edges of full mugs as they clanged together. Schnitzel and wurst were piled high on plates next to potato salad, kraut and red cabbage. The crowd was squeezed together underneath the tents, and strangers squished themselves onto the long benches of the impromptu beer halls. For those left with standing room only, they found themselves dancing and swaying with the music, whether it was a polka or a rendition of “Thunderbird.” For a few hours, everyone was friends. It was a barely controlled, perpetual party on the edge of a mountain range.

No, dear reader, I did not book a flight to Germany for Oktoberfest. I did, however, do the next best thing by attending one of the top Oktoberfests this side of the Atlantic, conveniently located only 45 minutes from my house.

The Reading Liederkranz is known for putting on one heck of a party. It is consistently ranked among the top four Oktoberfests in America and has snagged the number one spot twice. What makes it so good isn’t necessarily the sheer size, though it boasts that it is the largest in Pennsylvania, but rather its adherence to authenticity. At least as much as one can get in the United States.

Rather than being put on by a beer corporation or local tourism bureau looking to cash in, it is hosted by a German social club. This means they are dedicated to preserving their German heritage, as they have been since the late 1800s. They are descendants of German settlers, committed to maintaining their culture. The celebrations open with the tapping of the beer by local officials. German bands are brought in to play, and many of the members show up wearing authentic lederhosen and dirndls.

The food is certainly worth celebrating as well. It held up to my memories of Bavarian food from my brief sojourn there during my study abroad. And, of course, there is the beer. It flows from every corner of the festivities, with generous pours.

I went on a Friday evening with my sister. Unlike Oktoberfest in Bavaria, the Reading Oktoberfest is a bit more truncated, with only a few days beginning in September and running into the first weekend of October. We met at one of the free parking lots to take the shuttle up to the Liederkranz, which sits near the summit of Mount Washington, although it’s technically more of a hill. We arrived right around 5:00 pm, when the food vendors were opening and before the crowd could fill up.

The first thing we did was just wander around to take it all in. For me, it was like taking a plane ride back to Germany, with the exception that almost no one spoke German, an oversight if you ask me.

For my sister, it was like stepping into a whole other world. When I just seemed to know exactly what to do when prompted, such as calling out “Oi, Oi, Oi!” or knowing to drink when they said “Prost,” she just looked semi-confused. Half the fun was sharing my love of German culture with her and teaching her things about it that I had forgotten weren’t self-evident to an American unfamiliar with it.

Naturally, we had to sample the food and have a beer before being thoroughly entertained by the band that was playing. I had the schnitzel platter, whereas she had a “Beyond Wurst” and potato pancakes with applesauce, as she doesn’t eat pork. We split an apple strudel with ice cream for dessert. The beer we chose was an apple cider beer, as my sister is also not that fond of beer. I suppose it’s not much of a surprise why she wasn’t overly familiar with German culture prior to this outing. I probably drank most of the beer, but she had some as well.

Of course, this particular Oktoberfest cannot compare to the one in Munich. A small social club simply cannot compete with a city hosting over 7 million people. It was much closer to the “quieter” celebrations of the rest of Bavaria, which is precisely why I enjoyed it.

I am not someone who enjoys huge crowds and, while I love German culture, I’m also not a huge beer drinker. I enjoy a party, but I went to a dry campus on purpose in college. So, to be honest, I wasn’t sure I would actually ever want to go to Oktoberfest in Germany. It would be extremely expensive to go and discover that I actually do not want to spend hours drinking beer, eating food, riding random attractions, singing loudly in a huge crowd and being part of one of the world’s largest parties.

As it turns out, it probably would not be on my Bucket List to do.

I enjoyed my time, but not for more than a few hours. I certainly wouldn’t want to go for a whole week or more. Besides, there are many other places I would want to go in Germany other than a beer tent. If I happened to be travelling around that time and happened to have a day to pop in, I could see going. Although the sheer logistics of trying to get in would probably make it a pass, and I’d instead opt for a smaller celebration nearby.

Which I only really learned by trying out a scaled-down version of it in my own backyard.

And honestly, that might be one of my favourite things about the Bucket List Life. Sometimes you don’t have to travel halfway around the world to discover whether something belongs on your list. You can find a smaller version nearby, try it for yourself and discover that the experience you imagined might not actually be the experience you wanted.

If you’re looking for your own Oktoberfest next year, I’d recommend doing a little digging before simply buying tickets to the biggest event you can find. If authenticity is what you’re after, skip the corporate-sponsored celebrations and look for a local Liederkranz, German social club or German cultural organisation. These smaller celebrations are often rooted in the communities that are actually preserving the traditions, rather than simply recreating the aesthetic of them.

You might not get seven million people, a giant midway or enough beer to fill a swimming pool. What you might get is an accordion band, a plate of schnitzel, someone teaching you when to yell “Oi, Oi, Oi!” and a table full of strangers who are suddenly your friends.

And really, isn’t that what a good Oktoberfest is supposed to be?

The Autumn We Almost Lost

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There are some things that feel so thoroughly associated with autumn that we hardly think of them as special anymore.

Pumpkin patches. Hayrides. Apple picking. The crispness in the air. Rows of trees heavy with fruit. We see these things every year, or at least we expect to.

After an unusually warm growing season followed by a late frost in the spring, much of the apple harvest in our region was lost. Something I had always thought of as an almost ubiquitous autumn activity suddenly became a rather rare treat. There were fewer apples to pick, and suddenly the ones hanging from the trees felt a little more precious.

This year, however, apple picking was a rather different affair.

In fact, there was not a single apple orchard in the whole county offering apple picking. In order to find one, we had to look further afield, across the river to Flinchbaugh’s Orchard and Farm Market, to make the most of what remained. I had checked their Facebook page and discovered that this past weekend was possibly the only weekend they would be offering apple picking. A rare treat indeed.

So, on a Saturday morning, my sister and I set out on a small journey to the farm. It’s a quaint market full of fresh local produce on the inside and a sprawling flower market outside. At this time of year, it was overflowing with pumpkins. Food trucks were parked outside, and the smell of fresh apple cider donuts wafted through the air.

After purchasing our tickets and bag for apples, we climbed aboard a wagon for a tour of the farm, riding past fields of sunflowers, wildflowers, pumpkins and, eventually, the apple orchards. The orderly rows of trees stretched out before us, their branches holding clusters of apples together in little golden bunches.

As we rode towards the orchard, we passed the machinery being used to gather the commercial harvest. Two men working nearby paused to politely tip their hats as we passed. There was something wonderfully old-fashioned about the gesture, even as enormous modern equipment rumbled through the rows. Bees hummed lazily between the trees, gathering their own harvest as we gathered ours.

These were Golden Delicious, but they were unlike the Golden Delicious I usually pick up at the supermarket. These apples were honey-sweet and bursting with flavour. Crisp, fresh and still warm with the lingering memory of the sun, they tasted like the season itself.

Perhaps knowing how easily the harvest could have been lost made them taste even better.

And then there was the cat.

Oh, the cat.

An orange cat had apparently appointed himself official ambassador of the apple orchard. He was wonderfully friendly, purring loudly as he made his rounds among the visitors. Clearly accustomed to attention, he seemed determined to ensure that no one left the orchard without first receiving an appropriate amount of feline hospitality.

Naturally, we obliged.

After gathering our apples, we wandered into the pumpkin patch.

If the apple orchard was orderly, the pumpkin patch was anything but. The neat rows of trees gave way to a glorious mess of pumpkins, flowers and grasses. Round orange pumpkins appeared wherever you looked, tucked among the vegetation as though they had simply sprung from the earth wherever they pleased. Grasshoppers chirped and sprang out of our way as we tromped through the patch in search of the perfect pumpkin.

It felt less like walking through a cultivated field and more like wandering into autumn itself.

Perhaps that is what I enjoyed most about the day. None of it was particularly extraordinary. We picked apples. We hunted for pumpkins. We rode on a wagon. We took pictures among the wildflowers. We breathed in the crisp autumn air.

And yet this year, the ordinary didn’t feel quite so ordinary.

The apples reminded me that abundance is not guaranteed. A warm winter, a badly timed frost, too much rain or too little can change what a farm is able to produce. Something that seems inevitable when you see it stacked by the dozens in a supermarket can become surprisingly precious when you watch an entire harvest disappear.

Maybe that is one of the pleasures of paying attention. We think we know what a season will bring because we have experienced it before. But every year is slightly different. Some things flourish. Some disappear. Some return unexpectedly. And sometimes the thing you assumed would always be there becomes the thing you are most grateful to have.

This year, I got to pick my own apples.

They were delicious.

There was a pumpkin patch full of flowers and grasshoppers, a wagon ride through the farm, wildflowers waiting to be photographed, bees humming through the orchard and a very affectionate orange cat making his rounds.

It was an ordinary autumn afternoon.

But this year, it was extraordinary.

The Troll Market: A Bazaar of Forgotten Treasures

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It’s spoken of in whispers, its location known only to those who have been. Tucked away down an alley and deeper further in lies a strange bazaar of collected treasures forged from the four corners of the forgotten world. Dragon eyes and swords, magic potions and scrolls, artefacts and antiques stacked to the ceiling. The seemingly endless maze of shelves goes on almost impossibly deep until one is left questioning the physics of the shop. Surely it must end eventually. Every shelf overflows with objects ranging in price from a few cents to a deal you wish you’d never struck. Beware, all sales are final.

Now, could I order a handcrafted scroll off Etsy? Absolutely. But there is just something so much more fun about visiting the Troll Market. I lied about not knowing the location unless you’ve already been. It is easily found via GPS and a quick Google search, but it is better to have someone who has already been show you exactly where it’s semi-hidden in the city. So it was that I had my work partner show me exactly where it was on an unexpected autumn afternoon. We had some time in our schedule to lurk about in the market, and so we made our way there. After parking on the main street, she led me down an alley and up a few stairs to a long hallway, where hanging over the door at the end was a sign proclaiming loudly, “The Troll Market.”

If you’re someone who grew up reading fantasy novels and dreaming of visiting such places as The Floating Market from Neverwhere or the Bizarre Bazaar from A Darker Shade of Magic, then Lancaster’s Troll Market feels straight out of a book, complete with atmospheric music to make your shopping experience an epic adventure. The range of objects, from the practical (car diffusers and organic toothbrushes) to the exotic (owl pellets and fossils), from the beautiful (earrings and tiaras) to the whimsical (ceramic monks), truly blew my mind. It seemed that there was something for any potential whim. My favourite find was a pair of origami dragon earrings.

It was a gamer’s mecca, housing a whole room from floor to ceiling of games, including Magic: The Gathering, tucked next to an in-house tavern available for rent that looked straight out of an epic fantasy novel. Far in the back, there was almost every tabletop figure one could imagine. In another hidden spot was a room dedicated to D&D and other tabletop role-playing games. The table was naturally filled with dirt and (what I assume is fake) bones to set the right atmosphere for a campaign’s climax. Some days, one can hear live music playing from a stage in a corner. Everywhere I looked was another surprise.

Despite the plethora of items, the shop was surprisingly well organised by subject matter. The scrolls sat next to the journals, and the car diffusers were over by the soaps and perfumes. The wooden swords were comfortably nestled next to the clothing. Once one got the lay of the land, so to speak, it was easy to have a general idea of where something might be. Of course, if you were completely lost by the sheer magnitude of items, the very helpful shopkeep was there to lend a hand.

There is something wonderfully different about shopping in a place where you have no idea what you might find. Most shopping trips begin with a destination. You need a new shirt, a birthday gift, perhaps something to put on the wall. You enter the shop, find the thing, pay for it and leave. The Troll Market is not really that sort of shopping experience. It is an expedition.

You wander.

You turn a corner and discover something you had no idea you needed. You peer into a case and find something that makes you wonder who collected it, where it came from, or why anyone thought it would be a good idea to sell it. You follow one shelf only to discover that it leads to another room, which leads to another hallway, which leads to yet another collection of treasures. It is less like shopping and more like exploring a particularly eccentric museum where everything happens to be for sale.

And perhaps that is why I enjoyed it so much. There was no particular item I had gone there to find. I wasn’t shopping for a dragon, a fossil, an antique or a pair of earrings. I simply went to see what was there. In a world where so much of our shopping is done by typing exactly what we want into a search bar, there is something delightful about allowing yourself to be surprised.

This is one of the reasons I think places like the Troll Market belong on a bucket list. Not because everyone needs to own an origami dragon, a ceramic monk or a wooden sword, but because sometimes the adventure is simply going somewhere that makes you curious. You may leave with a treasure. You may leave with nothing but a story. Either way, you have spent an afternoon discovering something you didn’t know existed. 

And sometimes that is enough.

After all, not every adventure needs to be grand. You don’t need a plane ticket, an exotic destination or a carefully planned itinerary. Sometimes all you need is an autumn afternoon, a friend who knows where the mysterious door is, and a willingness to see what is hiding on the other side. 

So, dear reader, where might you find your own strange little bazaar? Start by looking beyond the usual shopping districts. Wander the older parts of your town, explore side streets and alleys, and keep an eye out for the unassuming doors you might normally walk right past. Search for independent shops, antique markets, oddities stores, comic and game shops, or simply ask the person who always seems to know where the interesting places are. Sometimes the best adventures are hiding in plain sight, waiting for someone curious enough to open the door.

One Big Inside Joke: An Evening with Weird Al in Hershey, Pennsylvania

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The entire stadium buzzed with barely contained energy that only seemed to grow with each passing moment, like an electric current caught in a positive feedback loop. On the giant screen, a figure danced and sang through the backstage corridors, weaving ever closer to the arena. At first everyone’s attention remained fixed on the video. Then, almost imperceptibly, a ripple spread through the crowd as people realized they had been looking in the wrong direction. Heads began to turn one by one until the entire stadium pivoted toward the aisle behind us.

Then he appeared.

The stadium erupted.

Cheers crashed over us like a tidal wave. People leapt to their feet, phones shot into the air, and for a few glorious moments it was impossible to hear anything except the roar of thousands of delighted fans. It just so happened that I was sitting directly beside the path he took to the stage. I really must remember to thank my sister’s father-in-law for buying those tickets. They may not have been the best seats in the house for watching the entire concert, but they were certainly among the best seats in the house for one unforgettable entrance.

Of course, before Weird Al took the stage, we were introduced to his opening act, Puddles Pity Party. Now, dear reader, if someone had told me beforehand that I would thoroughly enjoy watching a giant sad clown sing power ballads, I would have questioned their sanity. Yet there he stood: towering over the stage, face painted in permanent sorrow, speaking scarcely a word while delivering one astonishing vocal performance after another. The juxtaposition was equal parts hilarious and impressive. Somewhere beneath the oversized clown costume was a voice worthy of Broadway. It was the perfect opening for a Weird Al concert because it left the audience delightfully confused, thoroughly entertained, and wondering what wonderfully bizarre thing could possibly happen next.

As the evening unfolded, I was delighted by the familiar songs I have come to love over the years. I could not help but dance along from my seat, much to the amusement of my sister beside me. Between songs came the signature humor I have come to expect from none other than Weird Al, who is truly a national treasure.

I am certain, dear reader, that he needs little introduction. For over four decades he has somehow managed the impossible: parodying popular culture with biting wit while never feeling mean-spirited. His songs gently poke fun at our favorite artists, our culture, and ourselves, all while celebrating the very music they imitate. If by some extraordinary chance you have never experienced his work, then by all means pause here for a few minutes, or perhaps a few hours, and explore his library on YouTube, Spotify, or whichever musical service you happen to use. I’ll happily wait.

After his grand entrance, he quickly pivoted to Polkamania! Announced by an accordion descended majestically from the ceiling as though it were some sacred relic delivered from the heavens. Before a single note had been played the audience exploded into cheers. I challenge you to find another performer capable of making thousands of people wildly enthusiastic over the arrival of an accordion. Only Weird Al could transform an instrument often associated with polka festivals into the undisputed rock star of the evening.

The performance itself was every bit as delightfully absurd as one would hope. Costume changes happened at an almost impossible pace. During the compilation numbers it seemed jackets, wigs, and entire outfits vanished and reappeared between verses so quickly that I found myself wondering whether there was some hidden portal backstage devoted entirely to quick changes. It was choreography in its own right.

The comedy never stopped. At one point Weird Al paused, looked thoughtfully at the audience, and confessed that he felt as though we were all waiting for something that we had a sort of weird energy he could sense and only one thing would satisfy us:

“A drum solo.”

The drummer dutifully struck the drums perhaps twice.

The crowd responded with thunderous applause as though we had just witnessed the greatest drum solo in rock history. You would have thought John Bonham himself had returned to perform Fool in the Rain. That, perhaps, was the joke’s greatest strength. Every single person in the arena understood exactly what was happening and committed wholeheartedly to the bit.

Of course, the crowning jewel of the evening for me was Amish Paradise.

Living in Lancaster County gives one a rather unique appreciation for that particular song. Much of the music video was filmed less than an hour from where I live, and here we were in Hershey, practically in the shadow of Amish Country itself, singing along with thousands of fans. It was the first Weird Al song that I ever heard, the first rap song I ever liked and I am not ashamed to admit I know every word. It felt oddly fitting, almost as though the song had come home.

I will readily admit, dear reader, that I am not usually one for concerts. First, there is the crowd. Simply reaching your seat involves weaving through a maze of people carrying trays piled high with pretzels and bags of popcorn, balancing oversized drinks, or standing uncertainly in the aisle while trying to decipher the seat numbers. Then there are the inevitable lines for merchandise, food, and the restroom. Add in the ever-present smell of buttery popcorn, soft pretzels, spilled drink, and several thousand warm bodies packed together like sardines, and I have generally concluded that my headphones provide a far more civilized musical experience.

Not to mention the audience often has the audacity to sing along. I realize this is considered one of the principal attractions of concerts, but listening to my favorite songs accompanied by hundreds of enthusiastic yet spectacularly off-key strangers has never struck me as a compelling selling point. Throw in questionable acoustics and modern ticket prices, and I have often wondered whether many people attend concerts simply to say they were there.

Yet somewhere around the third or fourth song, I began to see why people do.

There is something remarkable about standing among thousands of complete strangers who all understand the same references, laugh at the same jokes, and erupt into applause because an accordion has descended from the ceiling. Before the show you chat with the people beside you in line. During the performance you exchange knowing glances at jokes only fellow fans could appreciate. For one evening, you become part of a wonderfully peculiar little community brought together by a shared affection for one delightfully eccentric musician.

The excitement becomes contagious. Energy flows from the audience to the stage and back again in an endless feedback loop. I found myself shouting lyrics to songs that would not even make my personal top ten simply because everyone around me was having such an incredible time. Somewhere along the way I stopped observing the concert and became part of it.

It was certainly a different experience from seeing Joshua Bell last fall, where the audience sat in near reverent silence between movements, hanging on every note. Nor was it quite like attending Flogging Molly years ago, where the energy was louder, rougher, and far more chaotic. Each concert possessed its own distinct atmosphere.

But Weird Al’s felt less like attending a performance and more like being invited to the world’s largest inside joke. For one evening, thousands of strangers gathered not merely to listen to music, but to laugh together, sing together, and celebrate an artist who has spent his entire career reminding us that perhaps we should all take ourselves just a little less seriously.

So remember dear reader, to be a little bit bigger and little bit weirder. 

How might you find a little weirdness in your own life or at least some music?

You don’t have to be a devoted music fan to appreciate the experience of a live performance. In fact, I would argue that’s precisely the point. Bucket lists aren’t always about checking off your favorite activities; sometimes they’re about discovering something you never expected to enjoy. Whether it’s a local orchestra, a bluegrass festival, an outdoor Shakespeare production, a tribute band in the park, or your favorite artist on tour, give yourself permission to step into someone else’s world for an evening. You may leave with more than a few songs stuck in your head—you may discover a community you never knew you belonged to.

Max's hideaway tiki bar

Why I Finally Fell in Love with Tiki Bars

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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.

Enjoying a delicious cocktail

The Alchemy of Sand

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Have you ever really looked at a piece of glass?

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.

Completed: 2020

Cost: $95

Miles from home: 30 miles

Want to discover more adventures? Check out my whole Bucket List and Reverse Bucket List

The Arcade Lost Between Decades

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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)

Completed: 2026

Miles from home: 18 miles

Want to discover more adventures? Check out my whole Bucket List and Reverse Bucket List

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.

Want to discover more adventures? Check out my whole Bucket List and Reverse Bucket List

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.

Want to discover more adventures? Check out my whole Bucket List and Reverse Bucket List