The Game of Kings (and Curious Commoners)

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For 85 years, a curious spectacle has unfolded each summer Sunday on a quiet stretch of Pennsylvania grass. Horses graze peacefully beneath the trees while a few of their compatriots are dressed in elegant regalia by riders buzzing with anticipation. Across the field, spectators unfurl picnic blankets, create elegant table spreads, uncork wine bottles, and crank up the music, all in preparation to watch a sport nearly 2,000 years old: polo.

Though largely unknown to many American audiences, polo is far from obscure. Played in at least 16 countries and once an Olympic sport from 1900 to 1936, it began in ancient Persia as cavalry training and evolved into a game for royalty and, more recently, for anyone bold enough to mount a horse and swing a mallet. The name “polo” is derived from the Tibetan word pulu meaning ball, a term eventually anglicized after the British encountered the sport in India and brought it back to England in the 1800s.

Often called the “Game of Kings,” polo is surprisingly inclusive. Men and women compete alongside one another in most parts of the world, though America, characteristically, has a separate women’s federation.

The game itself is straightforward in concept: two teams of four try to drive a ball through the opposing team’s goal using long-handled mallets, all while galloping full-tilt on horseback. The match is divided into chukkas (short periods lasting about 7.5 minutes), and a game usually includes six to eight of them. The rules may be simple on paper, but in practice, it takes incredible precision, timing, and horsemanship.

Growing up, I often saw flyers and glimpses of these summer polo matches. I was always struck by the grace of the horses and the fluid choreography between rider and steed. Truthfully, the sport seemed quite magical as if from another world. Still, I never actually made the effort to watch a full match. Summer after summer slipped by, my interest mild but never quite motivated.

Was it the fear of sweltering in the midday sun from 1 to 5 p.m.? Or maybe the lingering belief that polo was reserved for the wealthy and well-heeled? I wasn’t sure. Perhaps the former was simply a socially acceptable excuse to avoid confronting the latter. Would I, a clear outsider to this world, be welcomed, or merely tolerated with tight-lipped smiles and sidelong glances?

Besides, I’m not exactly a sports person. My athletic literacy is on par with a particularly confused golden retriever. I spent six years attending football games in marching band and still couldn’t explain the rules beyond “ball goes in the end zone.” But dear reader, I’m not one to retreat in the face of self-imposed challenges. So this summer, I finally asked myself the honest question: what was really stopping me?

A little research gave me just enough confidence to understand the basics of the game. I picked out a charming outfit to look the part without overdoing it, an elegant black sheath dress with white polka dots and a flirty wrap skirt. I added a sunny yellow bow to my hair, antique gold and pearl necklace, and matching earrings. The pearls lent a quiet elegance, the polka dots kept things playful, and the whole ensemble whispered “chic,” not “trying too hard”, which is honestly a good rule of thumb when encountering an unknown social situation which most likely requires at least some form of dressing up.

Admission was a modest $10. While many of the best sidelines were claimed by patrons whose names were proudly displayed on small plaques, there were metal bleachers dead center offering a great view to those of us without season passes. Tailgaters lined the edge of the field, sipping rosé and nibbling on charcuterie. Food trucks formed a loose U-shape, doling out delectable treats to tempt even the pickiest of diners. A cornhole tournament buzzed nearby, a surprising attention, and the unseasonably cool June weather had people donning sweaters instead of sundresses.

The field was roughly the size of four or five soccer fields, bounded by red-painted wooden planks barely a foot high. A modest scoreboard hung opposite the bleachers, manned by cheerful volunteers ready to update the chukkas and scores. Trees lined either side to provide shade and natural ambiance. Everything had a homegrown, almost quaint quality to it, from the weathered announcer’s booth to a timeworn shed on the edge of the grounds. The whole setup felt far less intimidating than I’d feared, far more neighborly than exclusive. Instead of a glittering world of inaccessibility, it held a rustic charm, more countryside than country club.

To my delight, the crowd was warm and welcoming. Several patrons stopped to chat, and one even offered a crash course in polo rules. I met a retired player, his name escapes me, but his gorgeous collie, Koda, certainly doesn’t. He shared stories of falling off horses, fond memories of team camaraderie, and the tradition of having teammates sign the ball after scoring your first goal.

The game itself was surprisingly gentle. There was minimal jostling, and players called out plays supportively, checking in with one another to ensure both rider and horse remained safe. Perhaps this courtesy was because the match featured junior players, but I had the feeling this mutual respect was baked into the sport. Spectators clapped enthusiastically for every goal, regardless of team allegiance.

During intermissions, we all wandered onto the field for the charming tradition of field stomping, where spectators repair divots by stomping the grass back into place, all while pop music blared from the announcer’s booth. (Pro tip: verify that what you’re stomping is indeed turf, not… fertilizer.)

Halfway through the match, we were summoned to the center for a celebratory champagne toast. Each guest received a plastic glass stamped with the Lancaster Polo emblem. I raised mine high in salute, and now it sits proudly on my shelf as a souvenir of an afternoon well spent.

The Lancaster team won in the end, though no one seemed particularly bothered by the score. The teams congratulated one another with genuine smiles and handshakes. It was sport in its purest form, competition rooted in grace, community, and camaraderie.

And as I walked back, pearls gleaming, polka dots swaying, I couldn’t help but smile. I may not be a sports person. But I might just be a polo person as I immediately texted my sister, that I may have found a future sister date for the two of us later that summer.

Want to See a Match Yourself? Here’s How to Find One Near You

If you’re now a little bit curious (or at least craving champagne and turf-stomping), you might be surprised to learn that polo is more accessible than it sounds. Here are a few tips to help you track down a match near you:

  • Start with the United States Polo Association (USPA): Their website (uspolo.org) has a club directory where you can search by state or zip code. Many clubs host free or low-cost public matches during their season, typically from late spring through early fall.
  • Google is your friend: Try searching “polo matches near me” or “equestrian events [your city/state].” Bonus points if you add “tailgating” or “spectator” to the search.
  • Check out local event sites or social media: Many smaller clubs advertise matches on Facebook, Instagram, or local tourism calendars rather than big-ticket platforms. Look for community boards, weekend roundup newsletters, or even Eventbrite listings.
  • Call your local riding or equestrian center: If they don’t host matches, they probably know who does.

Don’t be shy about going as a first-timer, polo spectators are often an eclectic mix of devoted fans, casual picnickers, and curious newcomers just like you. Wear something fun, bring snacks, and prepare to cheer. (And maybe pack a sweater. Or a hat. Or both. It’s an outdoor sport, after all.)

Completed: June 2025

Cost: $10 at the gate

Miles from home: 1 mile

One never knows what might be lurking just outside your door. Be sure to check out the rest of my Bucket List and Reverse Bucket List for ideas of what might be outside yours!

Your Bucket List Is a Lie

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Before we clutch our pearls at such a title, you must first indulge me in a bit of theatrical storytelling.

There was once a painting known to the art world but given little regard by the general public. Sure, some waxed poetic about it, but the intelligentsia has always been a bit eccentric in its proclamations of greatness. To anyone outside the art world, it was unremarkable. It may have hung in a museum, but no one would have gone out of their way to see it. Like so many other paintings in a gallery, it was forgettable, small, dark, and easy to overlook.

Then it was stolen.

No one knew how. One day, it was just gone. And suddenly, people noticed. For two years, the public speculated wildly. The fever-dream of mystery only grew with every twist. Perhaps absence does make the heart grow fonder, or at least more curious. While the intelligentsia is eccentric, the general public is fickle, like a cat who demands to be let out only to want back in the moment the door shuts.

When the painting was returned, it became a sensation. A must-see. A cultural event. And not just any painting – THE painting.

The painting in question? The Mona Lisa.
The real reason it’s famous? The drama. The theft. The story. The hype.

Without that? It might still be hanging half-forgotten, quietly smirking at a handful of art students instead of hoarding crowds behind velvet ropes.

And that, dear reader, is what your bucket list might be made of: hype.

So many bucket list items are fueled not by intrinsic value, but by the frenzy that surrounds them. Don’t get me wrong, the Mona Lisa is a lovely painting, and Da Vinci was no slouch, but why that painting? Why not another of his works? Why not another artist entirely? Yes, yes, I am sure you’ll tell me all the reasons it’s such a great painting, a master piece of its time, blah, blah, blah., but there’s lots of great paintings you can’t name or even are aware of. The answer lies in marketing. In myth-making. In the way a compelling narrative shapes our desires

Travel magazines dazzle, influencers entice, advertisements whisper, “You must go here.” But what’s really behind that? How many times have you visited a place only to find it…underwhelming? A glorified photo op? Something that looks better on Instagram than it feels in person?

Perception shapes reality. And marketing shapes perception. Don’t believe me? Riddle me this, dear reader why do we consider Jackson Pollock a great artist? The CIA orchestrated the entire Art Movement of Abstract Expressionism’s rise to prominence, engineering hype around the artist Jackson Pollock by buying his paintings and creating a frenzy around the art movement through bought and paid for critics. It was for political reasons and to combat the dangers of Soviet Russia. However, until the CIA engineered the hype, it was mostly ignored and barely considered real art. After all, it looked like a five year old could have painted it.

Nor is the art world, the only place where bought and paid for critics shape our perceptions. There was an rather large controversy in the video game world of creators influencing magazines and reviewers to generate hype around game releases. Those travel influencers filling your feed are often being paid by travel magazines, hotels and even the local department of tourism to promote various locations and experiences.

Signature of Jackson Pollock on Pasiphaë (1943; Metropolitan Museum of Art) Ned Hartley – Own work

Let’s be clear: I’m not criticizing your personal travel goals. I’m encouraging you to interrogate them.

Are your bucket list items there because you want to experience them, or because someone told you they’re “must-see”? Would another location fulfill the same desire, perhaps with less hype and fewer crowds?

For instance: Why London? What do you actually want to see there? Do you even know the history behind the city’s major attractions? Could a neighboring town offer the same experience without the same price tag?

Yes, Stonehenge is cool. But have you heard of the Calanais Standing Stones in Scotland? Same vibe. Fewer tour buses. Also, older.

We should be asking ourselves:

  • Do I understand why this place matters?
  • Does it resonate with me personally?

I, for example, will probably never visit the Great Wall of China. It’s a feat of engineering, sure. But so was ancient Rome. And frankly, the Wall didn’t even fulfill its intended purpose, more a monument to hubris than a functional defense system. And trust, me there are plenty of monuments to hubris. There are other ancient walls, built with equal ingenuity, that never make the “Top 10 Things to See Before You Die” lists. Just because it’s the biggest, doesn’t mean it’s the best or even the most impressive.

Take Napa Valley, for example, America’s answer to French wine country. It became famous after a 1976 wine tasting in which Napa wines beat out French ones and cementing its place in the wine world as one of the premier wine regions. But wine tasting is…flawed. Studies show judges rate wines inconsistently. Presentation plays an outsized role. In one study, the same wine earned wildly different scores when served in different bottles.

So why is Napa “the place” and not, say, the Finger Lakes or Walla Walla? Marketing. Perception. Hype. South-central Pennsylvania has lots of wineries that produce lots of delicious wines.

If we let others dictate what’s “best,” we surrender our own preferences to their story. But if we challenge that narrative, we open the door to a world of options.

Maybe that famed “must-see” destination isn’t any better than the quieter, lesser-known place next door. And that’s great news for the budget-conscious among us. It means you can experience something wonderful without the tourist trap markup, and maybe even get a more authentic experience while you’re at it.

Vineyard Napa Valley, California by Carol M Highsmith is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0

More importantly, it means you’re not missing out.

So many bucket list items are inaccessible to people with normal jobs and normal paychecks. That doesn’t make your life less fulfilling. It just means your version of “extraordinary” isn’t dictated by a Top 10 list.

Why the Panama Canal and not the Welland Canal in Canada? They use the same technology. One just has better PR. Okay, yes, there are certain historical contexts which does make the Panama extremely significant, perhaps more so than Welland Canal. But could you honestly, tell me what those are without looking them up? I didn’t think so. Would you have done that research before booking your trip to Panama? Probably not.

If you told your friend you went to Welland, they might look at you funny. But unless they’re an engineering nerd (in which case, they’d love it), they probably can’t explain why Panama is “better.” They’re just repeating what they’ve heard.

To help you separate real desires from borrowed hype, ask yourself:

  • What is the historical or cultural significance of this place or experience?
  • Do I genuinely care about that significance?
  • Are there other options that fulfill the same interest or vibe?
  • If it’s “the best,” who decided that—and how subjective is that claim?
  • Is it overrun with tourists to the point of losing what made it special?
  • Are there similar or adjacent experiences nearby that are less crowded, more affordable, or more authentic?
  • Am I excited for this because it aligns with my values and interests, or because I saw an influencer do it?

Once you start asking these questions, you may find your list isn’t a map of your soul’s desires—but a collage of other people’s priorities.

The good news? You can scrap that list and make your own.

Because the best journeys aren’t built on hype, they’re built on what matters to you.

A Small Announcement (and a Big Dream)

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Hello, dear reader, just a quick update and a bit of exciting news.

I’m in the process of pursuing a really BIG bucket list goal: opening my own therapy practice. After years of studying through college, then grad school, working under the supervision of seasoned professionals, and passing not one but two licensing exams (first as a Licensed Social Worker, then as a Licensed Clinical Social Worker, yes we have to take two different tests one for each level), I’m finally able to practice independently.

I’ve officially launched my website, joined a few corners of social media to market myself, and, perhaps most exciting of all, I’ve welcomed my first client. It’s a huge milestone… but as you can probably guess, one client doesn’t quite pay the bills.

I’m still working full-time as a therapist for another organization while devoting most of my spare time to building this practice from the ground up. Which brings me to the main point of this announcement: I’ll be adjusting my blog posting schedule.

Instead of posting twice a week (Tuesdays and Fridays), I’ll now be sharing new content once a week, on Wednesdays. I’ll continue alternating between posts about local adventures and posts about making everyday life more intentional, joyful, and sustainable.

This decision wasn’t made lightly, but it’s in line with something I talk about often here: the power of choice. Saying yes to one thing often means saying no to something else, and right now, I’m choosing to prioritize building my small business.

Once I’m able to transition out of my full-time job and run my practice full-time, I fully intend to circle back and grow this blog and community even more. I still believe in everything this space stands for:


✦ That you don’t need to spend a fortune or cross an ocean to live a life filled with wonder.
✦ That adventure can be found right where you are.
✦ That a meaningful life is built, not bought.

So this isn’t goodbye. Just a bit of a slowdown.

I hope to report back in a few months with stories from this new adventure, lessons learned, challenges conquered, and one more dream crossed off the list.

Thanks, as always, for being here.

Sole-Full Sips: The Joy of Grape Stomping

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If a bottle of wine contains more philosophy than all the books in the world, then a barrel of freshly picked grapes awaiting their fate must contain all the mysteries of the ancients. Wine making has been a centuries-old tradition, originating over 8,000 years ago when the transformation of juice to wine was thought to be a divine mystery. Though the modern era has brought stainless steel presses and fermentation machines, it may have lost some of its ancient wisdom and mystery, rendering the process more mundane. Perhaps that’s why there’s such allure in the old ways, hand-picked grapes tossed into wooden barrels, squished by stomping feet, then carefully aged in wood to absorb its complex flavors over time.

The crushing releases the grape’s juice, allowing it to mix with the skins to absorb flavor, color, and tannins. Depending on the type of wine desired, the presence of stems or skins may be either vital or avoided. After the initial crushing, yeast is added; the juice is fermented, pressed, and finally aged. While details may vary, the process has remained largely unchanged for centuries.

Many were first introduced to grape stomping through the infamous I Love Lucy episode. For me, it was A Walk in the Clouds, the laughter, singing, and juice-splashing celebration enchanted me. It transformed wine into a celebration of life and love. Hollywood may have romanticized it, but wine itself is inherently romantic, so I can be forgiven my idealized vision of the process.

Determined to check off this long-standing bucket list item, I began searching for grape stomping opportunities. While I was certain a plane ticket to Portugal wouldn’t be necessary, I was surprised to discover just how few vineyards in my state actually offered it. Some festivals held stomping competitions, but alas, I lacked a team. And most options were three to four hours away, not exactly convenient for a quick outing. Perhaps, if I could make a weekend of it, but I was loathe to do an overnight.

Undeterred, I expanded my search. That’s how I found Four Sisters Winery, just across the Pennsylvania/New Jersey border, only two hours away. They offered barefoot grape stomping, wine tasting, and dinner. When I floated the idea to my sister, she declined, apparently, squishy, slimly, sticky grapes between the toes was not her idea of a good time. Which, fair. It’s not everyone’s glass of wine.

What is a bucketlister to do when one’s partner in crime is not up for the proposed heist? Would I need to shelve the idea? Remove it from possibility altogether? Fear not, dear reader, I had a backup adventurer: my mother. As fate would have it, she also had grape stomping on her bucket list. And thus, it became a perfect Mother’s Day gift.

We registered for the event on June 21st, a fine way to ring in the summer. With the heatwave beginning, we drove through picturesque farm hills dotted with vineyards, perfect for a potential wine-themed day trip. We used the time to chat and simply enjoy each other’s company.

Four Sisters Winery was tucked among the trees with an unassuming sign and small shop. It belied the expansive four-acre vineyard boasting 19 varieties of grapes and three event spaces. We arrived early and relaxed under an awning listening to live music. The rustic benches and tables added to the atmosphere that they’ve clung to the older ways (although they probably have the modern machinery tucked away).

Once ushered into the event space, we were seated at a table with two other adult children treating their mothers and a pair of friends. It was delightful to make new acquaintances over the course of the evening.

Before the dinner commenced, we were given a short overview of the winery. The Four Sisters has been in operation for over 40 years, having begun by a farmer from Essex in 1984. His main focus was on vegetables but began to produce wine as a secondary revenue stream. It was such a success, the vineyard paid for all four sisters to go to college and obtain both their masters and PhD. However, it meant that none of the sisters were much interested in continuing to manage the vineyard and it was sold to the new owners a few years ago.

We tasted ten wines, ranging from whites to reds, dry to sweet. My preference leaned toward the reds and dry varieties, though a semi-dry called Cayuga stood out. We rated each wine, chatted about pairings, and judged grape varietals like seasoned sommeliers.

Dinner included a raspberry vinaigrette salad, parmesan chicken with pasta and seasonal vegetables, and a brownie for dessert. Dietary restrictions? Accommodated with grace. The vegan dessert of peaches and blueberries looked particularly delicious, a strong case for food envy.

Then came the moment we’d been waiting for: the stomp. Three barrels were prepped for us to take turns. Slipping off my shoes, I stepped in. The sensation was surprising; the grapes rolled like a foot massage, slick and dense underfoot.  They slipped around as I tried to crush them and the barrel became slick underneath me. Grapes are a bit more dense than one may imagine. The stems of the grapes added an extra texture which lightly scraped my feet. I could not help but remember the songs about crushing the grapes as I moved around in the small barrel. It was clumsy, slippery, and joyful. I paused for a photo, then climbed out to let others have their turn.

A rinse station awaited to wash off the sticky grape residue. I grabbed my complimentary wine glass, said my goodbyes, and my mother and I set off, bottles of our favorite wines in hand, winding our way home with laughter and plans for our next adventure.

Most of my escapades happen close to home, but sometimes a short road trip delivers a memory worth bottling. This one was certainly like walking among the clouds.

How can you have a stomping good time?

If you’re lucky, you may live near a winery offering grape stomping events. A quick Google search of local wineries or wine festivals may reveal hidden gems. If it requires a road trip, consider turning it into a full-day or weekend experience.

But for those far from the vines? Bring the stomp to you. Invite friends, fill a barrel with grapes, spin some music, open a few bottles, and get stomping. (Just don’t drink the juice!) When you’re done, convert the barrel into a flower planter or save it for your next party.

Whether we go to the adventure or bring the adventure to us, life tastes better when we take the time to stomp the grapes.

Completed: 2025

Miles from home: 95

Cost: $60 per person

There are many more experiences to explore! Check out my Bucket List and Reverse Bucket List!

Salt, Steam, and Serenity: Self-Care on the High Seas

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I’ve written before about being intentional with travel, seeking experiences that give you the most bang for your buck and making the most of every opportunity. I’ve also shared about my ongoing love affair with self-care and spa days. So when I booked my first cruise with my sister, it felt only natural to explore the ship’s wellness amenities, especially the thermal suite.

This particular suite offered a variety of spa experiences: a steam room, sauna, salt room, sanarium, hot tub, and even a snow room. It was like a smorgasbord of relaxation.

As someone who values health and is always open to new experiences, I chose to pay for the thermal suite upgrade, which granted unlimited access for the full seven-day voyage. At about $200, it felt like a worthwhile investment, an opportunity to explore several treatments without paying for each one individually. I’d been curious about these kinds of experiences for a while but hesitant to try them back home. Here, in the peaceful, adults-only section of the ship, it felt risk-free. The space offered stunning views, heated stone loungers, and a quiet, luxurious ambiance.

Tucked at the front of the ship and high above the ocean, the thermal suite may have had the best view onboard. The warm, lightly scented air welcomed me instantly. A refreshment station offered fruit-infused water, tea, and plush robes from the changing rooms completed the sense of serenity.

A Spa Circuit at Sea

My first stop? The sauna.

Built in traditional Scandinavian style, the sauna featured pale wood and tiered seating, with a bucket of water to ladle onto the hot stones. While the dry heat felt mild at first, I was quickly overwhelmed and made a dash for the snow room—just like a Scandinavian might leap into a snowbank after a hot session.

Normally, I loathe the cold, but fresh from the sauna, the snow room felt invigorating. I stayed for five to ten minutes, letting the chill settle into me before returning to the sauna. Alternating between hot and cold therapy is said to improve circulation and support immune health, but I simply enjoyed how it made me feel—refreshed, relaxed, and alert. This became my morning ritual. Few others visited early, so I often had the space to myself.

The sanarium, while similar in design to the sauna, was cooler and more humid—ideal for those with allergies or respiratory concerns. It didn’t appeal to me as much. Likewise, I found the steam room too intense; the heavy eucalyptus-scented air and thick mist overwhelmed my senses. I couldn’t see more than a foot in front of me, which made it feel disorienting rather than relaxing.

The salt room, on the other hand, was a quiet surprise. Halotherapy is said to support respiratory health, reduce stress, and improve skin. Whether or not those claims hold up, I appreciated the soft lighting and the calming pink glow of Himalayan salt. Without a view, it became the perfect space for reading and reflection.

To round out my spa circuit, I soaked in the thermal pool—a supersized hot tub with vigorous jets that massaged like a skilled therapist. A gentler hot tub was available nearby, and I alternated between the two before finishing each visit on the heated stone loungers, gazing out across the ocean.

Self-Care at Sea

Throughout the cruise, I returned again and again to the sauna, the thermal pool, and the loungers. These became my personal sanctuary, often the quietest places on the ship besides my own cabin. While not every experience was my favorite, I’m glad I tried them all. This voyage was about exploration, not only of new places, but also of myself. I learned what soothes me, what challenges me, and what I’ll say yes to again. A sauna-and-snow-room combo? Absolutely. Another go in the eucalyptus steam bath? Probably not.

More than anything, this experience reminded me of the importance of self-care. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: it’s easy to forget your own needs. Even on vacation, we tend to bend to others’ expectations or try to do it all. In the rush, we forget to rest.

This spa day at sea gave me permission to slow down, recharge, and care for myself. It wasn’t just a treat; it was a necessity.

How Can You Enjoy a Full Spa Experience?

In my experience, land-based spas are often more limited in scope. You might find a sauna but not a steam room, or a hot tub with no cold plunge or salt room. That’s why this cruise was such a compelling opportunity, a chance to explore a wide range of spa treatments in one location. It’s a perfect example of applying the Budget Bucket List philosophy: maximizing experiences without breaking the bank.

Still, land-based options do exist. Some high-end resorts offer full thermal circuits (at a higher price point), and you might find hidden gems in unexpected places with a little research and curiosity. Keep your eyes open, and don’t hesitate to ask questions or explore.

I encourage you to seek out opportunities like this for yourself. Who knows, you may discover a new ritual to fold into your everyday life. Because a well-lived life isn’t only made up of adventures and accomplishments. It also includes intentional moments of rest, reflection, and renewal.

Completed: 2019

Miles from home: About 800 miles to Bermuda

Cost: $200 upcharge

If this was your cup of tea, be certain to check out the rest of my Bucket List and my Reverse Bucket List for more posts and adventures!

The Secret to Lifelong Friendships (Hint: It’s Not Just Showing Up)

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Many blogs talk about cultivating meaningful relationships, mine included, but far fewer offer practical advice on how to actually do so, especially amid the chaos of modern life. There’s a reason adult friendship memes hit so hard: two friends embracing with the punchline, “Let’s do this again sometime!” followed by three years of radio silence. The truth, often wrapped in jest, is this: maintaining friendships is hard. Get-togethers, dinners, and outings frequently need to be scheduled weeks (or months) in advance. And far too often, friendships wither not from drama, but from simple neglect.

If you’re trying to stay connected, understand that long lead times are your friend. When you carve out that sacred time well in advance, you’re more likely to protect it. Babysitters can be arranged, meetings declined, and work shifts avoided. For those of us with flexible schedules, this means intentionally leaving space on the calendar instead of double-booking ourselves into oblivion. And once you’re together, schedule the next hangout before you part ways. Avoid the dreaded “we should do this again sometime” trap. Instead, give it a date and put it in ink. The added bonus is that your social calendar quickly fills up and one is almost never asking what you’ll be doing this coming weekend because the adventure is already planned.

Photo by Vlada Karpovich on Pexels.com

Better yet, create your own traditions. Annual events, say, the third Saturday in August or an annual St. Patrick’s Day gathering, are the friendship equivalent of compound interest. My parents have maintained a tight-knit friend group this way since before I was born. Their regular gatherings forged a support network not only for themselves but also for their children. These “aunts” and “uncles” of mine are as present in my life as any blood relative. It’s what community looks like, grown slowly and intentionally.

But let’s be clear: frequency does not equal depth. Seeing someone every month does not automatically mean you’re close. Acquaintances abound. What builds true friendship is depth and depth requires a little vulnerability. You’ll never bond deeply over small talk about the weather. The loneliest people are often surrounded by others, but starved for real connection.

So how do we get there? How do we move from “hello” to discussing our deepest fears and childhood wounds over a bottle of wine as the stars blur into dawn? How do we move past banal small talk to deeper meanings or fascinating topics of history, philosophy, politics, culture, religion and science!

Start by being bravely, unapologetically yourself. That doesn’t mean barreling into every social situation guns blazing with your entire life story. But it does mean dressing, speaking, and behaving in a way that reflects who you are. Let your style be your signal. I, for one, adore hats. More than once, a compliment on a cloche or a beret has led to delightful conversations about fashion, history, or even women’s suffrage. (Do look up hatpins and their sharp-edged role in protest movements; it’s fascinating.)

Your Star Wars T-shirt might spark a conversation with a fellow fan. You don’t need to wear it to a black-tie wedding, of course, but maybe your R2-D2 earrings can come along for the ride. It’s all in the details, dear reader.

And when you speak, speak authentically, but not obnoxiously. There’s a fine line between sharing your perspective and delivering a TED Talk no one asked for. The goal is dialogue, not monologue. Ask meaningful questions: What excites you lately? What dream are you quietly working on? What belief has shaped you? These questions unlock people. Add in some active listening—real eye contact, verbal cues, reflecting back what you’ve heard—and you’ll be amazed what people are willing to share. Remember to be curious. Approach the other person as a treasure to be discovered.

Of course, not everyone will be ready for that level of intimacy right away. Don’t rush it. Some people are open books by page two. Others keep their pages sealed until chapter twelve. Learn to read the room, watch for cues that signal whether to dig deeper or dial it back. A meaningful conversation is less like an interrogation and more like a dance.

You won’t form a deep bond with everyone. That’s okay. You’re not everyone’s cup of tea, and, shockingly, some people don’t even like tea. (They will not be invited to my parties.) But when you’re honest about who you are, you’ll attract the ones who do enjoy your particular brew. Life’s too short for shallow connections and too demanding for relationships that drain instead of nourish.

With limited time and energy, it’s essential to invest wisely. Being your authentic self helps you find the right people, and asking the right questions helps you know if they’re worth keeping.

Now, I could go on about how to identify the right people or how to navigate inevitable interpersonal conflict, but perhaps we’ll save that for another post. For now, remember this: cultivating your village takes time, and growing deep relationships takes courage. Make the time. Ask the questions. And when someone offers you tea (whether literal or metaphorical) say yes.

Photo by Jill Wellington on Pexels.com

A Blind Date: A Bookshop, A Park, and A Historic Site

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We were first introduced on Indie Book Day, with a subtle hint of mystery and the allure of suspense among the bookshelves of the BookBar. The bartender handed me a drink on the house with a wink and a smile. The aroma wafted up from the cup, promising a rare treat. With a slow sip, a burst of rich flavor exploded across my tongue, accenting the dark roast and chocolate with a lingering whisper of strawberry for a sweeter finish. It was with this drink in hand that I browsed the shelves in search of hidden treasures.

The aesthetic of the shop resembled an old private library in England with a slightly gothic bent: dark walls, rich old leather sofas, and trinkets more expected in a professor’s office than a place of capitalism. It all set the atmosphere of whispered stories on stormy nights. But indie bookstores are known for their peculiarities.

It was there that I was first introduced. Not directly, of course—nothing so uncouth. Our meeting was arranged through the usual channels: a third party carefully selecting options suited to a lady’s general tastes. The matchmaker, ever busy, offered a short meeting and a curated selection of potentials. Each came wrapped, labeled only by genre, with a few clues as to what might await.

I made my choice and a plan was hatched: a rendezvous, a park, a picnic, and of course, my blind date. My sister joined me, not as a chaperone, but with a date of her own. A married woman, you ask? Was I part of a scandal? Not when the blind date is with a book, dear reader!

Yes, BookBar not only serves up delicious coffee and mocktails with a side of dark academia, but it also offers a unique reading experience designed to stretch your literary palate. Each mystery book is carefully wrapped with a genre label, accompanied by a few sprigs of lavender, a lip balm, bookmarks, and stickers—everything you need to charm a curious reader.

A few days before, we checked the weather and settled on a park near my sister’s home. To our delight, we discovered a local hidden gem: the oldest existing water transportation tunnel in the United States. Naturally, the history nerds in us were thrilled.

The canal’s beginnings date back to 1792, during George Washington’s administration, though financial troubles delayed its completion until 1828. This golden link of trade connected east and west, serving the expanding nation until 1881, when the Lebanon Valley Railroad rendered it obsolete.

Today, the remaining stretch is lovingly maintained by the Historical Society of Lebanon County. Only a small fraction of the canal remains, surrounded by parkland and dotted with plaques detailing the history and engineering marvels of the time. The park includes a pavilion, picnic benches, and a meandering path alongside the river. Every Sunday, they even offer boat tours through the tunnel—a dream for any history buff.

My sister and I spread out a picnic of crackers, cheese, and meats under a shady grove. We caught up on life as the breeze gently rustled the trees. The weather was cool for mid-May, but nearly perfect for reading. No harsh glare from the sun, no stifling heat—just peace and pages.

When we opened our blind date books, mine turned out to be a historical mystery thriller with a dash of time travel, set in Victorian Scotland. A surprisingly perfect pairing with our 19th-century setting! I found the forensic methods of the era fascinating, especially in contrast to modern crime-solving techniques. My sister’s book was a thriller translated from Ukrainian, and she was equally pleased with her pick. We agreed this date was well worth repeating.

After an hour of reading, we explored the rest of the park. What we found was a quiet oasis tucked away from the modern world. Birdsong echoed across the water, interrupted only by the occasional “plop” of frogs and fish. We climbed a small hill to better see the tunnel and read each historical plaque. A small bridge overlooked an old lock that once helped boats travel along the canal.

It wasn’t quite the Panama Canal we visited last spring, but it was still an impressive feat of engineering and a reminder of human perseverance. We couldn’t help but reflect on how far we’ve come—not just in terms of technology, but culture and society. What would the Irish laborers who built the canal think of the world today?

Want to Plan Your Own Literary Adventure?

You don’t need a fancy bookstore to enjoy the fun of a blind date with a book. Etsy has plenty of options, and you can always go with a DIY version. Take a friend or sibling to a bookstore, pick out books for one another, wrap them up, and head to your favorite park for a reading picnic.

Even cheaper? Just borrow something new from a friend’s bookshelf. My sister and I frequently swap books this way, and we’ve each discovered new favorite authors as a result.

To find local gems, try Google Maps with keywords like “historic site”, “attractions,” “museums” “hidden park,” or “walking trails.” Check the reviews on obscure places with 4.5+ stars but few reviews as these are often true gems. Believe it or not Reddit can be a source for ideas from locals that you won’t find on the travel sites. Try searching for hidden gems in your city or browse the local subreddits. I also recommend going to your local library and checking out the bulletin board. Some cities have bloggers devoted to uncovering local secrets—you might be surprised what you find just outside your front door.

Completed: 2025

Miles from home: 25 miles

Cost: $50 (for the book and picnic)

Looking for other unique ideas for your Bucket List? Check out both my Bucket List and Reverse Bucket List!

Not All Who Wander Are Lost… But Some of Us Stay Home on Purpose

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The sun peeks through the curtains. The soft chirp of birds is among the first sounds I hear. I burrow deeper into the covers and pull my cat, Luke, in for extra snuggles. I linger in the warmth of the moment, the smell of breakfast floating through the air like a promise. It isn’t until Luke wiggles out of my arms, miffed and hungry, that I finally, reluctantly, stir.

And why should I hurry?

The day stretches out before me, gloriously unstructured. There is no checklist. No Zoom call. No tightly packed schedule to wrestle through. The world may be my oyster, but today, the only oyster I’ll be opening is a good book. This, my friend, is the gentle joy of going nowhere.

My life is full of small adventures. It’s rare for a month to pass without something noteworthy—an art fair, a botanical garden, a random road trip, or simply trying a new café across town. I like having something on the horizon. It gives shape to my days, stirs up my creativity, and helps keep the dull, dragging edge of burnout at bay.

But I’ve learned—sometimes the hard way—not to overdo it. Too much “doing” tips the scales into exhaustion. Even joy can become a chore when overscheduled. My bank account is certainly a grounding force in this, but honestly, the bigger issue is energy. Constant motion, even when enjoyable, can leave me depleted. It turns out that balance isn’t just a nice idea from a wellness podcast. It’s survival.

There’s a particular kind of luxury in staying home on purpose, not because I’m sick, not because I have chores to catch up on, but because I choose to. It’s an act of intentional stillness, of delighting in the familiar. Especially if, like me, you’ve curated your space into a personal sanctuary.

My home holds my books, my tea collection, my cats, my dog, my violin, and my garden. These are not filler items between “real” adventures. They are the adventure. These are things that remind me of who I am when no one else is watching. You may remember that many of these are on my Bucket List, and you’ll find I’m checking them off right from the comfort of my deck with a glass of wine in hand and a sunset to keep me company.

It’s a profoundly healing act to stay home and do…nothing.

In this quiet space, I can finally hear myself think. I’m not trying to wring productivity from every last second like water from a rock. I’m not chasing dopamine hits from Instagram-worthy moments. I’m just being. And in that being, I find presence. Spaciousness. Energy I didn’t know I had.

This is my rebellion against the hustle. A resistance to the noise that tells us we’re only valuable when in motion, only interesting if we’re checking off countries on a map.

Going nowhere lets you find your rhythm again. It allows you to ask, without the usual pressure, “What do I really want today?” And sometimes the answer is “absolutely nothing” in the most glorious way.

Too often, we assume the answers lie far away, on a beach in Bali, on a mountain in Switzerland, in a cottage somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. And yes, those places are beautiful. But they also come with traffic, airports, long lines, and stress. We swap one type of exhaustion for another and call it “escape.” I don’t know about you, but I often need to schedule a rest day just from traveling back from my vacation.

What if, instead of waiting for a two-week vacation to save us, we built tiny vacations into our lives regularly? What if “rest” wasn’t the reward for being good, but the foundation from which we move and make decisions?

We may simplify our lives, but have we simplified ourselves? It’s far easier to declutter your closet than to declutter your expectations. We’re so busy trying to escape our own lives, we forget that it’s possible to build one we don’t feel the need to escape from.

So today, I’m not checking in, checking bags, or checking my itinerary. I’m checking in with myself. I’m home, and that is not the consolation prize.

It’s the destination.

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