There is something undeniably quintessential about a model train at Christmas. Perhaps it is the nostalgia of it, those miniature worlds humming softly beneath a glowing tree, harkening back to simpler times. Or perhaps it is the romance of travel itself, when journeys felt grand and full of promise, long before crowded terminals and flight delays dulled their shine.
Model trains were not just toys but marvels. At the turn of the twentieth century, railroads represented the height of modern technology. They stitched together cities, transformed commerce, and shrank vast distances into something manageable. It was only natural that this fascination would find its way into the home. Trains became one of the earliest mechanized toys of the modern era, first gaining popularity in the early 1900s. These were not flimsy playthings but sturdy, intricate machines meant to be admired as much as played with.
By the 1920s and 1930s, model trains had cemented their place in Christmas tradition. Department stores leaned heavily into the spectacle, constructing increasingly elaborate displays that wound through snowy villages and bustling cities, all carefully designed to stop shoppers in their tracks. The base of the Christmas tree became the perfect stage. It was practical, yes, but it was also symbolic. A glowing tree overhead, a circling train below, motion and magic contained within the heart of the home.
Whether by convenience or clever marketing, Christmas and trains became inseparable. That connection only deepened over time. Films like The Polar Express reignited the wonder for new generations, reminding us that belief, imagination, and a little suspension of disbelief are part of the season. During the pandemic, when traditions were disrupted and people sought comfort in familiar rituals, many rediscovered hobbies that had quietly faded into the background. Model trains experienced a resurgence, not as relics, but as reminders of patience, craftsmanship, and shared joy.
In recent years, that magic has increasingly moved into public spaces. Libraries, historical societies, and community centers across the country now host model train displays each December. Often these exhibits double as fundraisers, particularly for children’s literacy programs, ensuring that the magic of stories and imagination carries on long after the trains are packed away.
It was on a cold December evening that I found myself invited to see one of these displays for myself. I will admit, dear reader, that I was not initially enthused. I am not someone who has ever considered myself a “train person,” and model trains seemed, at best, mildly interesting. However, I was willing to indulge my companions in a bit of whimsy; I am nothing if not whimsical. Imagine my surprise, then, at just how utterly delightful the library display turned out to be.
The small library’s basement had been transformed into a sprawling miniature world. The display ran nearly wall to wall, a carefully constructed metropolis alive with motion and detail. Multiple tracks wove through snowy villages and industrial hubs. A baseball field sat mid-game, an airport buzzed with tiny planes, shipping lanes carried cargo through a busy harbor, and a circus burst with color and whimsy. There was even a theme park, complete with rides in motion.
What made it truly special was how interactive it all was. Throughout the display, visitors were encouraged to press buttons and bring the city to life. A ski slope sprang into motion. Barrels were loaded onto a train car. Lights flickered on in tiny buildings. Each interaction revealed another layer of thought and care poured into the exhibit.
I felt like a child again, eagerly pressing buttons and craning my neck to take it all in. Every section had been lovingly created by a volunteer using their own personal train sets. One display even featured a train over a hundred years old, still running, still enchanting, a direct link to the earliest days of electric model trains. It was humbling to realize how many Christmases that little engine had seen.
For nearly an hour, I was completely absorbed, pointing out details to my companions and discovering something new with each pass around the room. The volunteers were just as much a part of the experience as the trains themselves. They eagerly shared stories about the models and about the local area. One tale recounted the time a major league baseball team stopped to play the local team while passing through town, a small but vivid slice of history preserved alongside the miniature world.
It was, in every sense, magical.
Where can you see Christmas Magic?
For those inspired to seek out a display of their own, they are often closer than you think. Local libraries are a wonderful place to start, especially in December. Historical societies, model railroad clubs, botanical gardens, and even shopping centers frequently host seasonal displays. Many towns also have dedicated train shows or open houses where hobbyists invite the public to view their layouts. And for the truly adventurous, there is always the option of creating a small display at home. Even a single loop of track under a tree can carry more charm than one might expect.
Sometimes, Christmas magic arrives in unexpected forms. Sometimes, it hums quietly, circles endlessly, and reminds us that wonder is often found in the smallest of worlds.
Sometimes, dear reader, our own bucket lists take a polite step to the side so someone else’s long-cherished dream can finally march forward in all its glory. In this case, it wasn’t a bucket list at all. It was a basket list. A Nantucket Shiplight Basket list, to be precise, which I admit feels far more poetic. After all, who among us would not be charmed by the idea of holding a piece of maritime history in our hands.
My mother certainly was. Ever since she was a teenager, she had been enchanted by these elusive vessels after reading about them in some long-forgotten book or article. I picture her as a younger version of herself, curled up somewhere cozy, imagining the rugged New England coastline, the wild Atlantic surf and perhaps, if I know her, a sailor or two with a jawline sharp enough to cut rope. I cannot blame her. The sea does tend to conjure such visions.
I am sorry, where were we. Ah yes. Baskets. The point is, dear reader, these particular baskets are not ordinary containers for fruit or wayward junk mail. They are woven pieces of history, shaped by sailors who braved storms, isolation and boredom of legendary proportions. The romance is built right in.
A Bit of History for the Curious Soul
Long before tourist shops and Instagram feeds filled with beach scenes, the waters south of Nantucket Island were treacherous. Shoals shifted like restless spirits and ships were known to meet rather unfortunate ends. Since the terrain was not suitable for a proper lighthouse, lightships known as shiplights took up residence. Picture a floating lighthouse, bobbing in the waves, anchored against the dark and fog and hoping a vessel would notice it in time. That was the job of the lightship. Simple in theory. Terrifying in practice.
These ships were staffed by small crews who lived aboard for long stretches, typically thirty days at a time. They battled storms, loneliness and the constant fear that some overconfident captain might sail directly into them. Many did. More than one lightship was destroyed after being struck by the very boats it tried to save.
With little to do during calmer stretches, sailors turned to crafting. By the 1860s, the earliest Nantucket Lightship Baskets began to appear. These were not decorative heirlooms but practical, sturdy, beautifully utilitarian containers. Their bases, rims and staves were usually made back on the island. Sailors then brought them aboard, using the long quiet hours to weave. The moulds were created from old ships’ masts, giving the baskets yet another tie to maritime life.
Over generations, the basket-making tradition shifted from survival activity to artistic craft. Baskets became more decorative, more intricate and far more sought after. Today, Nantucket baskets are treasured symbols of New England craftsmanship. And, thanks to the price tags, they are also symbols of New England’s talent for charging quite a lot for tradition.
A Dream My Mother Tucked Away
My mother fell in love with the history long before she ever saw an actual basket in person. For decades she dreamed of owning one. But as prices climbed higher and higher, the dream began to sag under the weight of practicality. The baskets became something for “someday.” And someday, as we all know, is a tricky creature. It slinks away easily.
Years passed. Then decades. The dream gathered dust like so many silent hopes. She never complained about it. She never pined or sighed dramatically like a Victorian heroine. She simply tucked it away, which was somehow even sadder.
Thankfully, dear reader, she has me. And I am not someone who lets dreams die quietly.
A Daughter on a Mission
The spark reignited on a trip to Boston to visit a friend who, as it happened, made Nantucket baskets as a hobby. When my mother held one of his creations, her whole face softened. There was awe. There was longing. And there was that quiet little note of resignation. The “oh well, not meant to be” tone that mothers perfect somewhere around the third decade of adulthood.
Absolutely not, I thought. To hell with resignation. Not on my watch.
Now, could I have snagged her a $400 basket. Technically yes. But financially, spiritually and stubbornly, no. That felt like cheating. I wanted something more meaningful. Something rooted in effort and delight and a little bit of chaos, as most great family stories are.
The opportunity arrived in the most unexpected way, as opportunities often do. Last fall, my mother and I took an eco-dyeing class at the PA Guild of Craftsmen. We spent the morning dunking fabric into pots of botanical color like two witches brewing questionable potions. During the class, we met a man named Bob, who casually mentioned that he taught classes on Nantucket Baskets.
Was it fate. Probably. Was it the universe gently nudging me toward destiny. Quite possibly. Was it also the direct result of my inability to mind my own business and my tendency to ask questions of every friendly stranger. Absolutely yes. Sometimes, fate needs a little nudge or a full on push.
The Watch Begins
From that moment on, I became a woman possessed. I haunted the Guild’s website like a Victorian ghost with unfinished business. Week after week I checked for upcoming classes. I refreshed the page with the kind of intensity usually reserved for airline deals or Taylor Swift ticket drops.
Then one day, I saw it. A class scheduled for the weekend of my mother’s birthday. Perfect. Beautiful. A sign from the gods themselves.
I contacted my sister. I confirmed schedules. I clicked the button to register.
The class had just filled.
Great was the gnashed teeth. Fierce was the shaking of my fist. Dramatic was my lamentation to the heavens. I am after all nothing if not dramatic!
But if you know nothing else about me, know this: I do not give up. Not even when the universe tests my patience for sport.
Not two weeks later, a new class appeared. Spots: available. And I pounced. I registered so fast you would think I was trying to secure the last lifeboat on the Titanic. Victory was mine. And so was a guaranteed memory for the ages.
The Big Day Arrives
Two weeks after her birthday, my mother, sister and I arrived for our class. For those unfamiliar, Nantucket baskets are not really considered beginner friendly. They require precision, patience and a willingness to accept that reeds will snap at the least convenient moment. Luckily, we had Bob. And Bob is a gem. If basket making had spirit guides, he would be one.
With calm instruction and gentle humor, he helped us understand the mechanics behind the magic. He showed us how to keep the weave tight. How to handle breakage. How to adjust when things started to go sideways, which they did often. There was laughter. There was mild cursing. There was one moment when my mother threatened to throw her reeds into the void, but Bob intervened with the patience of a saint.
My mother struggled at times, especially early on. Her arthritis made the tight initial weaving difficult. But here is where the real beauty emerges. When her hands faltered, my sister and I stepped in. We held reeds steady. We tightened the weave. We supported her hands with our own. And together, we built something worth far more than its materials. Something no price tag could ever reflect.
When the baskets were finally complete, we sat back in awe. They were beautiful. Not flawless. Not identical. But better. They were us. They were hers. They were woven with history and love and the combined effort of three determined women.
A Dream Fulfilled at Last
My mother waited more than forty years for this. Four decades spent admiring a dream from afar, telling herself it was too impractical, too expensive, too indulgent. But standing there with her basket in her hands, crafted by her own perseverance and supported by her daughters, something shifted. The dream became real. Tangible. Hers.
At sixty-five years old, she crossed something off her list that she never thought possible. And she did it in the best way imaginable. Not by purchasing a finished piece but by creating one with her own hands.
And if that is not the very heart of bucket lists, I do not know what is.
We often think of bucket lists as daring adventures or far-flung travels, but sometimes they are simpler. Sometimes they are woven, stitch by stitch, in quiet rooms with people we love. Sometimes the most meaningful items are the ones rooted in memory and heritage and personal longing. And sometimes the best thing we can do is help someone else check off something they stopped believing was possible.
So here is the lesson for you, dear reader. Do not be fooled by dreams that go silent. They are still there, waiting for you. Whether they are big or small or slightly unexpected, they deserve air and attention and the chance to surprise you. And it is never too late. Never too strange. Never too sentimental.
Sometimes a dream is simply a basket. But sometimes that basket carries forty years of hope, a good story, a tiny bit of chaos and a whole lot of love woven into its staves.
And those are the dreams worth chasing.
How might you chase your own piece or maritime history?
If reading this has awakened something in your soul, dear reader, perhaps a tiny spark whispering that you too might enjoy owning or crafting your very own bit of seafaring heritage, then rejoice. You are not alone. There is something irresistible about holding an object shaped by hands, hope and history. It connects you to all the sailors who once sat aboard those rocking lightships, weaving to pass the time while storms rolled over the horizon.
So how might you chase your own piece of maritime magic.
First, you can absolutely look for a class in your local area. Basket weaving workshops pop up in the most unexpected places. Community art centers, craft guilds, even the occasional museum loves to host heritage craft classes. The only caveat is that the further you wander from Nantucket’s salty shores, the rarer these particular baskets become. The tradition simply never spread far inland, perhaps because weaving a basket while imagining rolling waves is far more romantic when you can actually hear them outside the window.
If you would rather skip the learning curve entirely, you can always purchase your own Nantucket basket from a skilled maker. These pieces are true works of art, and buying directly from an artisan helps keep the craft alive. It also saves you from the mild existential crisis that comes from snapping reeds for the fourth time in an hour. Trust me. I have lived it.
But maybe you are like me and prefer a little chaos with your creativity. Maybe you want to try your hand at the weaving itself. In that case, you are in luck. You do not need a ship. You do not need a lighthouse. You do not need to brave the open ocean with only six crewmates and a questionable supply of biscuits.
What you need is a guidebook, some materials and the enthusiasm of a determined dreamer.
Thanks to the endless wonders of the internet, you can now find instructional books for a very modest sum along with kits containing everything from bases to staves to the all-important mould. No need to fashion one from a retired ship’s mast like the sailors of old. Unless you happen to have a ship’s mast lying around, in which case, dear reader, I have questions.
With online tutorials, craft forums and even weaving groups on social media, it has never been easier to learn a heritage craft from the comfort of your own home. You can chase your own dream while sipping tea in your pajamas, which feels like a delightful improvement from doing it aboard a lightship in a gale.
And that is the beauty of our modern world. Dreams that once required proximity, luck or a friendly sailor now simply require curiosity and a willingness to start.
So whether you sign up for a class, purchase a handmade treasure or gather your supplies and embark on the weaving adventure yourself, may your own journey into maritime history be filled with joy, discovery and perhaps a little bit of mischief. After all, the best stories are the ones we make with our own hands.
Every Tuesday, without fail, something wonderful happens in the next town over. Long before the rest of the world has finished its morning coffee, Root’s Country Market comes alive. It starts quietly at first, a few trucks pulling in, the soft murmur of vendors setting up, the smell of early morning coffee drifting across the lots, and then, before you know it, the place is buzzing. Root’s has been a Lancaster County staple since 1925, and in the hundred years since it first opened, it’s become something more than just a market. It’s a living, breathing community tradition.
Side bar: Locals pronounce it “Ruut’s,” not like tree roots, a small detail, but one that marks you as someone who really knows the place. Welcome to Lancaster County where nothing is pronounced like you think it would be, not even Lang-kiss-ter.
Roots is a sprawling labyrinth of over 175 indoor and outdoor stalls, each one offering a little piece of local life. You’ll find farmers with fresh produce still damp from the morning dew, bakers arranging pies so fragrant you can smell them before you see them, and crafters setting out handmade candles, quilts, and wooden toys. Step a little further and you’ll stumble into antiques and flea market finds, old tools, vintage glassware, forgotten records. It’s perfect for a treasure hunt! There’s even a livestock auction, which means you might be standing in line for a soft pretzel while hearing the rhythmic chant of a fast-talking auctioneer in the background. It’s part of the charm.
Root’s is the kind of place that engages all five senses at once. The air is thick with the smells of kettle corn and barbecued chicken, mingling with freshly turned earth from the produce stands and, occasionally, that unmistakable farm scent that reminds you you’re in the heart of the country. Fresh country air takes on a new meaning in farm country. There’s the shine of ripe tomatoes, the golden glow of honey jars, the colorful chaos of flower bouquets. Vendors call out greetings to regulars.
If you visit during the busy seasons, late spring through early fall, the crowd hums like a hive. There’s a rhythm to it, a flow of movement as people drift from stall to stall, chatting, sampling, bargaining. You can lose hours wandering without realizing it. And then, just when you think you’ve seen it all, you’ll turn a corner and find something unexpected: a new baker, a quirky handmade sign, a table full of fresh herbs or a bin of farm-fresh eggs that look like they came from a paint box.
I may not be a morning person, but my favorite time at Root’s is the early morning, when the sun is barely up and the crowd hasn’t yet arrived. The vendors are still setting out their goods, the coffee is hot and strong, and there’s a quiet peace to it all. That’s when you can have those real, unhurried conversations, when you can talk to the man who grows the apples you buy every fall, or the woman who hand-pours every candle on her table. You’re not just shopping; you’re connecting.
What makes Root’s special isn’t just what you can buy, it’s who you’re buying it from. There’s something grounding about handing your money directly to the person who grew your tomatoes or baked your bread that morning. You can ask them how the season’s been, or what variety of pepper this is, or how long they’ve been coming to Root’s, and they’ll tell you, usually with a story that’s worth hearing.
Some families have been selling here for generations. Others are just starting out, testing their small business dreams one Tuesday at a time. Together, they form the heartbeat of this place, a reminder that commerce can still be personal, that community can be built over a counter full of peaches and pies.
And the prices? Let’s just say that fresh, local, and affordable aren’t mutually exclusive terms here. You can fill a tote bag with vegetables, grab a fresh-baked loaf of bread, and still have money left for lunch, maybe a chicken pot pie or a funnel cake, depending on how virtuous you’re feeling, and I am seldom neglect to give into temptation here.
Root’s began back in 1925, when local farmers gathered to sell their goods directly to neighbors. A century later, it’s grown into a sprawling market and auction complex that somehow still feels small-town. It’s open year-round, rain, snow, or sunshine (not blizzards or floods though) every Tuesday without fail. Generations have grown up wandering its aisles, marking time not by the seasons but by the rhythms of Root’s, sweet corn in July, apples in October, wreaths and crafts in December.
It’s rare, in a world where everything feels increasingly online and anonymous, to have a place like this, one where you can see the faces behind your food, hear the laughter of old friends meeting up by the pretzel stand, and know that you’re part of something with roots (pun intended) deep in local soil.
Not everyone is lucky enough to have a place like Root’s right outside their door. For me, it’s not just a market, it’s a midweek adventure, a reminder to slow down and savor the simple joys: fresh food, friendly faces, a good deal, and a connection to the land and people that make up my home. Every visit feels different, but it always leaves me with that same contented feeling — a mix of nostalgia, community, and appreciation for the abundance that surrounds us.
So if you ever find yourself in Lancaster County on a Tuesday, make your way to Root’s. Come early, bring cash (although most vendors do now accept cards), and be ready to wander. Take in the smells, the sounds, the cheerful chaos of it all. Chat with the farmers and crafters, find something unexpected, and maybe grab a slice of shoo-fly pie for the road.
Because at Root’s, you’re not just shopping, you’re stepping into a century-old story that still unfolds, week after week, right in the heart of the community.
How can you experience your own farmer’s market adventure?
If you don’t live near Lancaster County, don’t worry, almost every community has its own version of Root’s tucked away somewhere. Previously, it seemed farmer’s markets were going the way of the dodo, but community efforts have revived the practice all over as determined locals, with pride and love for their communities decided to reconnect us all with our roots. Look for local farmers markets or seasonal pop-ups in your town or the next one over. Many run weekly through the spring and summer, while others operate year-round. Visit early, bring cash, and take the time to talk with the people behind the tables. You’ll find that even the smallest market has its own personality, its own rhythm, and its own sense of community. It’s one of the easiest, and most rewarding, ways to connect with the place you call home.
Completed: A Tuesday in my childhood and ongoing into my adulthood
Miles from home: About 10
Cost: Free parking and however much you want to spend. My most recent visit was about 6 dollars.
Still looking for ideas to do in your own local community? Check out the rest of my Bucket List – most of the items completed from my own backyard!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tulips the early heralds of spring and the changing weather fill the hills with bright rows of color. Their hues stretch across the spectrum, from fiery red to deepest purple, and their petals are just as varied. They’re also famously tied to history’s first financial speculative bubble, a craze that plunged many Dutch citizens into ruin and left a lasting mark on market regulations. Still, despite that rocky past, the Dutch never forgot their love affair with the flower. Today, they remain a leading producer of tulip bulbs, and each spring, massive swaths of land transform into a living quilt of color as millions of flowers bloom.
I’ve always loved pictures of those majestic fields, windmills standing vigil over seas of blossoms. That said, my allergies would likely stage a protest in the Dutch countryside—and truthfully, the Netherlands doesn’t rank high on my list of must-see destinations. Maybe I’d go if the opportunity presented itself, but there’s no guarantee that it would align with the short-lived tulip season.
What’s a budget-minded girl to do? As it turns out, sometimes you stumble upon the perfect solution when you’re not even looking for it.
There are times when an answer appears to a question you didn’t even know you’d asked. I’ve certainly enjoyed pictures of Holland’s flower fields, but they never inspired the wistful longing other countries have stirred in me. So, I didn’t add them to my list, dismissing the idea out of hand. I try to keep my travel dreams at least somewhat realistic—or else the list would be three times as long. But let this be a lesson, dear reader: never dismiss a dream, no matter how small or unformed.
Though I never truly asked, the universe still answered with a humble billboard: “Tulip Field, Opening April 12th.” Tulip fields? In Pennsylvania? Perhaps I was too quick to rule out my floral fantasy.
April 12th turned out to be cold, wet, and rainy and not ideal for tiptoeing through anything. Besides, opening day crowds come with added chaos and, let’s be honest, possibly terrible music. Twangy Country or bouncy pop blasting over loudspeakers isn’t how I envision my contemplative flower field stroll. I checked my calendar for a better date, one early enough to catch peak bloom, but not a weekend (crowds again!) and ideally with cheaper tickets (this is a budget minded blog, after all).
Less than a week later, on a balmy spring day, I made my way to Flaughbach’s Orchard. The temperature was a perfect 70°F (21°C), and a cheerful breeze danced among the tulips, gently teasing them as she passed. While it was a far cry from the sprawling Dutch fields of my imagination, it was a lovely scene in its own right. Had I been truly committed to a riot of color, I could’ve waited two more weeks and driven three hours north to Brown Hill Farms, where 500,000 tulips bloom across four acres.
Upon arrival, I was handed a pair of shears and informed I could pick two flowers as part of my ticket (with the option to purchase more). But my goal wasn’t to build a bouquet, it was to bask in beauty. I wandered through neatly arranged rows of flowers, encountering charming photo ops along the way: antique bikes, vintage tractors, even a swing for a more whimsical touch. Naturally, I couldn’t resist snapping a few photos, but mostly, I just walked. The field reminded me of a stained-glass window or a floor made of colorful mosaic tiles.
Benches were thoughtfully scattered around the field, perfect for quiet contemplation. I loved feeling the warm sun on my face and the breeze on my skirt. I didn’t stay long, but long enough to enjoy the moment and properly welcome spring in all her glory.
Next year, I may make that pilgrimage north to see the larger fields that have enchanted me for so long. But maybe not. This experience might fall under my “good enough” category; it was joyful, beautiful, and deeply satisfying.
So, how can you tiptoe through the tulips?
You don’t need to wait for the universe to come knocking. Just open your browser and search for tulip fields near you. If you live in the South, it may be a bit trickier, but don’t lose hope. Pilot Point, Texas, and New Market, Alabama both boast quite respectable fields. Up North, there are plenty of spots to chase tulip season. Some may come in the form of botanical gardens; others, humble local farms like Flaughbach’s. Or you might go all in and visit Windmill Island Gardens in Holland, MI (with over four miles of tulips!), or top spots like Pella, Iowa; Woodburn, Oregon; Modesto, California; Mount Vernon, Washington; and Exeter, Rhode Island.
The lesson I learned? Don’t be so quick to downplay your dreams, even the small ones. I try to keep my “undone” list reasonable, and I often add to my “done” list as opportunities arise, especially if they’re spur-of-the-moment or just for fun. But this was something I truly wanted to do, and I’m glad the universe nudged me toward it.
So, I encourage you, dear reader: dream big. Write it all down. Ask for it. The blessing may find you anyway.
Alright gentle reader, technically, it was a bay and not a sea. However, I did get to hoist the sails and attempt to steer the ship. Yes, technically it was a boat; although I”m not sure I know the difference if we’re being honest. Regardless of the pesky nomenclature, I provided an excellent afternoon tea out on a large body of water in a sailing vessel of some sort. Additionally, I made sure to be properly attired for a day’s outing on the water. With the help of a well placed hat pin not even the wind could dissuade me from my determination to have a little extra flare. After all, where would we be as a society if we allowed ourselves to descend into the mundane and boring, especially when it comes to fashion?
In the midst of COVID, with everything shut down and limitations on movement and gathering, the small but scrappy non-profit I worked for decided to offer its employees a day out with one of our board members, Peggy, on her private boat. To say that I was excited is truly an understatement. It was once again, one of those Bucket List Items that I had mentally placed under “most likely not happening any time soon” as I thought it would cost a lot of money to go. This might be the reason I was a little over the top, but honestly that’s part of who I am. I’m the woman who will put together an entire costume or outfit for even the most slightly themed party or obscure holiday.
It was truly the morale boost that we needed. To avoid a disruption of vital client services and given the size of the boat, we divided ourselves into two teams which would go on two different days. We also divided up bringing food and other snacks to share. I led the way with letting them all know that I was going to have us do a tea at sea, I would provide the sandwiches, the tea cups, scones and clotted cream. Was it the more costly and time consuming option? Yes, but I was going to take this opportunity that the universe presented me and make the absolute most of it. Before you question my judgement of bringing tea cups on board a ship, know I take quite good care of my china and wouldn’t subject them to the dangers of the open waters. I found these absolutely gorgeous paper cups online!
We loaded ourselves up early that morning, crammed into one of my co-worker’s vans like the start of some quiet, well-mannered heist armed with gps and good humor. I had chosen to go with the more reserved, soft-spoken of my co-workers. What can I say? They paired better with tea than with the loud, pirate-hearted group that went the day before, I am fairly certain they snuck booze despite the prohibition against it, like I said, pirates. Not that I couldn’t hang with both, I absolutely could. And the temptation to burst into sea shanties was quite real, I assure you.
As we drew closer to our destination, the world around us began to shift. The foliage thinned, and the trees gave way to the briny breath of the sea. The air changed too, tinged with salt and carried on a breeze that hinted at something just beyond the horizon. We heard the call of gulls before we even saw the water. Then suddenly, there it was—a small forest of masts rising from the docks like white trees, standing in quiet anticipation.
Waiting for us at the dock was our fearless leader and Executive Director, Deb, who waved us down with her signature confidence. She led us up the wooden planks to our boat, where we were introduced to our captain for the day, Peggy’s husband, Captain Bob.
I was surprised by the size of the boat as it was deceptively spacious, like a magician’s trick. Every inch of it had a purpose. Storage tucked into nooks, seating that converted, a compact bathroom that came with very specific instructions. Bob walked us through the essentials with the seasoned calm of someone who knew that one improperly flushed toilet could quite ruin the whole experience.
After a short safety overview, it was time to sail. Bob asked for volunteers, and I naturally stepped forward to hoist the sails. He called out instructions with the steady ease of a man who’s done this a thousand times, while Peggy provided cheerful backup support. I took hold of the rope with both hands to gleefully, heave ho and all that. The wind caught, the sails filled, and the boat surged forward with a kind of wild grace.
From that moment on, everything shifted into something more elemental. The boat leaned into the wind, the ropes pulled taut, and the world became motion and sound—the rush of air, the splash of spray, the low groan of wood and rope in motion. It felt like stepping out of the everyday and into something ancient.
Those brave enough made their way to the prow, legs dangling over the edge, laughing as waves splashed up to greet them. Time didn’t pass in hours out there. It passed in shadows, in sunlight shifting on the water, in bursts of laughter and long silences where we just watched the horizon breathe.
Then came the offer I hadn’t expected, Bob asked if anyone wanted to steer.
Of course, I wanted to steer the ship!
Taking the wheel was like grabbing hold of something alive. The boat didn’t just move; it responded. The wind pulled one way, the water pushed another, and the rudder spoke a language I didn’t quite know but instinctively wanted to understand. Every twitch of my hands echoed through the vessel. I had to fight the urge to overcorrect—big boat, big movements, right? Wrong. It was the subtle shifts that mattered. I wasn’t just steering a boat, I was holding a moment in my hands, trying not to crush it. I shall admit, I was not the best helmsman, but it wasn’t bad for a first go!
At lunchtime, I unveiled my small, slightly theatrical feast of tea sandwiches and scones. Though there was no clinking of teacups, people were quite amused by them. A delighted Peggy gasped when she spotted the clotted cream asking for where on earth I had found it; she hadn’t had clotted cream since she was in England years ago.
I smiled and told her, with all the drama she deserved, “The local grocery store.”
We laughed, we feasted, we sipped, and apart from poor Beth, who succumbed to a bit of seasickness, our tea at sea was a grand success.
The rest of the sail was a blend of freedom and focus, the hiss of waves, the sudden thrill of turning into the wind, the scent of salt and sun warming the deck. It was chaos and calm, all wrapped into one. I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day for checking off my list. .
By late afternoon, we returned to the dock. We changed into swimsuits and slipped into the pool, letting the cool water wash away the heat of the day. We splashed and floated, reluctant to let the water go.
That evening, we gathered for dinner at a local seafood spot, the kind with fresh-caught fish, buttery hushpuppies, and that oh, so infamous, Maryland crab. I will say the crab practically demanded a moment of silence in appreciation. Luckily for the crab, eating is just about the only time I am quiet. And just when we thought the day had ended, someone suggested a detour when they spotted a sign for ice cream. Because some days deserve a sweet ending. And this one? This one absolutely did.
So how can you enjoy a sailing adventure?
I’ll admit, not everyone has a friend with a boat—or a boss generous enough to invite you aboard. But that doesn’t mean a day at sea is out of reach. You can always charter a boat for yourself and a few intrepid comrades. Prices can range from around $200 to upwards of $2000, depending on the type of vessel and the duration of your trip. That said, splitting the cost among your group makes it much more manageable. If you’re like me and pack your own feast, you can trim expenses even further. The boat we sailed on would’ve likely cost each of us about $50 to $75 had we booked it ourselves. Sure, we probably wouldn’t have been trusted to hoist the sails or steer, but with seven of us, the cost would have been quite reasonable.
This was one of those rare gifts from the universe, an unexpected adventure in the middle of a pandemic, at a time when most people could only dream of checking something off their list. I felt deeply grateful, especially after working so hard to help people who were experiencing homelessness with nowhere to go. Those long hours, with little reprieve and a general feeling of hopelessness at times to solve the problem can begin to wear on a person’s spirit. Sometimes, when you’re out there trying to do good, life surprises you with something beautiful in return.
So go ahead, pursue the good. You never know where it might take you, gentle reader.
Pennsylvania is known as the Keystone State in part because of its strategic position on the Eastern Seaboard. It sits at the heart of the action on the East Coast and, thanks to the Mississippi River, serves as a gateway to the West. This historic and geographical advantage means I have relatively easy access to some incredible places. By extension, when traveling exhibitions come to those places, it’s not a terrible imposition for me to make the trip. Cities like New York, Philadelphia, Washington D.C., Pittsburgh, and Baltimore are all within reasonable distance.
It was by leveraging this advantage that I was able to see the Darwin exhibition at the American Museum of Natural History in New York, the King Tut exhibition in Philadelphia, and the Russian Tsars exhibition in Delaware. I’m not sharing this to brag about my state but rather to point out that, depending on where you are, you may be closer to the action than you realize. There are often more opportunities in your area than meet the eye.
The Darwin exhibition offered a fascinating look at the scientist’s life, work, and impact. It even featured two Galápagos giant tortoises. Darwin was a keen observer of nature, and through those observations, he developed one of the most revolutionary theories in the history of biology. His theory of evolution has shaped everything from genetics and epidemiology to biodiversity and our understanding of the fossil record. Prior to Darwin, most people saw the natural world as static and unchanging since the moment of creation. Instead, he proposed a dynamic and interdependent system in which relationships and exchanges alter the inhabitants of the world, who in turn shape their environment.
One of my favorite stories is how he looked at an orchid and hypothesized the existence of an undiscovered insect capable of pollinating it. That insect was discovered forty years after his death. This exhibit was the perfect combination of science, history, and anthropology. It showed how discoveries ripple outward into society and helped me understand just how interconnected everything truly is. Is it any wonder that seeing Darwin’s journals, tools, and legacy made its way onto my Bucket List?
Not to be outdone by New York, Philadelphia often hosts exhibitions and installations that rival its northern neighbor. Just because it’s the Keystone State doesn’t mean it lets the other states have all the fun. In the winter of 2007, I braved a snowstorm to visit the exhibition Tutankhamun and the Golden Age of the Pharaohs at the Franklin Institute. The exhibition included fifty major objects from King Tut’s tomb—among them a vessel containing his mummified organs—and over seventy artifacts from the royalty of Egypt’s 18th Dynasty (1555 to 1305 BC), including a sarcophagus.
King Tut’s tomb was discovered in 1922, sparking a global fascination with ancient Egypt that still persists—my own obsession included. Many of these artifacts have rarely left Egypt, so I certainly wasn’t going to let a snowstorm stop me from seizing this rare opportunity. It was history made tangible, a brush with the ancient world that I’ll never forget.
In 1998, Delaware hosted the first major Tsarist exhibition, Nicholas and Alexandra, and I was lucky enough to see it on a fifth-grade field trip. It left a lasting impression on me. We had spent several weeks learning about Russia’s history leading up to the Bolshevik Revolution and the rise of the Communist Party. Featuring nearly 700 objects, it was one of the largest and most prestigious collections of Russian treasures ever to tour outside the country. Most of the items had never before left Russia.
Among the many items on display were the Coronation Egg, an imperial throne, court gowns and uniforms, a gilded state carriage, and artifacts from the Russian Orthodox Church. Even as a child, I was struck by the sheer opulence of the exhibit—particularly the Fabergé Egg, which felt all the more extravagant when considered against the suffering of the Russian people at the time. The experience helped solidify my understanding of the revolution and the dangers of unchecked power and inequality. I’ll avoid getting too political here, but suffice it to say, it made an impression.
Each of these exhibitions made my Bucket List for different reasons. Each one broadened my perspective, deepened my understanding, and shaped how I see the world. They weren’t just collections of artifacts; they were immersive experiences that gave context to history, society, culture, and their ongoing relevance today. Most importantly, they taught me that I don’t always need to travel far to experience the world. Sometimes, the world comes to me.
How Can You Experience Unique Exhibitions?
Start by identifying how far you’re willing to travel. Then make a list of major cities or cultural hubs within that radius—they’re your best bets for hosting large-scale or rare exhibitions. But don’t count out smaller museums, either.
Check their websites to find out when they release their exhibition calendars. I’ve found that many post their schedules for the coming year, although some are less predictable. Once you know when they update their schedules, you can simply mark your calendar to check back. If there’s no set schedule, just take note of when the current exhibition ends and plan to check again around that time.
If you’re searching for something specific—say, an artist or historical topic you love—an online search every six to eight months may yield results. Just be prepared to wait. Some exhibitions, like the Russian Tsars, are generational events.
Lastly, if you’re visiting a city you don’t often travel to, take a few minutes to see what exhibitions are currently on display. You never know what rare gem you might find. It’s easy to miss out by only checking travel sites when planning your trip.
Costs: Range in price from $15 – $25 for museum entrance
Budget Bliss: Bucket List 