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The Lost Art of Becoming a Regular
Tag: travel
The Arcade Lost Between Decades
There are some places that aren’t readily accessible by taking a train or plane. Because it isn’t a place that one can easily get to through travel, at least not through any normal means. Places that require a little sideways step and a wink at quantum physics, because the place one is trying to get to is lost in time. I speak, of course, of managing through some quirk of the universe to go back to a time before, to re-experience what has now been forgotten or perhaps experience for the first time things we never had the chance to do.
One must slip in between in order to step back and Decades is exactly one of those sorts of places where time doesn’t quite behave the way it should. Tucked in the far northern corner of Lancaster this 95 year old gymnasium has been transformed into a full-service restaurant, bar, six-lane bowling alley, and retro arcade. From the moment you step foot inside you know you’ve left the 2020s behind for some strange pocket of the universe where the late decades of the 20th century have collided together.
High above the vaulted ceiling, bright lights spell out the name “Decades.” Friendly faces greet you at the front desk like agents of time itself directing you through the confusing maze of games and tables. After all, with all these time warps one must be careful not to get too sucked in. To the right, a bowling alley straight out of the 1980s harkens back to the days of your father’s and grandfather’s bowling league. Perhaps you may glimpse a phantom in the timestream sending a ball down for a strike.
To the left is the arcade and restaurant. The old wooden floors creak softly beneath your feet with the sort of comforting wear that only decades of use can produce. The lighting shifts strangely as you walk, never quite settling into a single mood. One moment you stand beneath the icy blue glow of a racing game, the next beneath the feverish reds and yellows of a fighting cabinet. Neon flashes ripple across the floorboards and tables so that the whole arcade feels alive, constantly changing depending on which machines are calling out nearby. Along the far left wall stretches a long polished bar lined with gleaming glasses and rows upon rows of illuminated bottles, half hidden behind the dense forest of arcade cabinets like some secret oasis for weary travelers lost in time. Beside nearly every machine sits a small table thoughtfully placed for drinks and baskets of fries, allowing patrons to linger between rounds as though there is nowhere else in the world they need to be.
Games from the late 1970s sit proudly beside their more modern cousins from the early 2000s. The evolution of technology can be a bit jarring when one is able to compare them side by side.
I felt this contrast the most with the two Terminator games that I played. The first one was fully immersive, a gun with real-time feedback requiring a frantic reload through a cartridge at the bottom of the weapon. The second was a janky stationary gun mounted behind glass and pointed at what looked like an aging television screen. Oddly enough, both had their charm. The newer one was undeniably smoother and more exciting, but there was something endearing about the older machine’s clunky stubbornness. Still, I spent a good hour gleefully blasting killer androids into scrap metal.
But I digress, the arcade was not my first impression. My first impression was the restaurant. In the back is a set of booths which provide a bit of respite from the constant chorus of arcade jingles, pinball clatters, and bowling pins crashing in the distance. The menu consists mostly of standard American fare: burgers, sandwiches, wings, and fries. They certainly have salads and your typical appetizers as well, pretzel bits, tacos, pierogies, and onion rings. Now most of these have a different twist than one might expect. For example, the Irish Breakfast Burger consists of a beef patty, portobello mushroom, bacon, sausage, smoked gouda, fried egg, tomato jam, and mayo. Meanwhile the Fire & Ash Burger is stacked with smoked blue cheese, scorched earth sauce, charred leeks, and lemon aioli.
Be warned dear reader, this particular burger is not for the faint of heart. It is quite spicy and left my lips tingling for hours. It was delicious and I highly recommend it for the thrill seekers among you. As one can see, the chefs here are as peculiar as the setting itself. For those concerned by the oddities I’ve just described, worry not. The chef has not taken complete leave of their senses and has mercifully left several menu items unchanged from expectation.
The drink menu is equally surprising in the twists it offers the usual fare. Of course there are sodas and beers, but there is also a delightful collection of specialty cocktails and mocktails for those who do not wish to imbibe. Watching the bartenders work beneath the dim amber glow of the shelves behind them almost feels theatrical, as if one has wandered into some hidden establishment where arcade champions and bowlers have gathered for decades.
After dinner, it really is recommended that you purchase a cup of tokens to enjoy the full bounty of games available across the spectrum of time. There are plenty of games for a whole group to enjoy or for the lone wolves among you.
I had met a few friends there from the sci-fi podcast that I run. Scott was visiting from Europe and we jumped at the chance to spend quality time with him. We updated each other on our lives and made plans for the upcoming summer, the local sci-fi convention, and movies that will be coming out shortly.
Naturally, we engaged in the games, some cooperative and others competitive. I already spoke on my fondness for the Terminator game. Dave was particularly good at it as he placed fifth on the machine. I did manage to beat him in kill count during one of the rounds, so naturally I was quite proud of myself. Scott managed first place in a racing game while Miles took his turn conquering Space Invaders.
True to its nature, Decades managed to warp the passage of time as well, for it seemed that I had only blinked and hours had passed in the outside world. Perhaps that is the true magic of places such as these. Not merely nostalgia, nor novelty, but the rare ability to make adults forget the clock entirely.
How might you find such a place?
And should you wish to find an antique arcade of your very own, I encourage you to seek out the strange little corners of old cities and forgotten downtowns. Often these places hide inside repurposed factories, aging theaters, old gymnasiums, or warehouses whose glory days seem long behind them. Look for neon signs glowing faintly against brick walls, listen for the distant chorus of pinball bells and synthesized music, and do not be afraid to wander through an unassuming doorway. Every now and then, if the universe is feeling particularly generous, you may just stumble into a pocket of lost time yourself.
Cost: $50 (that covered two drinks, my Fire & Ash Burger and my arcade experience)
Completed: 2026
Miles from home: 18 miles
Want to discover more adventures? Check out my whole Bucket List and Reverse Bucket List
Paris, Part 5: A Perfectly Imperfect Weekend
The day was winding down. The museum had closed, and the sun was beginning its slow descent. Erika and I stepped out into the cool, crisp spring air, the kind that carries just a hint of evening chill beneath the fading warmth of the day.
The urgency that had driven us, our mad dashes across the city, our constant checking of maps, began to dissolve. In its place came something softer. A quiet curiosity. Without a list to check off, we were once again free to fully embrace the moment.
We wandered without purpose through streets washed in dusky light, watching as Paris slowly stirred to life for the night. Café lights flickered on one by one. The low hum of conversation drifted out onto the sidewalks. Glasses clinked. Laughter rose and fell like a tide.
Paris, it seemed, was just waking up.
It was in this gentle wandering that we met Julian and his girlfriend, Sandra.
They asked what had brought us to Paris, and we answered in kind. Soon, we were deep in conversation, trading stories of our lives, ours in America, theirs in Paris. There is a certain kind of fleeting camaraderie that forms in moments like these, where neither side expects permanence, and yet both lean fully into the connection.
For a few hours, we were simply part of one another’s stories.
They led us to a club, one far removed from anything we had originally planned.
It was the sort of place where locals belonged, where the rhythm of the night pulsed differently. It was tucked along a street. Do not ask me where, for I doubt I could find it again. With a nod from Julian to the bouncer, we slipped inside, crossing an invisible threshold into another version of Paris.
The air was warm and thick with music. The dim light created an intimate atmosphere like it was holding a secret only Parisians knew. We sipped wine and talked, our voices rising to meet the hum of the crowd as the hours stretched on.
And then, suddenly, the room erupted.
A woman appeared, dressed in something delightfully eccentric, a candle balanced atop her head (and I am not entirely sure if her chest was bare, she had on quite the number of necklaces). She sang loudly, joyfully, with a theatrical abandon, moving with a confidence that demanded attention. The crowd joined her instantly, clapping, singing, cheering.
Sandra leaned in to tell us it was her birthday.
It was not how I would have chosen to celebrate, but who was I to question a Parisian in her element?
As the night wore on, exhaustion crept in, the kind that settles deep in your bones after days of walking, of seeing, of feeling everything all at once.
Reluctantly, we apologized and said our goodbyes.
We exchanged Facebook information with every intention of keeping in touch. But as life so often goes, we never did.
Some things, perhaps, are meant to remain exactly where they happened.
In Paris.
Back at the hostel, I checked my email and confirmed our meeting place with Frieman.
The next morning, we set out once more into the city, this time successfully finding him. Though we did not have long together, we lingered over lunch, swapping stories and savoring the flavors of a city that had already given us so much. He drew me a small Eiffel Tower on a napkin, the perfect memento of my trip.
After lamenting our struggles with the metro, Frieman kindly took the time to explain it to us. Confident now, we set off to retrieve our luggage before catching our train.
We followed his directions carefully.
At least, we thought we did.
Emerging from the metro into the bright spring afternoon, we found ourselves somewhere entirely unexpected.
The red light district.
We stood there for a moment, taking it in, the bold storefronts, the neon signs, the unapologetic nature of it all.
Then we looked at each other and burst into laughter.
Never one to miss an opportunity, I leaned in and said, with what I hoped was convincing innocence, “Well… since we’re here, and we’re both engaged, we may as well find something memorable for the honeymoon.”
Smirking and trying not to laugh too loudly, we stepped into a shop and that may or may not have been our only stop.
What exactly we purchased shall remain between Erika and me, and left to your imagination, dear reader.
But we did make certain to stop for a picture in front of the Moulin Rouge before making our way back to the hostel… and eventually, to the train. Only stopping a few times to ask for directions from bemused shop owners.
All in all, it was a weekend in Paris well spent.
A true bucket list adventure, full of mishap and magic, art and laughter, wine and wandering, fleeting friendships and unexpected stories.
And perhaps that is what travel is meant to be.
Not a perfect itinerary.
But a collection of moments, some planned, many not, that come together to form something far richer than anything we could have designed ourselves.
Want to discover more adventures? Check out my whole Bucket List and Reverse Bucket List
Paris, Part 3: Secrets Beneath the City and a Lesson in Letting Go
We continue our journey through beautiful, enchanting Paris.
It is important, dear reader, that when traveling one is not too set on any particular place or thing, lest you miss out on a spectacular find or hidden gem the guidebook overlooked. This is one of the reasons I rarely book a full day of activities. I like to leave space for moments of serendipity to take hold.
Which is precisely where we found ourselves next.
For beneath the vaulted ceilings and looming gargoyles, the Lady of Paris holds a small secret: the Archaeological Crypt. A title, as you know, certain to get my attention.
Just as we were about to leave the cathedral in search of the Eiffel Tower, we stumbled upon a small sign beckoning us to explore below.
It felt almost mythical descending the steps into the dimly lit corridors of the crypt, as if stepping through a portal in time.
Unlike most museums, where artifacts are removed, broken apart, and neatly arranged in brightly lit halls with placards explaining their importance, this space preserves them exactly where they were found.
The layers tell the story of Paris.
Stone remains whisper of traders calling out their wares, pilgrims making their way to holy places, children laughing in the morning sun. The quiet of the crypt stands in sharp contrast to the cacophony above.
Most tourists pass it by in their rush toward the next “must-see.” They do not pause to reflect on the centuries that built this city.
Yet the stones remember.
Roman ruins: wharves and docks once used for trade. Bathhouses where elites conducted business. Defensive walls against invading Germanic tribes. Medieval streets leading travelers toward the cathedral. Remnants of an ancient chapel. Foundations of a Renaissance orphanage.
Today, the museum includes interactive displays that bring the past to life. But even without them, I could feel the weight of history, a hundred generations whispering across time.
We emerged from the crypt back into the sunlight, now drifting toward the horizon.
Consulting our map, we had two more “must-sees” to check off our list: the Arc de Triomphe and, of course, the Eiffel Tower.
Now, dear reader, a word of warning. The Arc de Triomphe sits in the middle of a very busy traffic circle. Do not do as we did and dart across the road, flirting equally with traffic and death.
There are underground entrances, as we later discovered, that allow for safe and easy access to this memorial honoring those who fought in the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars.
To be honest, while impressive in size, it lacked emotional weight for me. In contrast to the crypt, it felt flashier but ultimately hollow.
Perhaps for a French citizen, it carries far greater meaning, standing as a reminder of the blood shed for their country. But for me, it was something I could have skipped in favor of lingering in a café.
And then, of course, the Eiffel Tower.
What other landmark is more instantly recognizable as the symbol of a city, or even a country? A single silhouette, and the mind goes immediately to Paris.
Dear reader, I highly recommend visiting the tower at dusk.
The daytime crowds begin to thin, and a kind of hush settles over the air. Oh, there are still tourists milling about, but there is a softness to the evening, as if people have remembered that life is not about rushing, but about savoring small moments.
We approached the tower after a long day of walking and purchased tickets for the elevator (though today, you would be wise to book ahead).
The top level was closed for renovations, but we did not mind. We could still visit the café and take in the view.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the city transformed.
Lights flickered on like scattered stars. Colors softened into shades of gray. And the tower itself shimmered to life in a glittering display.
We sipped warm hot chocolate and looked out across the city, quietly content.
Exhausted, famished, and thrilled, we made our way back toward the hostel, stopping at a restaurant for dinner.
I had taken one year of French in eighth grade, which proved entirely useless when attempting to decipher the menu. I could identify mushrooms and cheese in a few places, but the rest was complete gibberish.
Hungry and overwhelmed, I did not relish the idea of struggling through a back-and-forth with the wait staff.
So I employed a trick that has served me well ever since: I asked the waiter what his favorite dish was and told him to bring me that.
He seemed delighted that I was entrusting my palate to him.
This approach is not for picky eaters, but I am fairly adventurous. In fact, there are only two foods I genuinely detest: pickles and Jell-O.
In the years since, this trick has never failed me. Wait staff often know the menu better than anyone. They return to the same dishes again and again, and those are often exactly what you want to try.
Now, I would be remiss not to mention the shameless flirting that followed, nor the belated April Fool’s joke he played on two unsuspecting Americans.
Having entrusted him with our meal, we had also, to some extent, entrusted him with our wallets.
So imagine my surprise when he returned with a bill for nearly 300 euros, entirely in French.
Unsure what else to do, I prepared to pay it. After all, we had ordered the food. If there had been a misunderstanding, I was ready to take responsibility for it.
I believe he was just as surprised by my reaction as I was by the bill.
Instead of arguing, I simply accepted it.
Fortunately, he did not take advantage of my naivety. He laughed and revealed it was a joke, much to my immense relief.
He did, however, invite us dancing. We politely declined. We were both spoken for and had no desire to lead him on.
The lesson here is simple: if you let someone choose your meal, have them point to it on the menu. No surprises.
And do not be intimidated by a language you do not know. A little pointing and a rough mental tally go a long way.
We were fortunate. The lesson came through humor rather than costly experience.
Late that evening, we wandered back to our hostel through quiet, darkened streets.
Surprisingly, whether due to youth or good shoes, I was not footsore despite walking all day. Instead, I was happily exhausted, my head filled with history and excitement.
It felt like a waking dream. Paris was no longer an abstract idea, but something real and tangible.
Still, exhaustion finally caught up with me, and I fell asleep almost instantly.
Morning came with sunlight streaming through the window.
I stretched lazily, not quite as energized as the day before, but still eager to see what lay ahead.
As we discussed our plans before meeting Frieman later, I happened to glance up.
There, just beyond the buildings, stood the white dome of the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur.
I turned to Erika.
“Remember how I said there was no way we were walking all the way across the city to see that church?”
“Yes?”
“Well… we already did. Because it’s right there.”
Oh, how the universe laughs, dear reader.
Want to discover more adventures? Check out my whole Bucket List and Reverse Bucket List
Paris, Part 2: Walking the City and Choosing What Matters
Forgive the brief interlude in my tale of Paris, but as you well know, I always sprinkle tidbits of wisdom between my stories of adventure. After all, I don’t just want you to go off and have fun. I truly hope this is a place where we can grow together and create lives punctuated by adventure rather than longing for it as an escape from daily misery.
Now, we left off, dear reader, with my arrival: tired and exhausted from a sleepless night but pumped full of adrenaline, the equivalent of five or six cups of coffee coursing through my veins.
I had already gotten thoroughly lost on the way to the hostel and had largely given up on public transit as a viable means of navigating the city. Honestly, that’s only a feat a young twenty-something can get away with.
Now, I’m not entirely certain what the rules are for crossing the streets in Paris, but they did not appear to follow the ones I had grown up with. There were multiple occasions when the light was clearly red and people were walking, and others when it was green and everyone simply stopped.
Both my travel partner and I were quite confused by this apparent inconsistency.
It was decidedly not like Germany, where people display an almost obsessive adherence to rules. Even if there isn’t a car in sight, they will dutifully wait at the crosswalk until the light indicates it is time to cross.
However, after one or two close calls with traffic, we simply looked at each other, shrugged, said “when in Rome,” and followed the Parisians for guidance, forgoing the lights entirely since they clearly could not be trusted.
Our first stop was the Louvre, which is a must for any lover of art and history. Not only does it house one of the most famous paintings on earth, it is also the largest and most visited art museum in the world.
Originally built as a fortress and later expanded into a royal palace, the Louvre now spans roughly 2.3 million square feet. Of its approximately 380,000 objects, around 35,000 are on display at any given time.
Considering it would take over three months to see the entire collection, we decided to focus only on the highlights and the pieces that spoke most to us.
There are plenty of guides that will tell you the “must-see” works at the Louvre. But if something doesn’t speak to you, skip it. Focus on the areas of art and history you genuinely enjoy.
I, for one, would recommend skipping the Mona Lisa.
All it really amounts to is a photo opportunity for social media. It’s tiny, placed behind thick glass in a poorly lit room with hundreds of people pushing and shoving for a better look. You’re honestly better off googling a picture for all you’ll actually see.
Any contemplative awe you might have felt is drowned out by the din of the crowd and the smell of raised armpits as phones are hoisted into the air for a better shot.
If you aren’t paying attention, your belongings might get nicked, and you could spend the rest of your Paris trip trying to recover stolen credit cards while cursing the day you were introduced to the pernicious lady with her sly smile.
After all, she too was once stolen. Why not cavort with thieves once again?
As I’ve said in other posts, don’t let other people’s opinions dictate what you do or do not do. So if you must see the Mona Lisa, I shall not judge you for it.
Just remember that the Louvre houses centuries of art, offering millennia of history to explore, not just stuffy Italians and pretentious French painters.
Its oldest piece is estimated to be around 9,000 years old and is well worth the trek to see.
Since I was traveling with an archaeology major, we spent most of our time in the Greek and Roman sections, along with some of the French collections.
My personal favorite was the sculpture Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss. Not because I have a particular fondness for eighteenth-century French sculpture, but because one of my favorite books is Psyche and Cupid by C. S. Lewis.
Art isn’t always just about what the artist intended, its place in history, or the techniques used. It is also about what it evokes in us.
I would argue that this is what art is most about: what we bring to the moment of encounter.
When I looked at that sculpture, I did not simply see the Greek myth. I saw it retold through a different lens. A revival not just of Psyche, but of myself.
Small tip: book your ticket in advance.
Prior to the pandemic, the best way to get into the Louvre was through one of the side entrances to skip the long lines. However, with its ever-growing popularity, daily visitor numbers are now capped, meaning the only way to guarantee entry is with a pre-booked ticket.
Sorry to all my free-spirited wanderers.
Having conquered a small portion of the Louvre, we ventured forth to the Lady of Paris: the Notre Dame Cathedral.
Walking through Paris instead of taking public transit allows you to experience the city in a completely different way. You breathe it in.
On foot, you notice the small shops and hidden corners that would otherwise blur past from a bus window or subway seat. The scent of coffee lingers in the air as you stroll by cafés, while the temptation of fresh-baked bread drifts from bakeries onto the street.
In early spring, the flowers spill across the sidewalks and painters emerge as if the season itself has burst through the concrete, refusing to remain buried beneath winter any longer.
Everywhere is a riot of color and life. Musicians greet you with cheerful melodies, and you cannot help but sway your hips just a bit in time with the music.
It was on our way to Notre Dame that we stumbled upon an artist selling watercolor paintings of the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame, and the Basilica of the Sacred Heart of Montmartre.
For a set of four, it was perhaps forty euros, an absolute steal, and it was there that my habit of buying art as a souvenir was born.
Erika and I split the cost and decided we would determine who received which painting at the end of the trip.
Long before we saw its doors, the twin towers of Notre Dame rose proudly above the surrounding buildings, beckoning us closer.
The cathedral was completed in 1260, though additions were made in the centuries that followed. Like any church nearly eight hundred years old, it has seen its share of glory and hardship: wars, neglect, desecration, and most recently, fire.
Fortunately, we visited before the fire and the subsequent debates over the restoration of its windows.
As a Christian myself, I was fascinated by the displays of Catholic artifacts that told the story of the church’s role in medieval Europe. I saw relics carefully displayed and read about how the church intersected with everyday life in the heart of France.
However, much like the Mona Lisa room, it was not a place of hushed awe but rather a chaotic stream of tourists passing through.
Contemplation was not something I readily found there. (For that, I recommend seeking out some of the lesser-known churches.)
By this point my legs were beginning to feel the day’s journey, but that did not dissuade me from climbing to the top of the cathedral to take in the city below.
From there we saw, glittering in the bright spring sun, the white dome of the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur.
At the time, I must admit my ignorance. I had never heard of the church, and neither had Erika.
She suggested we should visit it.
I squinted across the grid of busy streets at what appeared to be an impossible distance to walk and declared quite confidently that there was absolutely no way I would trek all the way there.
Oh, dear reader, how the universe loves to laugh at the things we believe are beyond us.
For unbeknownst to me, I would indeed walk there.
But that is a story for another day.
And so, in the interest of time, I must pause my tale here.
You will have to return for Part Three.
Want to discover more adventures? Check out my whole Bucket List and Reverse Bucket List
Reverse Bucket List: A Weekend in Paris (Part I)
“How do you feel about a weekend in Paris?”
I twirled in my chair, hair whipping across my face, and fixed my friend Erika with a look that needed no elaboration. Her response was immediate. A squeal. A clap. An emphatic, “Yes.”
After all, what else does one say to Paris in the spring?
Such spontaneity, dear reader, is only possible when you are determined to drink deeply from the cup of life while living abroad. For an American especially, there is something intoxicating about the ability to hop on a train and cross into another country before lunch. When you come from a place where a single state can rival the size of an entire nation, the idea feels almost illicit, perhaps even scandalous.
So without further ado, we secured tickets on the high-speed train from Frankfurt to Paris. Arm in arm, we walked toward the station, already breathless with plans: art, museums, music, culture, food, people. And what a people!
A sudden unplanned Paris in a weekend?
Madness. An affliction surely.
Which is precisely why we had to do it.
The true catalyst was a message from a dear friend who would be spending a week in the city and wondered if I might join him for a day. An afternoon in Paris with a friend who happened to be an artist of some renown? The answer could only be yes. After all, who could be the more perfect tour guide?
This was before smartphones lived in our pockets. Before we had google at our fingertips and the assuredness that comes with having all the answers tucked away. We packed lightly, wrote down the number of the American embassy, ensured we had our emergency contacts into our bags, and armed ourselves with a travel guide and a healthy dose of gumption. Travel then required nerve. Trust. If you got lost, you figured it out. If you mispronounced something, you survived the embarrassment. There was no digital rescue waiting in your palm. Which is honestly, what I miss most about travel these days.
The train hurled us across the countryside, fields bursting with early spring color flashing past the windows. I could not help comparing it to Pennsylvania. Lancaster County, in particular, bears a resemblance to parts of Germany, and for the first time I understood, in a small but tangible way, why so many Germans had settled there. Hiemweh melted away leaving a strange sense of coming home even across an ocean.
Three hours is long enough to plan a city and short enough to realize you cannot conquer it. We trimmed our ambitions to a few must-sees and a handful of hopefuls. The Louvre alone could swallow a week. Paris, we decided, would not be conquered. It would simply be experienced.
Crossing the border was almost anticlimactic. An announcement crackled overhead. That was all. No passport stamp. No interrogation. It felt like slipping into Ohio, except the anticipation hummed in your bones. No offense to Ohio of course, but really are we going to say it compares to France?
And then we arrived.
First Things First: Find the Bed
Before romance, before art, before croissants on café terraces, there is one universal truth of travel; You must find where you are sleeping.
Armed with a folded map and confidence wildly disproportionate to our navigational skill, we set off to locate our hostel.
Now, in our defense, the streets of Paris are confusing.
Unlike the tidy grid systems Americans grow up with, Paris feels as though it was designed by someone who enjoyed curves, diagonals, and the occasional act of mischief. Streets fork unexpectedly. They change names without warning. A road that appears straight on a map somehow bends in real life. And the street signs? They are affixed to the sides of buildings, charming blue plaques that would be immensely helpful if they were not routinely obscured by graffiti, peeling posters, or layers of mysterious paper advertising concerts long since passed. It was an exercise in hopeless confusion and frustration.
More than once we stood directly beneath a sign, craning our necks and squinting upward, trying to determine whether we were on Rue de Something Important or merely staring at a band flyer partially concealing our destiny.
And then there was the metro.
For the uninitiated American traveler, the Paris metro is not transportation. It is an initiation ritual.
Lines spiderweb across the city in a dizzying tangle of colors and numbers. Trains are labeled by their final destination rather than the direction you believe you are traveling, which requires you to know far more geography than you actually do. Stops are announced quickly, sometimes swallowed by the metallic roar of the car, and the maps inside the train might as well have been abstract art for all the clarity they offered at first glance. Especially, if one has never traversed public transit before. Which alas, many Americans have never been on anything more than a school bus.
You descend into the underground with confidence. You emerge twenty minutes later into a vast plaza with six exits, each pointing toward a different arrondissement, blinking in the daylight thinking, This seems right.
It is rarely right.
One exit leads you in the exact opposite direction. Another deposits you onto a boulevard you did not know existed. A third leaves you staring at a fountain that looks vaguely familiar but is, in fact, not the fountain you were seeking.
Given these small obstacles, I consider it nothing short of miraculous that after a few wrong turns and some enthusiastic but misguided pointing, we found our hostel at all.
Little did we know, this was only the beginning of our navigational adventures and given the amount of confusion the metro caused, we determined that the best way to get anywhere was by foot. Yes, you read that correctly. I walked Paris in a weekend. I estimated that I traversed at least 15 miles. Though as this was before the popularity of step counters, I only have my best estimates.
The hostel itself was functional in the most generous sense of the word.
If you have never experienced a European student hostel, allow me to clarify something, it is not glamorous by any stretch of the imagination. It is economical. And it is very much a young person’s sport.
The shower required physical encouragement. You had to press the button, and water would flow for approximately twelve optimistic seconds before shutting off again. Want to rinse shampoo from your hair? You had to keep pressing it like you were negotiating terms. The “hot” water hovered somewhere between hopeful and politely lukewarm.
Breakfast was included, which sounded promising until we discovered that “included” meant toast, jelly, and coffee. For Americans raised on sprawling hotel buffets complete with eggs, waffles, fruit, yogurt, and pastries, this was a humbling cultural exchange. There was no omelet station. No waffle iron. There was toast.
And you were grateful for it.
We adapted quickly. A stop at a neighborhood grocery store provided bread, cheese, and sliced meat. It was the perfect strategy: sustain ourselves during the day, conserve our funds, and reserve our modest budget for dinners out in the evening. For two college students, it was a masterclass in practical travel. Frugal by day. Indulgent by night.
The hostel was never meant to be the highlight. It was the launchpad. A place to drop our bags. A place to sleep. A place from which to begin.
And begin we did.
What followed was a blur of museums and miscalculations, attempted French and accidental detours. We wandered into neighborhoods we had only read about. We misread maps. At one point, quite unintentionally, we discovered that we had strayed into the red-light district. There is nothing quite like realizing you are lost in a foreign city and that the neon lighting is… intentional.
But that, dear reader, deserves its own telling.
Because Paris was not merely art and architecture. It was a lesson in courage. In frugality. In friendship. In the quiet bravery required to step into the unknown without guarantees and trust that you will find your way.
This is what I mean by a reverse bucket list. Not the grand achievements we hope to accomplish someday when everything is perfect, but the moments we dared to say yes to when they appeared. The train we boarded. The map we unfolded. The hostel we made work. The city we entered anyway.
A fulfilling life is not built by waiting until conditions are ideal.
It is built by saying yes before you feel entirely ready.
In the next post, we will step fully into the city itself. The beauty. The bewilderment. The glorious inconvenience of getting lost in Paris.
And why, sometimes, that is exactly the point.
Want to discover more adventures? Check out my whole Bucket List and Reverse Bucket List
Eat Bravely: A Love Letter to Curious Appetites
Not all adventures require stepping out into the world and exploring new places. There is not always a need to don our shoes or cross the threshold of our homes. Some adventures wait for us in a far more intimate space, where heat and spice mingle to create expectation. Where anticipation builds slowly. Where the experience lingers in memory and sends small electric thrills through the senses. Where worries are set aside, hands get busy, and something deeply satisfying, and dare I say even sensual, takes shape.
Lower your eyebrows, this is a family blog.
Of course, dear reader, I speak of the kitchen.
For thousands of years, humans have gathered around fire and flame, bonding through the shared rituals of preparing and eating food. Long before written language, recipes were passed hand to hand, memory to memory. Food has always been warmth, safety, and love made tangible. It is how we celebrate, how we grieve, and how we care for one another when words fall short. I once had a Puerto Rican colleague who would bring me food during especially stressful seasons of my life. One day, she arrived with a cake she had carefully crafted just for me. It was not simply a dessert or a cultural exchange. It was care wrapped in sweetness, a quiet reminder that I was not alone.
Food is deeply embedded in a people. It is history, culture, memory, and survival served on a plate. Entire stories can be told through a single dish. Take Haiti’s Soup Joumou, a pumpkin-based soup once forbidden to enslaved people and now eaten each year to celebrate independence and freedom. Or consider corned beef and cabbage, a meal that became closely associated with Irish-American immigrants, not because it was common in Ireland, but because it was affordable and accessible in their new home. These dishes tell stories of resilience, adaptation, and identity.
Sometimes food carries the quiet evidence of cultural exchange. Italy, so famously associated with pasta and tomato sauce, sits at a historical crossroads of trade. Noodles arrived through contact with the East, while tomatoes made their way from the New World. Local tradition met imported ingredients, and something entirely new was born. That cuisine later traveled across the Atlantic, where it transformed yet again into what we now call Italian-American cooking. This is why beloved favorites like fettuccine Alfredo or chicken parmigiana are rarely found in Italy itself. Food evolves as people move, adapt, and make do.
Many of the dishes I have named so far are familiar to most of us, especially here in America. But adventurous eating does not have to stop at what we already know. Those of us with wandering spirits often associate travel with food, and for good reason. What marks a journey more clearly than the flavors we encounter along the way? Thanks to global shipping networks and the rapid exchange of information, it is now easier than ever to recreate dishes from around the world in our own kitchens, no plane ticket required.
Will it always be perfect? No. The clotted cream I buy at my local grocery store is not quite the same as the clotted cream I was served in Cornwall. Still, for those of us who are budget-conscious or simply curious, it is close enough to spark delight and inspiration. Sometimes approximation is not a failure, but an invitation.
I am fortunate to live in a place that makes culinary exploration especially accessible. My hometown is something of a food mecca. We have a specialty meat and cheese shop, several farmers markets, close access to fresh seafood, and grocery stores that carry an impressive range of international ingredients. We are also home to many authentic markets representing cultures not typically found in mainstream American stores. This means I can often find traditional ingredients locally and at a fraction of the cost of ordering them online.
Lancaster is also known as America’s refugee capital, thanks in large part to the ongoing efforts of Church World Service. Refugees from around the world have made their homes here, continuing a long tradition of welcome rooted in our Amish and Mennonite history. With them, they have brought their food. And generously, they have shared it. Restaurants that prioritize employing refugees allow them to tell the story of their culture through cooking, creating a deeply local melting pot of flavors. It is history you can taste. Remember, food tells a story and in Lancaster it tells more than just an exchange of culture, it whispers welcome as well.
Perhaps that is why I have always been adventurous with my food. I grew up with the world’s kitchen at my doorstep. I learned early that flavor has no single nationality and that spices are not something to be feared. When people joke that white people do not use spices, I laugh, spice is all I’ve known. My spice cabinet is perpetually overflowing with flavors from every corner of the globe. One of my favorite dishes to make is lamb with five spices, a recipe that fills the kitchen with warmth and complexity long before it reaches the plate.
Over the years, I have tried an astonishing range of foods. Kangaroo and lychee. Beluga caviar and jackfruit. Escargot, conch, buffalo, alligator, raw oysters. Authentic pad Thai and ramen. Croissants in Paris, doner kebab, calamari, and a full English breakfast. I have sipped absinthe, fine wines, countless teas, and more than a few drinks whose names I can no longer recall. I have eaten at Ichiban grills, Brazilian churrascarias, four-diamond restaurants, and casual pig roasts. I have wandered farmers markets while sipping fresh coconut water straight from the shell and watched rolled ice cream take shape on a freezing plate. Street food, in all its glorious variety, deserves an essay of its own. I’ve eaten at rotating restaurants high above the skyline. I’ve also eaten deep in the earth in old wine cellars. I’ve dined on the ocean and at the peak of mountains.
Some of my most meaningful food memories, though, were made at home. Hours spent in the kitchen with my mother, learning new dishes together, experimenting, tasting, and laughing. Food is not only about novelty or prestige. It is about connection.
In the end, adventurous eating is not about chasing the most exotic ingredient or the most impressive dish. It is about the willingness to step outside your comfort zone and try something new. It is about expanding your palate beyond the familiar rotation of meals. I still remember the first time I tried lavender ice cream. It stopped me in my tracks. I had never considered lavender as a flavor before, and suddenly a door opened. I started seeking out all sorts of new flavors like rose and violet. Since then, I have fallen in love with pine and rosemary ice cream as well.
If lavender feels intimidating, start small. Try substituting lavender for rosemary in a recipe. Their flavor profiles are surprisingly similar, and the result is both comforting and slightly unexpected. That small shift is often all it takes. There are plenty of recipes and flavors out there. The world is truly your oyster! Adventure does not always roar and it doesn’t always require a passport. Sometimes it simmers quietly on the stove, waiting for you to take the first bite.
Want to discover more adventures? Check out my whole Bucket List and Reverse Bucket List
Instagram Lied: Travel Is Gross, Beautiful, and Worth It
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.
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.
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.
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
Tales from Abroad: Stonehenge
I am, as of this writing, recently returned from a trip to Merry Ol’ England after finding myself with the unexpected invitation to join a family friend, Shelia, at her long term rental in the beautiful Penzance area of Cornwall. The previously unaffordable trip of plane tickets, lodging, food and sightseeing, suddenly became much more affordable with her willingness to host myself and my mom for over a week. Naturally, I did not let such an opportunity slip through my fingers as England was home to one of my top Bucket List items, Stonehenge.
Now, my non-American readers may be a bit perplexed at my excitement of going to Penzance when Stonehenge is a good four hours away. You may very well think, it’s so far, you couldn’t possibly add that on to your trip! First, dear reader, you underestimate the American enthusiasm for driving. After all, the road trip is a quintessential American experience! Besides lacking any sort of reasonable public transit, driving is just what we do and if you’re like me who drives for a living (at the time of this writing) spending several hours in the car is nothing. I had a co-worker who regularly thought nothing of driving 8 hours every other weekend up to New England to help take care of her ailing mother. Americans love driving.
Second, given that in order to have the opportunity to see Stonehenge again I would need to take another 6 hour flight after needing to take up an additional 2 to 3 hours just to get onto the flight after arriving at the airport after a 2 hour drive to the airport, and another 2 hours driving from London to Stonehenge, I think I can afford the day trip back and forth when considering the time and money it would cost to do at a later date. It was this cost analysis that really tipped the scales in favor of renting a car and visiting this site. As I am always reminding you, dear reader, that when one travels one ought to maximize the opportunity in order to get the most bang for your buck. We are, as much as it pains us all to admit, on a budget and when’s the next time we’re gonna be able to hop a plane to England from America? Exactly.
After determining that in addition to Stonehenge there were sites scattered about Cornwall that were simply too inconvenient to get to via bus (why they don’t go to the neolithic sites like the Merry Maidens or the Cuny Village is beyond me) and given that taking multiple taxis in a day would prove to be quite expensive to do multiple trips to various places around Cornwall in one day, renting a car ended for the week ended up being the optimal solution of almost $175 in savings when I broke down the costs. Plus, I didn’t have to wait around for rides or worry about meeting my taxi driver at a designated pre-booked time. Once again, my cost benefit analysis kicked in and it tipped it in favor of car rental as much as I prefer relying on public transit.
Now, the best laid plans of mice and men will go astray. In this case, the hiccup I encountered was my phone’s gps. Despite paying for the ability to roam and setting it up ahead of time, when I arrived in England my phone refused to connect and kept telling me that I needed to turn on international data. I would go into the phone settings to see that it was indeed turned on and got a text message from my provider stating that it was turned on. We tried several different work-arounds suggested by the internet once I got to my friend’s place and was able to connect to her internet but nothing worked. Luckily, Sheila allowed us to use her phone for the day to get around. With the crisis adverted, we set out in the wee hours of the morning to make it for our 10 am admission time.
I had downloaded music to my phone for us to jam to and decided to put my newfound mastery of the British road system to the test. I had (smartly in my estimation) scheduled Stonehenge for the middle of the week in order to give me two full days of test driving on the opposite side of the road in more rural areas before trying to go to more populated and congested places. I actually took to it quite well and credit my dyslexia for being an advantage as I really could hardly tell the difference. I just kept the steering wheel in the middle and followed the visuals provided by the gps rather than following her left or right turns since I can’t do that anyways. So, cross off driving on the opposite side of the road as a bonus!
The way up to Stonehenge was relatively uneventful and I got to really take in the rolling English countryside. The morning started out with classic English weather of rain. However, by the time we reached our destination the rain had cleared leaving a mostly overcast sky that threatened sunshine.
Now to say that I was excited to see this legendary place, is bit of an understatement. Of all the monuments and sights in this world, Stonehenge is without a doubt one of my top destinations and probably one of the first places I ever truly longed to visit. I was fascinated by the ancient world of Great Britain and Ireland, obsessed with learning about them even though I could (when I was younger) find very little about it. It was this blank hole of questions that burned into my mind, what were they like, why did they build this, how did they build it, what spiritual meaning did it have, how did it connect to other sites and on and on these questions plagued me. I loved the theories, no matter how crazy or outlandish they were. And what I love is that we’re still uncovering things about it, only just last year they did yet another study of the stones and discovered that they come from all over indicating that this may have been a unifying project to unite the island.How does that fit with other archaeological evidence for the rest of Britain? There’s just so much we don’t know.
Stonehenge is over 5,000 years old and is the largest neolithic monument in Britain. There is evidence of important structures and even other henges prior to the building of Stonehenge in the general area marking it as an important or prominent site in the stone age. Some of those sites are from 8000 BC You may be forgiven dear reader for thinking it’s just a stone circle, as impressive as that may be; it actually sits upon an earther work with a marked avenue leading up to it. A “heel stone’ marks the alignment with the summer solstice. This avenue and stone is the reason we can say it aligns with solstice and not some other random astrological event. It is also not just one stone circle but two concentric circles and other stone pieces to create a masterpiece of that era.
It took over 1,500 years to complete in four different stages. The first stage was in 3100 BC, the second stage occurred in 2500 BC; the third took place 150 years later and the final stage occurred in 1,500 BC. This is when the stones were rearranged into their iconic horseshoe shape. There were about 60 stones originally, but sadly many are broken or even missing today. Despite the presence of human remains, it is not believed to have been a burial site but that these remains were utilized in religious ritual. Although if you read other people’s opinions they’ll tell you that it was a burial site. See? So much mystery!
It was being armed with this knowledge (and much more, but I shalln’t bore you with all the details), that I practically squealed in sheer anticipation more than once as we approached. I was finally actually there, instead of seeing it on a screen or in a book. There was equal parts excitement and awe as we drew closer. The thing about the site is it is actually located in an almost surreal location because one expects that it would be in an area relatively built up. However, it is just out in the middle of nowhere surrounded by sheep and farmer’s fields. Yet, it fits exactly in the landscape that one finds it in because thousands of years ago the builders may have had sheep. For all we know sheep have been hanging out near those stones this entire time.
I loved being able to closely study the stones, to see how they may have been joined together by the knobs at the top of some of them and to picture how it may have once been so many years ago. I marveled at the craftsmanship that must have taken to hew rock into rough formations of giant blocks and to lift them up atop each other.
What was particularly nice was that I went at the slower time of the year for England, choosing to go right before spring at the end of winter, so it was relatively uncrowded. I didn’t have to fight to look at it and I was even able to snag pictures without people in them. Most pictures contained very few people. This also meant that I was able to really focus on what I was seeing without having to worry about what everyone else was doing around me. After my first circle around the stones snapping lots of pictures, I put my phone away and made another loop so that I would be able to just enjoy the place taking in the sight and locking it in my memory. Too often we are so busy “documenting” our experiences we forget to actually experience them. I was determined to not make that mistake.
After spending nearly two hours at Stonehenge, we journeyed back on the bus to the visitor center for a quick bite to eat before departing. There was a reconstructed Stoneage village that I took a brief detour in. But having been in the ancient village of Carn Euny the day before (another post on that later), I didn’t spend very long. They also had a small museum of the artefacts found in and around Stonehenge which is very informative if you haven’t spent a lot of time studying the site.
How to visit Stonehenge (and other suggested sites):
I’ll not insult you with instructions on how to get to England. However, it is important to know Stonehenge is located about 2 hours south of London making it a fairly easy trip for most people who are intended to tour the country. It is a far less easy trip if you’re flying into Scotland. My American readers may be forgiven for underestimating the size of Great Britain as it is about a 7 hour drive between the two and while we do love driving that is a bit of a haul even for us unless it’s part of an entire road trip especially since most of us only have two weeks of vacation a year.
However upon arrival, you have two options to see the actual site. Option 1: Is paying the admission ticket (and parking) to Stonehenge which grants you access to the bus transfer over, the reconstructed village and museum. The main advantages to this option is the bus transfer if you’re with someone with mobility issues and the ability to walk around the entire site to see it from all angles.
Option 2: Is parking a little away from the site and accessing the footpath which traverses right next to the walkway in front of Stonehenge. It does require a bit of a hike to get from where you can park the car and Stonehenge. The path isn’t well maintained, in part because while the English have the right to roam on the ancient footpaths, the right to roam doesn’t necessarily convey the promise that someone will be maintaining those footpaths. It also only allows you to really see the front, but it is the best and most famous vantage point. If you go during the peak season you’ll probably be disappointed by the sheer number of people blocking your view and any pictures you’ll want to take. If you go during the non peak season you will probably be able to get a decent view and maybe a few pictures with only a few people milling around in the background. It honestly depends on your priorities.
For me, I was traveling with my mom, who doesn’t have the best health and needed the extra support with mobility. I also wanted to be able to get as close as I was permitted. There was an option to get there at 8 am, pay a lot of extra money and be able to go into the circle at sunrise, but I would have needed to leave by like 3:30 am, wake up at like 2:30 am which would have meant no sleep for me and I didn’t want to be driving that long on no sleep as driving without sleep is akin to driving drunk. I wanted to see Stonehenge, not die in a car accident on the way there. Remember we want to check off our bucket list, not hurry the bucket along.
Now, you may be thinking that there is absolutely no way that I could possibly write a list of “good enoughs” when comparing them to Stonehenge, but it entirely depends on you as an individual. For me, Stonehenge has been a top priority since childhood, so when given the opportunity I jumped on it. However, there are many Neolithic sites and Neolithic stone circles scattered not only across Britain and Europe but also throughout the world and you may be closer to them than you think. Granted there aren’t many that are quite as old as Stonehenge but there are many that are within the 3,000 – 1,000 range.
If you don’t care much about the size of the stone circles, Britain, Ireland, and Brittany (France) has over 1,300 circles. Many are quite impressive in their own way. They are also less visited and often allow you to be able to go right up to them without needing to pay for tickets or have them roped off, meaning you don’t have to fight with crowds, you can actually touch them and you can enjoy them more as they were intended, as places of spiritual connection, celebration and reflection.
Stone circles aren’t just found in Europe. There are stone circles in Australia which are sacred to the Aboriginal peoples like the stone arrangements in Victoria at Carisbrook. You may also be surprised to find out that Japan has stone circles from the late Jomon period located in the northern region. Like Stonehenge the Japanese Stone circles contain an inner and outer ring which is aligned with solstices. Even the states has its own stone circle in Wyoming called the Medicine wheel. There are other less famous circles hidden in Nebraska’s Sandhills and Bluemont Virginia.
If you don’t really care what formation a neolithic site takes, then the world is truly your oyster because scattered throughout the globe are sites from ancient pre-civilization peoples. Ohio is famous for its Great Snake Mound as well as the Newark Earthworks. White Sands New Mexico has footprints from over 20,000 years ago – take that Stonehenge! Colorado is home to the Cliff Palace located in Mesa Verde National Park. New Mexico has its own cliff dwellings as well as Aztec ruins. The small island of Malta has Megalithic temples. Ireland is home to Newgrange. One of the oldest known megaliths in the world, Gobekli Tepe, can be found in Turkey. Spain is home to the Dolmen Menga. India has its own dolmens in Marayoor Munnar and I could go on. As you can see dear reader the world is awash with ancient monuments if you know where to look. You may very well be shocked at how close you are to one. So don’t feel the need to put Stonehenge on your list of “must-do’s” if you haven’t already developed an obsession like me, but if you happen to find yourself in England the it is decidedly something I would recommend you make part of your trip.
Cost: $50*
* give or take with the exchange rate, going during non-peak season for a “super saver” discount and pre-booking online for an additional 15% discount and then accounting for the gas to arrive there from the rental.
Miles from home: 2,000
Miles from rental: 200 miles
Cost accounting for plane tickets, etc.: $150*
* You may wonder how I arrived at this number, it’s simple, I took the total cost of my travel (planes, buses, taxis, etc.) and then counted up all the places I checked off my list as a result of traveling to England, divided the total cost of travel by the number of places I got to go to arrive at about $100 per place. As it turns out England has a lot of places and experiences that are on my list which is why it was a top place to visit. I made certain to check off that list to maximize the money I was spending. Using this basic formula is something you can do when deciding where to go and what to do in order to maximize your travels. Yes, the upfront overall cost is quite high, but when considering how many things you can do at once, it may be worth the cost.
While this post was from an adventure many miles from home and involved a plane ride, many of my adventures were just a short drive away. Be sure to check my other posts listed on my Bucket List and Reverse Bucket List.
Travel Tips: Planes, Trains and Automobiles Part 3
We now, come to the end of my travel tips and my post on various modes of traveling, automobiles which usually come in two flavors when traveling abroad, taxis/ubers and rental cars.
Taxis are famously expensive and so I avoid them if possible, but sometimes you simply won’t have much of a choice, whether public transit isn’t running, doesn’t go to the destination or you’re simply too exhausted to bother hauling your luggage onto a subway in the middle of rush hour. On a recent trip to England, I actually opted for a combination of all these forms of transportation, a plane, buses, trains, subways, taxis and a rental car. I ended up taking a taxi mostly when the rental car wasn’t available because I arrived late on a Saturday afternoon several hours after it closed and it didn’t open until Monday and I really wanted to have time to go to Saint Michael’s Mount that Sunday because of other various parameters, Sunday was the optimal time to visit. Now as a tidal island, it’s only accessible by a causeway during low tide which happened to be from 11:30 to about 3:30 that. The bus didn’t leave until Sennen Cove until 12:00 pm and was an hour and a half ride meaning I wouldn’t have arrived until 1:30 pm, I still would have had a significant walk to the causeway giving me a rather slim amount of time to visit. Additionally, I would have been waiting until about 5 pm for a bus back to Sennen Cove. Meaning I would have had almost and hour and a half of waiting around outside. Given the parameters, I opted for a taxi.
If you find yourself at a major hub, hailing a taxi is usually as easy as walking up to the assembled line of taxis and hopping in the first one. Just be sure you’re going to an official taxi stand. Keep in mind you will pay an arm and a leg if you’re traveling far away from the hub. Now if you are going further out, you may run into taxi drivers refusing your business. Most countries have laws in place to protect you, but they may still try to. The best way to avoid that is first do your research to see if there are laws to protect you and the second is to wait until you get in the cab to tell the driver where you’re going. It’s a little harder for them to simply refuse your business once you’re all settled and they’ve pretty much committed to driving you.
If you aren’t at a major hub, you may need to either reserve a taxi ahead of time or call one. Make sure to verify the taxi’s credential look for the company’s name, logo and the driver’s identification card. If the local laws don’t require that or you’re using an app like Uber or Lyft be certain to note the license plate number. When using an ride hailing app double-check the car’s make, model and license plate match the information provided in the app. Other safety tips include refraining from sharing personal information, paying in cash if possible, sharing your trip details and keeping your valuables secure. If you ever feel unsafe, you can always request the driver drop you off at a safe place and call for a different cab. Make sure you know the local emergency numbers.
Make sure you have the address of your destination in an easily accessible place as you would hate to have the meter start running while you fumble about trying to confirm your destination. Don’t assume your driver will know precisely where to go.
Be sure you understand the fare structure when you’re traveling some places may charge a flat rate for rides within a given area, most use a meter to calculate fares based on distance and time. Knowing this ahead of time can help you budget. Make sure you research common scams and pitfalls related to taxi fares especially in high tourist areas as you may find yourself being charged unfairly. However, most of the time the drivers are honest and quite pleasant. In my experience most drivers prefer cash over card and they will often round down if you do offer them cash rather than card. You won’t save a ton of money but you may save a few bucks, so be prepared to pay with cash over card.
Now you may say, to heck with all this public transit and taxi nonsense, I’ll simply rent a car and drive as God intended! And it may be worth doing that. Depending on where you want to go, the availability of public transit to your desired destinations, how much time you have and the expense of taxis, renting a car may be the best option.
Remember that small trip to Saint Michael’s Mount? The taxi ended up costing me nearly 80 pounds for just one back and forth trip. Given that I desired to go to multiple places where buses and other forms of public transit simply did not go, taking a taxi everywhere was going to be quite a bit expensive. This meant that I opted for a rental. My rental car cost me 60 a day for the week (perhaps a little more with gas factored in). I was able to take multiple trips in a day, didn’t have to wait for a taxi to pick me up and didn’t have to worry about a meter running.
Additionally, I wanted to venture a bit further afield visiting Stonehenge, Bath, the Seal Sanctuary and Tintagel. Had I attempted to visit Stonehenge using public transit, I would have spent nearly 7 to 9 hours traversing the country side by taxi, bus and train. With a rental car, the trip was only 4 hours and I was able to add on Bath. The unexpected expense was of course the price of gas. It was astronomical, I certainly complain about gas prices in my home state of PA, but the UK made it look positively cheap.
The other unexpected challenge was not that I was driving on a different side of the road or even the traffic circles (we actually have several of them in my area), no instead it was that I had inadvertently rented a giant SUV and those roads are tiny! There were plenty of places in Cornwall where you couldn’t even fit two cars together meaning you had to drive backwards until hitting a spot with a section just wide enough for your to squeeze your car into while they passed you or they had to drive backwards to let you pass (I shall write a whole post about the adventures of driving in a foreign country eventually).
This meant that everytime I drove, I was worried about scratching the darn thing, so much so that I sprang for a little extra protection against damage to the car to reduce potential costs from 2,000 to 250. As it turns out most of the world does have tiny roads and unfortunately car manufacturers insist on making ever bigger cars. It may be worth it to research the models of car and pick the smaller one or to simply forego the SUV. Although, you may not want to do that if you will be going into the backroads since some of them are little more than dirt paths. I really felt that it was a no win situation with regards to the risk of damage to the car. Luckily, the fates were with me and I managed not to scratch the car. The key is not to rely solely on the camera and the sensors but rather ensure your mirrors are positioned so you can see the rear wheels and a little bit next to them. I learned this trick from an ambulance driver and I think if anyone knows how to maneuver a vehicle backwards without getting into an accident it would be them.
Additionally when renting a car, and this is very important, make sure you’ve rented an automatic car. Much of the world drives stick and much of America does not. I do not recommend renting a manual car if you’ve not driven them much before especially if going to a country like the UK. Do you really want to try driving on the opposite side of the road, with a million traffic circles, trying to drive stick while jet lagged? I didn’t think so. Additionally, make sure you’ve taken the time to research and review the relevant traffic laws and common symbols of the country you’ll be traveling to. Don’t assume that traffic signs are universal, yes most are self-explanatory but some aren’t.
There are other common pitfalls with rentals such as mileage, tolls, insurance, late returns and different pick up and drop off locations which can cost you money. When you do rent a car be certain to check the mileage as not every rental comes with unlimited mileage. Some will even limit you on taking your rental out of state or the local region. When traveling in the United States, a common issue for tolls is that rental cars will vastly overcharge you for any tolls that they cover. It can be difficult to opt out unless you ensure the toll transponder is closed and that you make sure you pay directly at the booth or online. Most places recommend you bring your transponder. The other option is to avoid toll roads altogether.
Insurance can be another place where you get overcharged. If you have a personal car insurance policy or a credit card that covers rental car insurance then getting it through the rental car company may be something you don’t need. If you have a credit card for coverage make sure it offers primary collision damage waiver and that the type of car you’re renting is covered and the country you’re traveling in is covered. However, credit card collision damage waivers do not cover personal injuries to you, your passenger or pedestrians involved in an accident.
Many rental car companies define rental period by 24 hours so if your return time is later than your pick up time, you’re going to pay for an entire additional day even if it’s a few hours difference. Some companies do have a grace period from 30 minutes to 2 hours if you return the car after the designated return time. This probably would have been helpful knowledge when I rented a car in England and saved me $60 as my pick up time was 9 am and I selected my drop off time as 12. I ended up picking it up closer to 10 am and dropping it off at around 11 am and could have saved about $60. Additionally if you pick up and drop off at a different location be prepared to be charged extra. Even if it’s convenient and easy for you to do so, it isn’t for the company and they’ll be certain to charge you for their trouble.
I also would recommend avoiding booking through third party sites. They may be attractive for lower prices but you lose a lot of protections if something goes amiss. If you need to alter your reservation or get a refund, it’s much easier to get what you need if dealing directly with the rental car company to begin with.
Finally, make sure that you check the vehicle before you drive off. Make sure that it has a full tank of gas, you take pictures and video of the car to note any damage and make sure you check the car’s vehicle identification number for information on the car’s features and any recalls. Be certain that any of issues are documented at the time of pick up.
Hopefully, you’ve found my tips to be informative and helpful for maximizing your travels and checking off your list. After all, while most of the things can be done closer to home, there are some things that can only truly be experienced by traveling.
Budget Bliss: Bucket List 