Rails to Ride

If you’ve been paying attention, I’ve used bigger words to describe whatever this is that I’ve been doing for the past nearly seven months. Adventure. Journey. Sometimes I’ve used trip. But I’ve never used vacation. I’ve never used holiday.

That’s been intentional.

This has been so much more than that. I didn’t sell nearly all my belongings, quit my job, and leave my amazing friends in Huntsville for merely a fun time.

Now I assure you, this has definitely been fun, and I certainly don’t act like this has been anything remotely close to having a job or anything like that. But that said, I didn’t do this just for jollies.

I couldn’t explain it at the time. I’m not sure I can explain it even still. But there was a deep urging inside of me that I had to do this. I couldn’t shake it. It was there for months, and as I mentioned at the outset, I never have anything like this persist in me for months. I either do it or it fades, maybe to come back another day, but this wouldn’t leave. I had to uproot myself. I had to do something incredibly uncomfortable.

I’ve drawn into my shell on any occasion that someone has called me brave for doing this. Brave, to me, is doing something dangerous like serving in the military or in law enforcement. What I am prepared to admit now, however, is that this was an incredibly courageous leap of faith.

And at 7:49 p.m. tonight, lord willing and the creek don’t rise, I will stick my landing squarely on both feet. Not a perfect 10, but maybe a 9.8 with a low score from the Russian judges.

There is yet more to come. I’m not ready to settle back down yet, but the international… eh, that makes it sound more special than it really is… the European part of this journey will, for now, come to a conclusion.

From the moment that I walked down Tothill Street, bleary-eyed following the overnight flight but eyes full of wonder as I walked past Westminster Abbey and then caught my first glimpse of Big Ben, it has been day after day of constantly pinching myself to make sure that all of this was real.

More than 50,000 kilometers traveled. Sixteen different countries. Nightly stops totaling 48. More than 50 different places visited when you add in day trips from a different home base.

Planes. Trains. Automobiles (if you count Ubers and taxis). Ships. And boats.

I have no idea where to even begin with highlights.

I am often asked what place I’ve enjoyed the most. I at first act like it’s a tough question to answer, and it is but only if they want to know more than the top place. Because the top place is clearly Italy.

You’ll recall my troubles in France, but something magical happened when I crossed that border on 8 February. From that point forward, no place dismayed me, but no place was as incredible as Italy. The magic of the Cinque Terre, especially having it practically to myself … being able to take in the impressive statuary work that is David in Florence … feeling like I was literally connected to an actual pulse of the city in Rome, both the current heartbeat and that of the distant past … imagining easily what it would have been like to live in Pompeii … and yes, even that crazy night on the Amalfi Coast.

Italy was absolutely incredible. 

If I had to make a top five, the other four places — but in no particular order — would be Scotland, Ireland, the Czech Republic, and Norway. 

I can’t think of a single place that didn’t yield at least one highlight, so trying to list them would probably just result in a thousand-word ramble about things I have already mentioned. At times I have felt like I wasn’t seeing enough, but when I look back from this point, I realize that could not be further from the truth. There were the ultra touristy things like the Colosseum and also the random things like the football match in Vienna. There were the old things like Stonehenge and the new things like the My Morning Jacket concerts.

There was so much. A brief recap could never suffice, nor could the totality of these blogs either. I tried to pen as many details as I could. I succeeded in some places, failed miserably in others. But thankfully we have an amazing hard drive in our heads, and mine is so full of so many amazing things.

It’s not just been the sights that have been incredible but also the people that I have met along the way.

There was the young couple on New Year’s Eve that I will never forget their laughing nervous agreement when I asked them if being in the middle of that mass of humanity was something you do once to say you did it but you never do it again. There was the man who rescued me in the off-the-beaten path restaurant in Paris when my high school lessons failed me (or I failed them) and I was totally stuck when the server asked me what I wanted to drink. There was the group of Brits who gave me some Euros to pay for a postcard back home at the Vatican when the post office didn’t take credit cards. There was Rafael the waiter at the restaurant next to the Pantheon in Rome who was by far the best server I had during my journey. There was the bus driver in Maori who patiently communicated with me in a universal language to let me know a bus would in fact be coming to rescue me. There was the friendliest sales associate at a clothing store in Vienna who helped me find a belt after my cheap Walmart-purchased one had broken in Venice. 

And there was Joey, my Dutch friend that I met in Prague. I had one of the best nights of the whole adventure that night, just drinking away and chatting with him at the Irish pub, and I still message with him every so often on the ‘gram. 

And there was Monyca, the fellow solo traveler on the transatlantic cruise, who was at times my twin, and I think of her every single time that I pass by a door. 

And there was Garry, my tour guide in Orkney who helped me discover the land from which I hail, and there was his father with his Scottish accent that was way too thick for me to understand without at least one repetition.

And there was Erica, she of My Morning Jacket fandom fame, who made the time waiting in Manchester zoom by, and I can’t wait to see her again at Red Rocks.

There were also folks I already knew in Seth and Jordan. Getting to watch Seth play was so special, but walking for miles and catching up with him in London was even better. And getting to hang out with Jordan in his homeland made me appreciate where he comes from in a different way.

There have been various times along the way where I’ve felt like I missed out on some opportunities to meet folks and meet whatever grand expectations I set forth in my head, but looking back I realize that I met exactly the perfect amount of folks. I’m introverted, and I love that. But I broke out of my shell more than I would have ever been comfortable doing so before.

I never would have spoken to those people standing next to me on the bridge in London that December-turning-into-January night. That’s my dad, not me. Did I do it all the time? No, of course not. But I did it way more than I ever would have before.

It’s hard to put into words all the ways that I have grown. I can’t explain it, but I can feel it. It truly has been a life-changing course of events. 

I still have no certain idea of what’s next, but I have some ideas. I think one thing that drove Pops nuts about this journey of mine is that I could never answer his question of what I was going to do when I was done. I purposely set a chunk of money aside so I wouldn’t have to consider that question. It would have eaten at me the entire time, and I wouldn’t have enjoyed myself by just being present. Also, I wanted to be open to any possibility that may arise. Becoming an ex-pat was always (and still is, to a degree) on the table. 

But as the international part has started to wind down, I’ve had a thought or two creep in there.

With those My Morning Jacket shows at Red Rocks coming up, I plan to spend about six weeks out west, driving around Colorado, Utah, and other states that I like but want to experience more than I have before. I have a rough idea of about the six weeks in my head, and then it will really be time to figure out exactly what comes next.

I can tell you this for certain: whatever it is, it’ll be with the main goal of acquiring more experiences like this. I’m no longer interested in things. I’ve done that. I had my house with my nice furniture and my whatever elses, but that could all be gone in an instant. Some act of nature or one wrong spark, and poof, it could be gone.

But nothing can take the memories that I have made away from me. They will remain with me always, both serving as fantastic mementos of what has been, and also as motivation for what may be. 

Sure, maybe I won’t be able to just drop everything and see a segment of the world for six months at a time again. But I know I never want to stop traveling. I never want to stop seeing how other folks get on with it. I never want to be in my little bubble ever again. 

We are all so unique, so amazing. No one better than the next. And the only way to truly appreciate what we all, what every citizen of this planet brings to the table is to get out there and be part of it. 

I don’t think we can truly “live like a local” like I wanted to do, as Rick Steves suggests we can. But we can try our best. We can be respectful of other cultures. We can adapt as best as possible to the expectations set forth by other lands. And we can hope for that to be reciprocated wherever we may be, whatever customs we might practice. 

Maybe some day those differences won’t exist, and John Lennon will have his way. I consider Imagine often, and I think there is massive virtue in eliminating things that separate us. But I also think we must cling to those things that make us unique, as long as they are things that do no harm to others. 

There is a balanced approach in there somewhere. I am eternally optimistic that we can find it.

Because after all, we’re all just spinning around, out on the circuit, over the hallowed ground. 

I have always loved music.

I can remember when I was a wee little lad (I’ve spent way too much time in the UK… j/k there’s no such thing) having a revelation that if I were in a bad mood, music always changed it.

But it wasn’t until sometime in the late winter or early spring, I believe, of 2004 that I began to like good music thanks to the influence of a good friend of mine. His favorite band is The Black Crowes, so that’s where we started. They were on a hiatus at the time, and lead singer Chris Robinson had a solo project going on at the time which released an album that summer.

The song was 40 Days.

I remember exactly where I was, in my bedroom on Columbia Avenue where a little side table served as the place for the keyboard for my computer after something had destroyed the slide-out tray that had previously been attached to the desk. It was a Friday, and I quite specifically remember that it was a late afternoon because I remember shortly afterwards being outside in the driveway talking with my mom and my grandfather after he had finished work for the week. Not that the conversation was about 40 Days, it’s just that it’s a very vivid detail I remember about what ended up being a pretty monumental day in my life.

There was other music before that and I’m fairly positive I had picked up TBC’s The Southern Harmony and Musical Companion and fallen hard for a couple songs from that record, but it was 40 Days that sealed my fate.

It’s upbeat — of course it is — starts with a rollicking bit and then Chris sings…

Lost in the equinox / Lightning flash in a blood-red sky…

Absolutely. Positively. Hooked.

This began countless late nights (read: more like early mornings) where our AIM conversations would go something like this: what’s up? nothing much, you? nothing much…wanna listen to some music?

My answer was never no.

Not all of the details are as clear as that day when he first shared 40 Days with me so I don’t have all of the timeline right, but because my friend was there, I paid a lot of attention to Bonnaroo that year. Like I say, the details are hazy, but I feel like there was a video stream available? That feels a little early for that, but I also feel like I watched some of the sets from that weekend. But it might have just been the digital audio recordings they had available pretty quickly.

Regardless, I know that it wasn’t just Chris Robinson and the New Earth Mud or the North Mississippi Allstars — a band that held the title as my favorite for a long time — that had my attention that weekend.

What I don’t remember is if my friend had introduced me to My Morning Jacket before Bonnaroo, if I watched their set, or if we listened to it afterwards. I wish I knew, but I’d just be making it up if I said I did. What I do know is that I remember hearing their song Dancefloors from their set one way or the other, and when the album that 40 Days is on came out later that month, I also left Best Buy with MMJ’s It Still Moves.

I’ve used several Jacket songs for titles of entries — Circuital on the last one, for example, or also Mahgeetah for the entry when I got out of my French funk and started to enjoy myself again.

Mahgeetah is the opener of It Still Moves, and it’s as the kids say nowadays an absolute banger. It’s followed by the aforementioned Dancefloors which makes you want to, well, dance, and Golden calms it down a little bit next with the album’s first acoustic guitar introduced along with a sumptuous — I said it — pedal steel.

It’s three amazing songs that set the tone for what is an amazing album.

But It Still Moves and 2005’s Z didn’t immediately make My Morning Jacket my favorite band. No, that was the Allstars and the Crowes. From 2004 to 2009, I saw those two bands more than 20 times, catching nearly every show for both that they played in Florida.

Jacket was most always third, sometimes with Wilco slipping ahead, but they a) didn’t play Florida too often — only two headlining shows — during that period where I was going to so many shows and b) released a DVD that convinced me that I would not want my typical position of being as close to the stage as possible because the crowd seemed to be quite rambunctious. “Don’t go down front then,” my wise friend said in his typical short but practical and unable to be argued against way.

Oh how I wouldn’t take that advice.

Still with me? If so, congratulations. You deserve a medal.

Don’t worry, we’re going to skip a lot of time now. Fast forward to 2021. The Covid shutdowns have ended, concerts are happening again, and Jacket’s put out yet another new album. I say yet another because they made for one of the best stay-at-home days when they surprisingly released a follow-up to The Waterfall with a Thursday night listening party on YouTube.

“Wanna listen to some music?” Yep, we both listened and texted throughout. It really was one of the coolest things MMJ could have done in that crazy time, and I think that’s what rekindled my love for them. Not that it had gone away or anything, but I had moved on from the Allstars and the Crowes to Robinson’s latest solo project and obsessed over them for a few years.

That’s what I do. I obsess. I get into one or two bands, and that’s to what I devote 94.7 percent of my music time.

So when Jacket announced a smattering of tour dates, I was bound to make it to a show finally. I debated between an outdoor amphitheater show in Atlanta or an indoor show at a cool-looking theatre in St. Louis, and I settled on the November 6, 2021, gig in the Sh0w Me State.

I summed it up to my friend in one word: transcendental.

It was a life-changing moment. It really was. The feelings that I had from seeing Jacket live… there’s no way I have words to adequately express it.

On a whim, I caught them again last spring in Memphis, and then after making my decision to sell everything and go on this journey, I followed them around for a week across the South. I had a ticket to the show in Huntsville already, so why not add Wilmington, Asheville, and Nashville to the list?

I said in an Instagram post it was on the best weeks of my life, and that’s no hyperbole.

I also began to joke with my friend that it would be awfully convenient if they’d tour in Europe while I’m over here, and then after they all but confirmed they sure enough would be, they finally announced a run of festival shows in addition to two headlining nights in the UK along with another pair in Belgium and The Netherlands.

I bought the tickets as soon as the pre-sale started, buying the two EU shows on a train in Italy and the two UK dates while standing in line at Five Guys in the Rome train station.

So that brings us to last week.

After my incredible time in the Orkneys and a brief stop in Edinburgh which included catching up with UAH soccer alum Jordan Wright and hugging strangers in a pub while watching Everton escape the drop yet again, I headed back to London. This was my third time there this year, and I have to admit that there’s something cool about not having to look for directions to my usual hotel… or my usual Mexican restaurant (that’s right, I’ve gone back to Wahaca… multiple times).

Not having anything better to do, I went ahead and took the Northern Line up a few stops having decided to just go ahead and get to the venue. It wasn’t a conscious decision to get there and be in line early, but rather I was just bored at the hotel after eating a late lunch and not wanting to eat again before the show.

“Don’t go down front then,” I heard in my head, smiling as I posted up at a spot on the rail just a few paces to the left of where Carl Broemel’s place on stage is. That was always a dumb comment that I made that led to my friend saying that, and I realized that during the four shows in the summer when I was in the GA pit for each of them. So I’d been close before, but not that close.

I pretty much was alway on the rail for the Allstars, and there was one TBC show that I managed to be up there. It’s just a totally different experience. From an atmospherics perspective, there’s nothing to serve as a distraction in front of you — other than perhaps an overzealous security officer who blocked my view for several moments later that night standing on top of the barrier as if he was going to stop whatever probably harmless nefarious thing he saw going on (but they also handed out water to everyone so it evened out) — and from a musical perspective it’s really quite a treat to watch artists perform from that close range. You notice things they do to make certain sounds that you just wouldn’t see from other places in the venue, and it really is quite a treat.

The show was fantastic, and I saw my 53rd different song — yes, I keep track of such things … record keeping used to be part of my career, if you’ll recall — when Jim James and Carl played a beautiful I Will Be There When You Die from the band’s first album. It’s a softer song, and I must say it was quite refreshing to have a change of pace from American audiences because the Brits didn’t make a peep that I could hear whereas folks back in the States absolutely would have been annoyingly yapping through it.

Needless to say, my rail addiction was back in full force, and I was determined to be back up there the next night in Manchester. Or at least I would be if I was able to get there in time for the show…

Rail strikes. I swear. Again, I won’t opine on whether they’re a good thing or not because it’s not my place I don’t feel like, but it sure did make for a stressful Wednesday. I left the hotel with just under an hour until the scheduled departure of my coach. That should have been plenty of time to get to the Victoria Coach Station, but the Victoria Line (I love the names of the Underground lines more than I should) ended up having delays, forcing me to have to rush to the station and try to make sense of this mode of transportation I hadn’t yet used.

I found the gate my coach was at, hurried through a mass of humanity to get there with just minutes to spare, only to realize in a moment of horror that I apparently in my haste had read the departures board wrong, something that was especially troublesome considering the gate I had speed walked to was at the far end of the station. When I say that I was relieved when I saw “delayed” on the board when I found the actual gate I was to use…

Eventually a coach showed up, they let some folks on, and then it left.

No announcement. No explanation. Nothing.

Did I do something wrong, I wondered to myself. Was there some last call I didn’t hear and these other folks around me are waiting for the next coach from this gate? I hadn’t stopped sweating from all the hurrying with the however many pounds bag on my back (I was really regretting the full bottle of Highland Park 12 Year Old Viking Honour I purchased in Kirkwall that was adding to the weight), but somehow I broke out into even more of a nervous waterfall of perspiration.

I wasn’t worried about the hotel I might never get to. I wasn’t worried about trying to figure out where to stay in London if I never made it.

I was only worried about Jacket.

Thankfully other folks quickly confirmed they too were still supposed to be headed to Manchester, and finally a worker at the gate told us that they were sending another coach because they had overbooked it due to the train strikes.

It was an uncomfortably long journey on the M40 but eventually we made it, with just enough time to drop my things off in the hotel, grab a quick shower, scarf down a bite, and head to the venue.

The venue where I would be the first person in line. Even I laugh at myself a bit for that. (Though to be fair, I don’t think about 45 minutes before doors is that early.)

While in line I met the famous Erica who just a couple shows prior back in the States had been to her 100th MMJ show, and she was still riding the high of being celebrated by the band at the end of the show that night. I met several more folks over the course of the three remaining shows, and while I’m perfectly content seeing a show solo, there’s also something really cool about feeling part of a communal experience with people you know. It also doesn’t hurt having some folks to talk to pass the time before the show starts.

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The Manchester venue was nice and intimate, and the show was — this will start to get redundant — fantastic. I was especially delighted to get Mahgeetah as a closer, sending me back to the hotel floating on air as a terrific closer to not only the show but also the day that started off kind of hairy and finished so spectacularly.

The next show wasn’t until the next Monday (that’s 5 June if you’re trying to keep up with what day of the calendar we’re on here for some reason), so I went back to London for a couple nights and then took the Eurostar to Belgium on Saturday to head to Antwerp where I mainly just hung out at the Airbnb, cooked my meals to save some money, and walked around in a couple of nearby squares for some good people watching.

This is where I’ll note the difference between being here in the winter and being here now: so many more people. And that’s a double-edged sword. It’s definitely much livelier which makes everything seem more vibrant, but it sure was nice (and cheaper) to kind of feel like in some of the places that I was one of the only visitors around.

I knew from some interviews with the band I had read that Jacket really credits Belgium and The Netherlands for getting them going, having curiously taken off here before back in the US, so I was excited for these two shows since it had been a while since they’ve played over here.

We were not to be disappointed.

In Antwerp, Jim mentioned at one point in the middle of the show after paying homage to the locals for that aforementioned early support that the band — and specifically Jim and bassist Tom Blankenship who have been together since the start — was playing their 1,000th show either that night or the next night in Utrecht. What an absolute treat to be there to experience that!

Speaking of Tom, this is probably when I’ll start to sound a bit stalkerish or a little woo woo or what have you, but there was a moment that happened when they played Mahgeetah again in Antwerp. If you put me in a situation where I absolutely had to choose my favorite song of all-time, it’s Mahgeetah. If you then asked me what my favorite part of the song is, I would tell you it’s right at the end of the second verse when it quiets down and Tom’s bass line becomes the focal point for a brief moment. There’s just something about it that is so cool to me.

I also happened to have the awareness to have my phone out and try yet again to get a decent video of Mahgeetah to be able to look back at and enjoy again — the other three times they played it I either was so excited that the video sucked or I just didn’t even try at all — and I started filming just in time for that awesome part where Tom shines. And as he bounced around in such a way that matches the feel-good nature of the song, he happened to grin while looking right into the lens.

The next night in Utrecht, this happened multiple times where I’d make eye contact with Tom and we’d both just grin, and it reminded me of the similar performer-fan eye relationship I had when following the Allstars around with their bassist at the time Chris Chew. And while I may or may not have a little bit of a crush on Tom (I do), let’s be clear that has nothing to do with why I think those moments are so special. I just think it’s really cool to know that they are able to be in tune with their crowd, to know and feel the appreciation for their craft.

The music is spectacular, and if they stood behind a completely opaque curtain and performed, I’d still go. But the experience is heightened so much more by feeling like in some small way you’re… I don’t know how to say it other than… part of the performance?

While on the train the day after the Utrecht show, I listened to a podcast Tom had been on, and he even stated as much, that if you see him looking out and smiling during a show, it’s because he’s just so stoked that someone is there enjoying their music. So I thought that was really cool, and you can think I’m weird and I don’t care.

My shared grins with Tom notwithstanding, the Utrecht show was… well, and I don’t say this lightly… the absolute best concert experience of my life.

If it’s not that, then it’s tied for that with my first time seeing The Black Crowes or seeing them at the Ryman.

It was that good.

I walked out of there on cloud 99 (that’s right, not just cloud nine, but cloud 99), and as I strolled back to my hotel in the amazing city of Utrecht that I wish had more time to visit, I couldn’t help but think of my friend messaging me at 2 in the morning in our college days, asking me if I wanted to listen to some music.

And so my usage of Thank You Too! as the title isn’t just to My Morning Jacket for four incredible evenings of interstellar-level good music, but it’s to him also for his influence.

It’s funny because music is a perfect little microcosm of our friendship. We are alike in so many ways, and yet we are also so very different in so many ways. Obviously on a broader scale, we both like the music. Alike: checkmark. He enjoys it much more for the technical ability of the artists, for the things they’re able to do with their instruments or with their voices, while I on the other hand absolutely appreciate that, but really I’m just a big ole hippy at heart who gets lost in the cosmic universe of the journey that the music sends me on. Different: checkmark.

And so I can’t wait for my next scheduled Jacket shows — their tour schedule is permanently open in my browser and I have nothing planned for much of the summer currently… — which will come at the magical Red Rocks in Colorado at the end of August.

But before that happens and before I get back stateside, I have to go find out a little bit more about my apparent Viking heritage, so if you’ll excuse me as I’m still trying to catch up on sleep from not getting a great night of rest after the show in Utrecht and then having to wake up at 5:30 for a 15-hour day on the rails heading up to Scandinavia.

Skål.

Thank You Too! | My Morning Jacket

“Sixteen go in, but only fifteen come out.”

Who knew that the place from where my ancestors hail was also the home thousands of years before that to Neolithic inhabitants that buried their dead in chambered cairns where I, some nearly five millennia later, would be threatened with the possibility of going for a visit but potentially not coming out?

“Okay, Garr,” I said to my tour guide, shortening his name from Garry after only knowing him for a couple hours. “Let’s go on and leave.”

But I wasn’t going to leave, mainly because Garry had worked some magic to even get us a spot to visit this site that is booked up solid for weeks to come.

At several stops along my travels, I’ve seen folks walking around with their own personal tour guide. I’ve heard that hiring a local guide is hands down the best way to experience a place, but I never could justify the cost. That is until I got to Orkney. There it had to be done.

The largest island — known to the residents simply as Mainland — has so many incredible things to see, but it really is quite necessary to have a car to get you around to all of them. So it was with that in mind — I mean, come on, there’s no way I’m renting a car and driving on the wrong side of the road… nevermind that they’re all manual transmission — that I got on the internet and started looking for guided tours.

My initial thought was to just do something similar to which I’ve done at Stonehenge and the two in Ireland, but then the more I thought about it, I felt like I could absolutely justify splurging here, at this place that directly holds some of my roots.

An hour or two later, I settled on Garry of Orkney Travel, and he later let me know that I emailed him just in time as someone else messaged him literally minutes after I did asking if he had last-minute availability on Thursday.

It. Was. So. Worth. It.

The day before my guided tour, I took the bus across the island from Stromness to Kirkwall where my Airbnb for the next two nights was located, and I knew just from that bus trip that I was going to enjoy the next day if only for the scenery alone (and I may have said a prayer or two to any travel god that would listen to please keep the weather at bay).

After settling in and starting a load of laundry — this is why I alternate between hotels and Airbnbs — I headed out for dinner and ended up at Harbour Fry, a local fish and chips spot.

Anyone that knows me knows that I hate places where you order at a counter. I absolutely hate them. I loathe them. I don’t like the pressure of having to read the menu that’s on the wall, usually in a font too small for my glasses-needing eyes. I don’t like the pressure of having people waiting behind you. I don’t like it. Not one bit.

So I walked right on by Harbour Fry the first time I passed, only to find that the other restaurant I was interested in was packed. 

No problem. This whole thing has been all about stepping out of so many of my comfort zones. Might as well do it yet again. Even if begrudgingly.

“Yeah what’ll you be havin?” the bearded man at the register asks after I haltingly step up.

Somehow, incredibly, I don’t even see the big-ass (sorry for the expletive, but it’s the only way I know to drive home my point about how large this menu was) menu on the wall behind the counter. 

“Umm…” 

Oh god, just keep going Taylor. Say something.

“I don’t really know how this works.”

OH GOD.

“What do you want to eat?”

I’m tempted to run away, but I squeak out something about fish and chips and a Diet Coke, and I have to stop myself from flying over to the table in the very back when he says they’ll bring it out to me.

But it was all so worth is as the fish was one of the best pieces of fried fish I’ve ever had in my life.

It was so good that I decided right then I was coming back the next night, and I observed carefully how the locals would come in and order so I would be more prepared. I cannot confirm or deny that I stood in front of the bathroom mirror later that night, reciting my line — “I’ll have the fish supper, please” … “the fish supper, yeah?” … “Can I get the fish supper?” — over and over.

Anyways, you’re not here for tales of my social anxiety, so let’s get to the good stuff the next day.

My private seven-hour tour with Garry began that morning at the absolutely beautiful St. Magnus Cathedral, and it was obvious from the jump that Garry was going to be incredible. 

There are just details that you get when on a tour that you don’t get otherwise. He pointed out to me that the grand building was built in several phases, noting the changes in the architecture that existed inside. He showed me how the shoreline used to be much closer to the church, with the columns on the front of the structure indeed showing the wear and tear that came from being right next to the sea in what is a hostile windy environment.

All day I just was beyond appreciative for his incredible insight, and it was especially impressive because of how much he knew about sites that stretched from that way-back Neolithic period to as recently as World War II.

After the cathedral, he took me to the first grand view we’d have of the day, up to the top of a hill where a radar site used to be during the aforementioned war, and it provided a sweeping look of the Scapa Flow — the second-largest sheltered harbor in the world behind only Sydney Harbor — and other nearby islands in the archipelago (I love you autocorrect).

Upon descending back down, Garry explained that we were next going to visit the Maeshowe chambered cairn, an addition to our itinerary that he was able to luckily book that morning.

Lucky is an understatement when you consider the amazing experience I was about to have.

It was while we were waiting in the visitor center to catch the shuttle out to the site that a jolly lady who worked there and got on great with Garry looks at me and says that sixteen people go in but only fifteen come out.

I half-believed her.

And we all burst out laughing when I told my new friend Garr that it was time to leave.

It was even more believable when we arrived at the mound. 

The entryway is small at only three-feet high, forcing visitors to crouch down to get inside for a length of 30 feet, but it’s well worth the cramped corridor when you pop into the small but impressive main chamber.

Other chambers jut off from the perfect circle that’s made of ginormous solid slabs of stone, and pondering how they even moved the blocks there isn’t the most amazing thing to consider because there’s also the fact that the entrance is aligned perfectly so that on the Winter Solstice, the sun shines down the shaft and hits the back wall.

I came to just one conclusion: aliens.

But seriously, how amazing is that? Archeologists date the structure back to around 2800 BC, and these folks were so incredible that not only did they have a way to get the huge pieces of rock there from miles away but then also to build it in such a way to hold such spiritual significance.

Impressive.

The site also features Norse runic inscriptions on the wall — more than thirty which is the largest single number of them anywhere in the world — which would have been done after the Vikings raided the place sometime in the 12th century.

I wasn’t going to have some Neolithic spiritual force suck me into one of the other side chambers, so I made sure I was one of the first ones out to catch the bus to head back to the visitor center where Garry was waiting to take me to the next place.

The first of two stone circles we would see, the Standing Stones of Stenness was our subsequent stop, and this place was special for multiple reasons. First off, unlike Stonehenge or even the next circle we would visit, you can walk right up to the stones, and it is also from this place that you get an incredible perspective of the Neolithic features around you. If you face in one direction, directly behind you is the Maeshowe tombs. Between there and Stenness is the Barnhouse Stone which is also directly in line with the Winter Solstice. Ahead of you is the Ring of Brodgar with another newly-discovered, apparently very special and unique site in between, and off in the distance is the Pompeii of Orkney, the Skara Brae. 

It was so easy to gaze out across this area dotted with only a couple modern homesteads and imagine what it must have been like thousands of years ago.

I used to stand on top of Winstead Hill in Franklin and look down towards the center of town and imagine what it must have been like on the evening of the Battle of Franklin in the Civil War.

That was like looking back mere moments in time comparatively.

The Ring of Brodgar was more complete, and while it not be as ornate as Stonehenge, it was equally impressive in my mind, especially the ditch that they would have dug out around the site, keeping in mind that they didn’t have great tools with which to do so and would have hit bedrock after only a few inches.

Speaking of Stonehenge, one of the cool things about having Garry showing me around was how thought-provoking him being there proved to be. For example, after he shared with me that it was believed that Stenness could potentially be the first such circle anywhere, it made me wonder if maybe as these people spread south and evolved, they also became more ambitious, more advanced, and thus the more ornate nature of the circle at Stonehenge.

From Brodgar, we headed to Skara Brae, and when I tell you this was one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen, I mean it was REALLY one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen. 

Nearly perfectly preserved until a storm in the mid-1800s washed away a dune and revealed it, Skara Brae was a sunken settlement, built into the ground and mounds of organic waste such as animal bone and other items. 

When first discovered, the site contained 10 connected homes, and as you stand above it, you can absolutely picture how it all fits together. Everything remains so remarkably in tact that it’s easy to see where the beds would have been, the hearths in the middle of each house, the shelving units in the back of each one. You can even still see their incredible system of drainage that they used, carrying their sewage out to the sea. 

JUST. INCREDIBLE. Truly.

Seeing as Garry had grabbed a bite while I was on the tour at Maeshowe and I wasn’t about to waste any of our time pausing for a meal, that gave my guide time for more extra things, and he took us next to an amazing series of cliffs that more than made up for whatever I missed out on Ireland.

They can have their Irish cliffs. These were cliffs my predecessors may have seen.

The wind was really blowing and the waves were amazing, and the closest thing I’ve ever seen to that was when we were on Cape Cod for Tropical Storm Danny back in the 90s. And that’s only because there were some rocks there and the waves crashed high on them and it was cool.

But these were seriously high rocks and seriously high waves.

From there, we headed to the locations I had seen mentioned for some of the names that popped up on Ancestry. Some listed Orphir and others Hobbister, so I thought these were two different places, but Garry explain that Orphir is more like a smaller region on the island while Hobbister is more of a specific location.

“So this is now getting into Orphir,” Garry said.

The hair on my arms stood up on end and for the first time that day I was speechless. I couldn’t even mutter something about it being amazing or impressive.

The scenery, yes, it was beautiful with rolling hills all around, but it was just the thought that someone who may have played a role in my being a person walked around this place that really caused me to be emotional. 

“And this is Hobbister.”

He took a turn clearly down someone’s driveway and took off towards an area on his map that was more specific than you’d find on Apple or Google Maps. 

If I were my father, I would have gotten out and walked around and probably gone into the person’s house to ask them some questions, but I am not my father and so I was perfectly content just driving through, especially since I knew we were going to go a short bit up the road to a bird sanctuary that is technically in the Hobbister area too.

I think Garry could tell that this was a moment for me, and he stayed in the car when we got the wildlife refuge while I got out and just walked around, looking back towards the area we had just been.

My Morning Jacket’s Circuital ends like this:

Well anyway you cut it / We’re just spinning around / Out on the circuit / Over the hallowed ground / Out on the circuit / Over the hallowed ground / Ending up in the same place / That we started out / Right back in the same place / Right back in the same place / That we started out

I never knew that I’d be able to apply this literally, or at least not anymore so than going back to Franklin to walk on the patch of grass where the battlefield folks destroyed my childhood home (do I sound bitter?).

What an experience, and I can’t encourage you strongly enough to both a) visit Orkney and b) seek out your ancestry. Even if it’s only back a few generations, please do it. You won’t be upset.

After visiting a couple other sites, my time with Garry was winding down, and he had one last surprise for me.

Whatever fancy service he was using back at Hobbister, he also used to find one last site after I pointed out that Ancestry put my 10th great grandfather’s birthplace as Dykeside, Outertown, Orkney, Scotland. 

He zoomed in to Outertown, found a Dykeside, and then tapped on a site that was listed simply as Fletts and was marked as ruins. 

If William Flett wasn’t in that specific building, he had to have strong relations to someone who did, and Garry was determined to get me there.

Outertown is just on the outskirts of Stromness, as the name suggests, which is where my ferry back to mainland Scotland was leaving from on Friday, so Garry said he’d have his dad pick me up to take me back and we’d stop by that site first.

How incredibly nice!

Garry’s dad was a hoot, and he was also extremely gracious to me. “I guess I’m a little bit more Scottish,” he chuckled after the 72nd time I said “I’m sorry?” after not being able to understand something he said.

We arrived and just like I feared after viewing the location on Google Maps, the road ended and became someone’s driveway, but just like the day before, there we went, unbothered by the property owner as we continued onward with a view of indeed some ruins in the distance.

Finally the driveway ended, getting us as close as possible, but well within visual range. The hair stood up again, and it was Garry’s dad that I had to convince that we needn’t get out and walk up to the remains of the house. Again, I was perfectly content just viewing it from this intrusive but still polite distance.

I thanked him over and over the short ride back down to Stromness and one more time when we arrived back at the ferry terminal, where I boarded the boat and enjoyed the ride back. Yes, I gazed upon the cliffs as we passed them, just as stunning as on Tuesday if not more so shrouded in fog as they were, but I also couldn’t help but look back, reflecting on my time in Orkney.

With the ferry arriving in Thurso after 1800, I decided to just spend the night there again, and that’s why I was still reflecting after dinner as I walked down to the sea to look out at my ancestral home one more time. It was a stroll of solitude along the beach, with not another soul in sight in the day’s long-lasting light as it approached 2100 and was still plenty bright as I looked out across Thurso Bay and to the Orkneys in the distance.

In that moment, a lyric came to mind from Chris Robinson & The New Earth Mud’s If You See California in which he sings “there is a place that is close to me / a place made of mountain and sea.”

While Orcadians might call them hills and they might not be wooded and rugged in a traditional sense, they’d qualify as mountains in some parts such as back in Alabama and the weather conditions at times could certainly qualify as rugged if not also the geography (though at the cliffs it certainly is), and so this line struck me. 

There is indeed is a place that a close to me that is made of mountain and sea. 

And when you consider my father’s love of the mountains and my mother’s adoration of the sea, being a descendant of those who started in such a place makes all the sense in the world.

I’m glad I was one of the 15 that made it out so I can get home to tell them about it.

Circuital | My Morning Jacket

Taylor son of Michael son of Harlan son of Isaac son of Marion son of John son of Isaac son of John son of John Thomas Flatt son of Jasper Flett son of Jasper son of William son of Jaspert of Hobbister son of Robert of Hobbister son of Ninian of Hobbister son of William of Hobbister. 

In 1482 in Hobbister in the Orkney Islands way up north of mainland Great Britain, my 14th great grandfather was born. 

He was a Flett, not a Flatt, as the name change in our lineage occurred when John Thomas was sent to America apparently for committing larceny. 

At least this is all what Ancestry.com tells me, and I’m rolling with it.

Remember my day of indecision in Barcelona when I couldn’t settle on the plan for the next couple of weeks? I had a similar night in Dublin. It wasn’t quite as dramatic, and I mapped out the rest of my time in Ireland pretty quickly. But what I wasn’t counting on was the night stretching into the wee hours of the morning looking up my familial history.

Before I started this journey, one of the things that I thought would be cool to do is travel to some places where folks that came before me resided, but I never followed through in doing any research on that. 

That is until I had decided that I loved Ireland so much (without even really seeing much of it yet to that point) that I hoped some of those who had come before me were from there so I could go find their places.

And so that’s how I ended up until nearly sunrise — random aside: but the looooooong days up this way are insane… sun up before 6, sunset in the 9 pm hour and not really dark until well past 10 — plugging away at my family tree on Ancestry.

I couldn’t believe it when it kept on finding father after father in a direct line from me to my dad and so on, but there it went, all the way back to William Flett of Hobbister who was born in 1482.

After finding a couple neat facts that I won’t reveal yet in this entry, it was settled. To Scotland I go.

So from Limerick, I took a bus back to the airport in Dublin after deciding that, again, a budget airline was going to make more sense than ferrying over to the UK and then taking however long to train up here. And also again it was going to be a late-night flight. 

It ended up being an early-morning flight.

It’s really quite amazing if you think about it that the only travel issues I have run into during this whole adventure prior to leaving Ireland was when I thought I might have to sleep underneath the train platform in the Cinque Terre in Italy, so I’m not really complaining, especially because this wasn’t *that* big of a deal really. It was more comical than anything now that I feel better from the bad cold I was suffering from on Sunday.

Ryanair began the boarding process for our flight, only to have us all standing in a holding area just off the tarmac for 15 minutes so they could come tell us hey j slash k, the crew for this flight hasn’t landed yet. They’ll be here in an hour.

Crew gets there later than that. We board. We sit there. We sit there. 

“Hi this is the captain speaking. So as you know we are a new crew for this aircraft. We were told it was good, everything ready to go, plenty of fuel. Turns out, that is incorrect. They did not put enough fuel in the aircraft if they put any in at all. We’ve called a couple times, but we are still waiting.”

Oh. Okay. Cool.

We finally takeoff about 30 minutes later, and after a bit of an adventurous landing in a foggy Edinburgh — they wouldn’t let us keep our devices on at all for landing for fear of the light from them messing with the pilot in some way — we were a good two hours behind schedule.

We’ll ignore the story for now about how when I stood up to get off the plane, my knee completely buckled and I had to be about three milliseconds away from an ACL tear. It hurt. Bad. But we’re still here.

Thankfully I had decided to take the afternoon/evening train from Edinburgh up to the farthest north stop in Scotland or else I would have been a really grumpy passenger on the most amazing train ride I’ve had yet.

Even just 45 minutes outside of Edinburgh (which is also amazing looking and I will be back there this weekend) was stunning beautiful, but as the train kept going further and further north, the views only became better and better.

The Scottish Highlands are simply incredible. 

There were so many visual highlights: the church spires that poke out above the tree line as the train zoomed past small Scottish communities, the River Garry flowing along to the left side of the train, the mountains off to the right side, the bright yellow swatches of gorse bushes growing all over the place, so many sheep.

After stopping in Inverness for a change and as the tracks continued to carry me higher, I couldn’t help but think that life in the places passing by has to be a little more simple, a little more unchanged. This is probably both good and bad, but I admit I’m a little envious.

At some point the views switched to watery scenes as the trip hugs the coast along the North Sea, and each stop appeared to be even more quaint, soaking in a nostalgia of which I know nothing but feel its presence so strong.

Finally a nine-hour train journey concluded in Thurso. Go right now and look it up on a map. It’s waaaay up there. 

I dealt with only a small handful of folks in Thurso, the people at the hotel and the taxi driver, but I can tell you this unequivocally: the folks there might be among the most kind and hospitable I’ve ever met. It wasn’t anything extraordinary that happened. But rather it was just how pleasant they were doing the ordinary things.

It felt good.

It felt like… home.

But home isn’t in Thurso.

Thurso was simply the place to catch the ferry to head to the Orkneys, specifically the island referred to as the mainland. 

That sea-faring adventure was today, and let me tell you that I was not at all prepared of how amazing of an experience it was going to be.

It was only a short 90-minute sailing, and only the first few minutes of it were non-eventful. 

I sat in one of the lounges for maybe 20-30 minutes before venturing around the ship, laughing at myself as the rocking of the vessel would remind you that the waters were in charge, not your legs, and you’d walk wherever the sea wanted you to. Thank goodness for handrails.

Finally I made my way up to the sun deck, a comical name considering the clouds and mist, but the weather didn’t matter. Not one bit.

Ireland can have the Cliffs of Moher. I couldn’t possibly care less that I missed out on that now. 

It started with the Old Man of Hoy which is a sea stack with a heigh of nearly 450 feet. Some of the cliffs that you pass after that reach more than 1,150 feet towards the heavens. I simply had no idea we were going to see these things. Pictures, as is so often the case, can’t possibly do it justice, but I did record a lot of video that I will share on my social platforms that I think helps make the case that this is one of the most beautiful places on the planet.

And now I know why I have so much of an affinity for amazing landscapes considering that amazing landscapes, apparently, are in my genes. 

Wait. That’s weird. That makes it sound like I have geological DNA. Anyways…

The ferry arrived into Stromness shortly after 3 pm, and after I checked in at the absolutely adorable Ferry Inn and successfully completed the maze to find my room — no joke, there were at least four turns and three flights of stairs and I have no idea how this is all in the same compact building with only about 15-20 rooms — I went out and wandered around the town for a bit.

Of course the highlights of this saunter had to be seeing the delightfully diminutive Flattie Bar and stumbling upon the E. Flett Family Butcher. 

Dinner was yet another fish and chips at the nautically-decorated restaurant back at the inn, and I must say I was quite glad to see they offered a grilled version (and it was delicious). And the theme from Thurso continued on here, with everyone just seeming so… nice isn’t the right word. Pleasant isn’t the right word. They’re both of those things. But there has to be a better word for it. 

Synonyms for friendly according to Merriam-Webster include collegial (check), merry (yep), neighborly (absolutely), gracious (for sure), but I think the word I like the best is warm.

I can’t wait to spend the next few days with these folks that call the land of my ancestors their home. More adventures await, but for now it’s off to attempt to sleep despite the fact that it’s well after 10 and still plenty light outside. 

Maybe it wasn’t just the larceny offenses that forced John Thomas to America. Maybe he didn’t like the long days.

If so, I can totally relate.

The Way Home | Rich Robinson

I really should post more regularly, but have you ever been utterly paralyzed by an inability to make a decision? Or maybe more appropriately said as *any* decision?

Because that’s been me during this leg of my adventure. 

I think that’s fortunately in my rearview mirror, but it has been absolutely debilitating since arriving back after the cruise. 

It started in Barcelona where I woke up on my only fully day there and said to myself “okay Taylor, let’s take until noon and plan out the next couple weeks.”

I got the 12 part right.

Just not the right time of day.

Part of the problem is that I’ve become a groupie for My Morning Jacket and I’ll be seeing them later this month in London, Manchester, Antwerp, and Utrecht, thus giving me certain dates by which I have to be in certain places which goes against the whole premise of flying by the seat of my pants for this journey. Another part of the problem is that I only have around 25 days or so remaining to spend in the Schengen Area, and I’m not planning on still being here when my clock resets in July. 

So I finally determined that, despite the name of this blog, I had to bite the bullet and just fly to both 1) not waste days traveling by train from Barcelona back up to the UK or Ireland and 2) not waste money also in the process of seeing days tick off my visa.

And so that’s why I finally booked a plane ticket for Dublin at midnight, well past my noon deadline.

Yes, it wasted a day. Yes, I never left my room after having breakfast. Yes, it sucked. 

But it’s ended up being okay.

I do find it interesting that I went from Barcelona, a constitutionally-protected autonomous community that has sought to gain its outright independence from Spain, to Ireland, a place obviously with its own history of discontentment concerning its freedom from a centralized government. I didn’t plan it that way, as it was merely convenient that 1) I could get a cheap flight there and 2) while not part of the UK, the Republic of Ireland isn’t in the Schengen Area and thus wouldn’t count against the precious days I have remaining. 

But it was interesting nonetheless. 

Not only did flying late at night yield a cheaper ticket, it also provided me the chance to make up for lost time and do what I was going to do on my wasted Monday on Tuesday instead.

And so off I took, in shorts and a t-shirt for the first time in Europe as it was quite a pleasant mid-spring day in the capital of Catalunya.

The start of my walking tour started at Plaça de Catalunya, the connection of old and new Barcelona, and it really is a magnificent place to take in this great city. From the moment I took off from the cruise terminal a couple days prior, you could tell that this city had a really cool vibe. Chill, but strong. 

And that was evident in this grand square, which was highlighted for me by the powerful symbol of the independence these folks want. Dedicated to Francesc Macià who declared freedom from Spain in 1931, it’s a symbolic representation of the incomplete work, a rallying place for Catalans to meet at to declare “visca Catalunya!” Long live Catalunya!

The feeling I got as I wandered the streets wasn’t necessarily one of a rebellious spirit, though I’m sure it’s there deep inside Catalans, but it was more one of a tangible pride. I can’t really describe *why* I perceived this, but it certainly was there.

The stroll continued towards the very impressive Barcelona Cathedral, past the old haunts of one Pablo Picasso, deeper into the old town down narrow streets — which let me just say right here, I think every town should have narrow streets where cars can’t go. They’re amazing.

Anyways, the cathedral from the outside (I didn’t go inside) is one of the more impressive ones I’ve seen thus far, and from there the walk took me down even more narrow thoroughfares, even older lanes.

After briefly spilling out into another sizable square where on one side sits the Barcelona government and on the other the seat of Catalunya authority, the adventure took me to another one of my favorite things: Roman ruins. 

There is a marker in the ground noting where the Romans founded the town of Barcino, and just around the corner from there are decently-preserved remains of the Temple of Augustus. The quite tall columns date back to the first century BC, and I’m just always so inspired by human ingenuity whenever I see something so old still standing, even if not in its complete form. 

After going back to the hotel to retrieve my luggage after a very full day on my feet, I took the metro out to the airport (public transportation is also amazing) and hung out for my 11 pm flight to Dublin.

I paid extra for the front row which on Aer Lingus also ensured an empty middle seat, and the three hour or so flight to Dublin couldn’t have been any more comfortable. It also couldn’t have been any more affordable. Even with the extra money forked out for comfort, it was still way less by more than half of what the cost for the train from Barcelona to Paris alone would have cost.

My midnight decision was perfect.

But some things were about to become a little imperfect.

I bought new shoes for the cruise. They were the same shoes I walked miles in across European towns in the winter, just new so I wouldn’t look too lacking in class on the ship. 

Turns out they SUCKED.

By the time I got to the airport hotel in Dublin, I had developed the most ginormous blood blister on my right heel where the inside sole had started to come detached. From walking on it weird due to the pain before I realized what was going on, I also screwed up my balky ankle as I am want to do. 

Thankfully I had a really nice Airbnb, so I decided to just chill for most of the time I was slated to stay in Dublin. 

Was it disappointing? Yes, sure. But I knew it would be wiser to do that than to risk making things worse. 

It also turns out that it wasn’t the worst thing ever because I booked way too many days in Dublin. I didn’t feel like I missed out on anything I wanted to see once I finally ventured out some, so in hindsight it was a blessing, allowing me to heal up some for my time away from the capital where the action really is. 

I mean really y’all, the Temple Bar area might as well be Broadway in downtown Nashville. Just in cooler looking buildings.

One thing about Ireland I was worried about is the lack of a train network compared to the other places I’ve been to, but it ended up being just good enough for me to get out and have some real authentic Irish experiences.

My first stop was in Kilkenny for a couple of nights, and this instantly became one of my favorite stops yet. Definitely in the top 5.

I arrived at the small 10-room hotel in the middle of town, greeted by the owner and her dog, and she was absolutely delightful. She reminded me of my Airbnb host in Nice, as she seemed genuinely concerned that I had a good time while staying in her community. She had plenty of suggestions for things to see, places to eat, and pubs at which to drink.

If you are ever in Kilkenny, and you should be, then please do stay with Yvonne at Butler Court.

I spent the first afternoon in town exploring the first proper, proper castle I’ve seen yet — the appropriately named Kilkenny Castle. It was gorgeous, with stunning grounds surrounding the building, including a lovely public park at the front. I enjoyed just having a seat on a bench, trying to imagine myself in this castle’s heyday and what that must have been like. 

That evening I went to Kytelers Inn for dinner, and it was then that I truly felt like I was in Ireland.

For a pre-meal drink I ordered a neat Jameson, and I was immediately chastised by the bartender. “Are you sure?” he asked in his perfect Irish accent. “There are thousands of Irish whiskeys you can have, and you choose the one you can get at home?”

Point well-taken. 

And so began my Irish whiskey tasting. 

I asked him to surprise me but make it be not the most expensive thing they had, and so for the rest of the evening I enjoyed a very delightful and also appropriately named Irishman in my glass. 

When I ordered my food, I had to dish it back at him. 

“Can I order the fish and chips or are you going to yell at me for that, too?”

He laughed, gave me a big smack on the back, and grinned.

“Good lad, good lad. Of course you can have that.”

The live music started shortly after I was done eating, and this turned my Monday night into the moment that best resembles what I thought I would be doing every night in my idealized version of this adventure. 

Yes, it’s a bit of a touristy town, and there were plenty of other Americans there that night. But as the trad music was played, you could also see the locals who probably do this every Monday night. Though it also seemed like maybe it was a special edition of this particular weekly ritual, as a whole section of the open area in front of the bar area in this perfect timber and stone building were dressed in all black as if perhaps they had been at a funeral earlier before coming here to celebrate a life hopefully well-lived in ways only the Irish can.

It was in the music that I put a finger on the small but distinct differences between the Catalans and the Irish.

Even though, at least in the Republic of Ireland if not the entire island, the aspiration of freedom has been attained unlike in Barcelona, there is still more of a sense of defiance in these folks. Definitely much more of a rebellious spirit. But not one based in anger.

No, instead it feels based in a deep, deep pride for who they are.

Some say the devil is dead, the devil is dead, the devil is dead

Some say the devil is dead and buried in Killarney

More say he rose again, more say he rose again

More say he rose again and joined the British army

This was one of the tunes that the three very talented musicians played, and it absolutely got the locals going. Look it up. It’s a catch, upbeat tune. But you can’t argue what the song is rooted in.

A long, arduous fight that has led to where they are today.

I didn’t want the night to end.

From Kilkenny I ventured to the aforementioned Killarney, a voyage that required three different changes on the railways, but it was worth it because Killarney was also a lovely place.

Even more touristy than Kilkenny, it reminded me of an Irish version of somewhere like Gatlinburg. Not so over the top like Pigeon Forge, but still obviously a place meant to welcome visitors in a way that keeps them comfortable. Not quite as authentic, but still plenty nice.

I stayed at Murphys, a lovely place that had rooms upstairs with a lively pub on the ground floor. And while I definitely enjoyed my evenings here, it certainly wasn’t quite the same as the nights in Kilkenny.

And that’s fine.

One thing I haven’t done since the early days of this trip was take advantage of a day tour to somewhere nearby as I did with the great trip from Bath to Stonehenge. With the train system not being as extensive, this seemed like the perfect place for me to do that again. 

Unfortunately, both trips ended up being major disappointments.

The day trip from Killarney was out to the Dingle Peninsula, and this wasn’t horribly awful but the weather ended up being pretty miserable, with a thick fog off the coast robbing us of many of the grand views of the Atlantic we were supposed to have, and the tour guide was nowhere near as informative as the one I had on the trip to Stonehenge. 

The stop for lunch in Dingle was nice, if crowded as a cruise ship had dropped anchor off the coast and its passengers had tendered into the small town creating a pretty chaotic scene of coaches going all over the place which I fond out is not a regular occurrence at all.

The trip out to the Cliffs of Moher would be even worse.

From Killarney I went to Limerick, mainly for two reasons: easy to get to on train and there was a tour from there to another scenic part of the coast.

The tour company could do absolutely nothing about the weather. And honestly the weather didn’t bother me much. Yes, I would have loved to have seen the cliffs. It looks like an amazing thing to see. But much like when I’ve been in the mountains and had low clouds roll in, there’s something inherently magical about that mystical experience.

And so I really enjoyed standing there along the barriers they’ve created, hearing that the Atlantic was raging underneath us, with only a sliver of the dramatic coastline visible every so often as the fog rolled in, pushed inland by an ocean breeze.

And I was able to get a magnet so I know what it should have looked like.

But that’s literally the only positive I can tell you about this experience. 

The bus was huge and packed. The tour guide was inexperienced to say the least and seemed to only be able to point out cattle on the side of the road. And we only went to two of the five places called for on the itinerary with no explanation provided for why we didn’t visit the others.

I’m glad I got a trip out to the Cliffs of Moher, but otherwise it felt like a monumental waste of money. 

All in all, however, Ireland is second to Italy for favorite countries that I’ve visited so far. Something about the place really spoke to me, so much so that I stayed up until 4 am one night while in Dublin, hoping I could trace back my family ancestry to Ireland.

But I’ll save that night of indecision for the next entry. 

This trip is about to become really, really special I think.

Some Say The Devil Is Dead | Performed by The Wolfe Tones

Welcome to catch-up time with me. 

I completely abandoned the idea of updating the blog while on the ship because of the WiFi as mentioned in the previous entry, so I will try to wrap up the cruise adventures in this entry, but it might require yet a third entry. We shall see.

I had an idea in my head that the days at sea would be divine as I have enjoyed the time spent sailing more than most anything on the other three cruises I had been on.

My prediction was absolutely true.

Contrary to the rest of this whole journey, where I have felt a pressure to be making the absolute most of every day and have beaten myself up when I have felt like I didn’t accomplish that, that feeling didn’t exist at all. 

Wanted to spend the whole day in the cabin reading? Fine.

Wanted to stay up until the sun rises just for funsies? No problem. 

I’m honestly not sure the last time I allowed myself to do that. I don’t consider this a vacation, but that would be the most similar experience to this, right? And I have felt that same aforementioned pressure to do at least *something* on pretty much every day of any vacation I ever have had.

So this was glorious. 

I should have at least taken a day in there to use on planning what would come after we arrived at our final port of call, but that’s ended up working out just fine as you’ll find out. But still…

Anyways, so the sea days were amazing.

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A “typical” day — or at least the kind of day I had a few times — went something like this: wake up, roll around in bed, go pee, roll around more in be, finally go eat breakfast at around 11 or 12 thanks to the all-day breakfast available up in The Galley, go down to The Dock (the space on deck on the back of the ship), go back to the room to read, get ready for dinner, have an amazing dinner, and wrap it all up with The Lee Boys at On the Rocks.

The Lee Boys were absolutely amazing. I had no idea that there was going to be a band that I would have followed around the Southeast in my younger days on the ship. Indeed, they played a couple songs that the North Mississippi Allstars (who I adore) have covered, they busted out a Robert Randolph tune. 

It was fantastic, and I have no regrets about forgoing the rest of the on-board entertainment to go see them every night that they played which was nearly every night. 

It took me a couple days to get adjusted to the constant movement of the ship while on the open seas, but thankfully the weather was quite pleasant for the vast majority of the trip. 

The vast majority.

One night while at dinner and with rain clouds all around us, the ship suddenly leeeeeeeeaned over hard to the left. 

You might have seen the story about it on the Weather Channel.

Yep, a waterspout hit us. 

It was wild. 

But other than that, I don’t think you could have asked for better sailing weather, and indeed there were no icebergs.

Our first stop after the days at sea was in Lisbon, and it quickly shot up the rankings of favorite places for me. First off, the trip into the port is absolutely amazing. We had the most amazing sunrise, and going under the Portuguese version of the Golden Gate Bridge was incredible. 

I walked around town for a few hours, having decided to only book one shore excursion in our three ports of call, and it was fantastic. I will absolutely have to get back to Lisbon and explore more of Portugal in the future.

And I will come prepared this time to brush off the incredibly frequent offers of illicit drugs. 

“You want smoke?” a guy randomly asked me. Uh no I’m good I thought to myself as I shook my head, thinking it was strange to be offered a cigarette on the street like that.

“What about coke?”

Why on earth would I want a … ohhhhh. OHHHHHH. Shake your head, keep walking, don’t make eye contact.

I was offered weed and cocaine several more times throughout the day, and this was right in the touristy city center! 

Quite a different level from the various flying light-up machines and weird noise makers offered in the other European capitals. 

I particularly loved all the color that was everywhere, and the funky designs of the tile in so much of that core area. It reminded me quite a bit of the personalities of those that I know who hail from Portugal.

Our next stop was in Cadiz, and this is where I booked an excursion, where we headed to a nearby town for a lesson in authentic paella making. This was quite a treat, and I was glad to have done it, especially since Monyca — who I had met at dinner a few nights prior — was also doing this. 

The paella was amazing, and I can now cross off eating rabbit in addition to the other various seafood items that were in it. They also gave us a good taste of some of the wine used in the recipe, a fantastic sangria to go with the meal, and a shot of very good if also very strong brandy to cap the experience off. My reaction to the brandy caused my voice to go up several octaves, delighting the table of new friends.

Even as introverted as I am, when you’re on a floating small town for 15 nights, it’s hard not to meet folks, and I loved everyone that I did. From Monyca to Nitin who also made paella with us to Jamie who yelled at me for 40 minutes about not being introverted to Fabio.

Oh Fabio.

Fabio was… I’m sorry, I have to say it… the dreamy bartender that I didn’t meet until the next to last night of our trip. 

I didn’t have any dinner reservations so I wandered down to Extra Virgin for some delicious Italian, and they asked if I would mind sitting at the bar. I did not. And I did not mind the next night either because Fabio and his colleague Slobodan put on an amazing show, entertaining us with great laughs and very, very good drinks.

I got to chat with Fabio some as dinner time on the last night was winding down, and there’s just something I’ve always enjoyed about making someone know they’re appreciated, especially when it’s obvious it means a lot to them. Those last two nights were a hoot because of them, and I’m glad I stumbled into that experience.

I have done an incredible injustice to this cruise. 

Two entries cannot possibly cover it, but I really must get caught up. I’m already two cities away from arriving in Barcelona, so this will have to do for now. If you take nothing away from this but one thing, make it be this: doing a transoceanic cruise should ABSOLUTELY be on your bucket list. It was incredible.

I still have to tell you about Barcelona — which was amazing, I thought — but for now I have to get ready for some more trad music in a small Irish pub tonight.

What an adventure this is.

Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitude | Jimmy Buffet

What color exactly is the deep blue sea?

As the Valiant Lady sails eastward towards its summer port home of Barcelona, ferrying me across the Atlantic Ocean for another stint in Europe, that is what I have sat here and pondered.

It’s obviously blue, and in hazy sunlight we have right now, it’s brilliant. At least to me it is, but I recognize that brilliant means different things to different people. 

I paused on azure, and while I think it’s a close fit, apparently most people use that color to describe the sky. The sky has never looked like this color to me, so I move on. Cerulean earns some consideration, but that’s too bright. This is deeper, richer. 

It’s like a bright navy.

But that’s ridiculous isn’t it? Because navy isn’t bright. It’s dark.

Go to Google. Search for admiral blue. Tap on the images tab. The swatch on the Wikipedia entry for admiral blue that you see there? That’s it. That’s the color that’s floating beside us as we make a trek that once was relatively commonplace and now feels quite exclusive.

I don’t mean that in any bragging way. Yes, it’s a nice ship, but when I say exclusive, I’m referring to the experience of sailing across the ocean. 

I wish it wasn’t so exclusive. I wish more people could experience this.

Feel what it’s like to be so isolated, with the only signs of life in view being the brown dots of sea grasses drifting by as we cruise along at 19 knots.

It forces you to contemplate. What it makes you contemplate is up to you. It may even be nothing, but contemplating nothing is something. 

I’ve been on cruises before. Three of them to be exact. All the same itinerary from Port Canaveral to Nassau and back. Whether it’s the visibility of other ships or the lights from land, those journeys always felt remote, but not isolated. 

This is isolation.

And it is glorious. 

You think of things as being an ocean away and feel as if it’s somewhere distant, and it is. But in that distance, there is also connection. Because we’ve mastered the art of traveling whether by air or by sea. When you think about it that way, an ocean away doesn’t seem so far.

It really does provide you with a deeper appreciation for how we are all just one human race on this planet. And nowhere is out of reach for us. And thus maybe we should listen to John Lennon’s Imagine one more time and think about what it really means. 

And so maybe this isn’t isolation after all (that happened fast, huh?).

Maybe this is just a strand of connectivity. A line on a map that connects Miami to Barcelona. Then think about all of the other lines that radiate from Barcelona.

Everywhere.

Connected.

The world living as one. Maybe not in harmony, but that day will come. Lennon’s not the only one to tell us that. Joe Cocker does also in his tune Space Captain. Go listen to it. Especially the second verse. I smile so big whenever I hear it. What a hopeful message.

And that’s what I feel as we gently bob across the sea. 

Hope. 

====

If this is how I’m feeling just hours into our first day of sea, what will it be like by the time we see land again at our next stop in Lisbon?

With that out of the way, congratulations if you made it here. I’ll now do a more practical trip summary of sorts. I just had to pen (type) those thoughts.

After picking up my rental car on Saturday, it was a glorious drive once again from Bradenton to Miami, and the Everglades were looking particularly lovely on this late spring/early summer day.

I guess because of the extended nature of the voyage, embarkation times were pushed back, and I wasn’t able to board until 4:45.

I’m not sure if other folks ignored that or if there’s just not many people on this transatlantic trip, but I walked basically straight on. There were no lines at the check-in area, no lines at security. It was a much different experience than when embarking on a Disney cruise, I can tell you that.

As soon as I found the hallway my Sea View Cabin with Terrace is in, the ship’s general alarm sounded for the muster drill, and so I had to just throw my bags into the room and find assembly station D with no time for exploring any of the rest of the ship. Turns out, I wasn’t actually in any hurry since in this post-Covid era they weren’t doing a ship-wide muster drill but rather having people come in groups as they can. That part wasn’t explained until I was well on my way down the stairs towards my meeting place.

Having had the long-ish drive and the unnecessary hurry to the muster station, I retreated back to my stateroom to relax for a bit before dinner.

Now y’all, look. I like to eat. The Disney cruises — save for an incredible sea bass which is the single-greatest animal I’ve ever eaten — left a lot to be desired compared to the idea in my head of what cruise ship food should be like. 

The Valiant Lady is trying to be like the Tampa Bay Rays, hitting home runs on consecutive nights so far to start the journey. 

Virgin Voyages does dining different. There are no main dinning halls, instead opting for specialty restaurants all over the ship. So far, this appears to be an incredible move on their part.

The first night I was booked for Pink Agave, the elevated Mexican joint on board. I started off with an opener of grilled corn that is second to the casino in Vicksburg, Mississippi, for the best corn I’ve ever tasted (that’s high praise… that casino corn was DIVINE). Much to the disbelief of my waiter — “are you a vegetarian?” he asked, prompting a slight chuckle from myself followed by a gaze at my not-so-svelte figure — I ordered a stuffed pepper for my main. 

Y’all.

It was incredible. It was stuffed with potatoes and cheese and maybe more corn, served in a sauce of some type that had — you guessed it — more corn. I will have it again, and I might order two of them.

Last night, my reservation wasn’t until later so I had some Ship Eats delivered to my room in the early evening to have a pre-meal appetizer of the best meatballs I’ve ever had, topped with a perfectly smokey mozzarella. So, so, so, so good.

And so I made another server look at me in bewilderment when all I ordered was a pasta dish at Razzle Dazzle, the signature restaurant on board. The bowtie noodles looked like zebras which was interesting, and it had some type of braised pork and Swiss chard in it. And yes, it, too, was amazingly delicious. 

I’m going back there tonight, and after gawking at both the table to my left and to my right — though refraining from asking for a bit as my father might do — I will be torn between their impossible burger and some type of butter chicken. What I can guarantee you I will get are these cheese tots that looked like heaven itself delivered them.

So yeah, this is what cruise food should be like.

I didn’t get off the ship yesterday in the Bahamas. I’ve been to the Bahamas four times now, and I decided it would be more fun to enjoy the ship with fewer folks on it and explore a little bit. 

I did less exploring and more adult beveraging at the lovely bar that’s in the back of the ship. The concoctions were great, the view spectacular. I feel like I’ll probably end up spending a lot of time there.

In fact, there’s where I’m headed to next. 

I’ll check in every couple days or so. Or more often if I have more wisdom come to me like the beginning of this post. 

Before I go though, can anyone tell me if icebergs make it this far south? (I wrote this while on the ship, but the WiFi wasn’t strong enough to post. In the next entry, I’ll talk about how there were no icebergs, but there were waterspouts!)

Float On | Modest Mouse

Okay. So.

I suck. I’ve been meaning and meaning and meaning to update things, but obviously I have failed. I am sorry.

When last I left you, I was headed to spend the last few days of the first leg of my journey at Disneyland Paris. The day that I left Versailles for the hour-long train journey across the city to the other side of town where the theme park is, I came down with my first illness of the trip. OF COURSE I did.

I had two nights at Sequoia Lodge which also included three days in the parks, and I really struggled to find any joy at all.

I tried to soldier through it and spent a couple hours in the park after arriving, but I went way downhill. I thought I could make it without medicine, but finally I had to inquire with the concierge at the resort about where I could find some acetaminophen or aspirin. It was at that point that I discovered I would only be able to find that by going to the pharmacy in town as the rules on over-the-counter drugs are much more stringent there.

The woman who helped me was so kind, the exact kind of service you expect from cast members with Disney. When I returned from the taxi that she secured for me, I thanked her, and she was so encouraging, telling me she just knew I was going to feel better in the morning.

If only wishing and hoping made things so…

How hysterical is it that the thing I ended up spending the most money on and the thing that could have kept me the most busy ended up being when I got sick for the first time? It was disappointing, but I took it in stride. I did what I could, laughed at the absurdity of it, and didn’t try to push too far. In the end, it was fun and I’m glad I did it, but I do wish I could have experienced it fully.

Oh well.

After a fortuitous built-in day to just chill, I grabbed the Eurostar to head back to London to spend a couple nights before flying back to the States for about a month. When I first made the plans to do this, I didn’t really want to have to come back, but as the date of departure approached, I was thankful for the break that was coming thanks to not being able to make a doctor’s appointment before I left.

I have really gotten into utilizing reward credit cards while planning for and during this adventure, and it was because of those points I accrued that I was able to fly Upper Class with Virgin Atlantic on a direct flight from Heathrow.

I never, ever want to travel any other way.

It was amazing.

The whole experience was incredible. Upon arriving at the airport, I was whisked away to separate area for Upper Class passengers to go through security, and I was done with that process in about five minutes and thus on my way to the Virgin lounge where I spent the three hours before my flight enjoying complimentary food and drink.

Another cool feature of the lounge was the outdoor terrace that looked over the tarmac. If you recall from my time in Nice where I enjoyed watching the planes fly over the Mediterranean for their coastal landing, you won’t be surprised that I loved this… even if the wind was blowing the furniture — and my hair — all over the place.

The route to Tampa features a new Airbus A330neo which only started flying in December. Originally I had booked seat 1A, but when I noticed a few days before the flight that no one had booked either of the seats in “The Retreat” I decided to spend the extra 200 pounds to upgrade, still paying only a quarter of the price of what the ticket would have been when I booked it for only taxes and fees.

It was so spacious with more legroom than I have had on any flight, including any of the private jets I’ve taken with basketball teams heading home from the NCAA tournament. The service was incredible. The 10 hours absolutely flew by.

There was one problem though. There is supposed to be a divider between the two seats in The Retreat if the folks sitting in the seats aren’t together, but it wasn’t working on this flight. The guy next to me was right there, ruining what was supposed to be a private flight, but the crew was awesome, apologizing profusely and telling me that they would put it in their flight report to help me be able to get compensation for the inconvenience. And indeed, I did hear back from Virgin this week that they were crediting me with 10,000 points (which is a great value for Virgin; for reference, the reward flight was about 48,000 points for what is normally a ticket over $4,500).

Jet-lag was nonexistent after arriving back in Florida, and I was quite thankful for that after really struggling with it in December. April has been non-eventful, and I’ve just been resting while hanging out with my parents down in Florida.

But now the period of rest is over, and one of the things I’ve been most looking forward to is right on the doorstep.

On Saturday, I’m heading down to Miami and boarding the Virgin Voyages Valiant Lady for a 15-night cruise to Barcelona. I’ve done three cruises in the past and enjoyed them profusely, so I’m super excited about this extended stay on a ship, especially since my favorite part of cruises have been sea days of which this trip has nine. And how many people can say they’ve been on a transatlantic cruise? And financially, it made tons of sense as it’s way less than my normal budget for two weeks and cancels out the need for airfare.

Just a win-win all the way around.

Being a solo traveler thus far has not been a problem at all. I could see where it might be a challenge on a cruise ship, but Virgin Voyages is an adult-only ship with a focus on fun (but not the “trashy” fun that I think occurs on other cruise lines) so I’m looking forward to meeting some folks and having a good time.

After the cruise — which also calls on Lisbon and a couple other Spanish ports — I’m not sure the direction that I’m going. I’m either going to jet up to the UK to do Scotland before heading to Ireland or I’m going to do Switzerland and the mountains in Austria and Germany before heading to London for a concert.

I only have about 28 days left to spend in the Schengen Area, so I have to be really deliberate with my choices on the continent this go around.

Virgin Voyages advertises free WiFi on board, so with any luck, I’ll provide a couple updates from the high seas as we sail over the next couple of weeks.

Bon voyage to me!

Shore Power | Chris Robinson Brotherhood

Right off the bat, let me neither confirm nor deny whether or not I partook in certain substances while in Amsterdam. Take the song title used for this post and assume what you will.

I will say this: it was quite the experience to walk back a really nice looking storefront to window shop the mushrooms that the business had so elegantly on display, with a beautiful script describing the psychedelic experience you might expect should you consume their wares. I will also go ahead and confirm that I in fact did not give that particular store any business.

That being said, it was amazing being for a week in a culture that has such a refreshing perspective on things. It’s not that the folks in the Netherlands are all stoners that are also on a shroom trip while patronizing prostitutes, it’s just that they feel like people should be able to safely make their own decisions without the actual crime that surrounds those vices. It’s not the marijuana that’s the problem, it’s the black market dealers and the tangential issues that come with that such as violent crime. Paying for sex isn’t a bad thing, it’s the pimps who prey on sex workers and the awful things that can lead to like human trafficking.

If it’s all legal and people are counted on to be responsible with their own actions, then those negative things have no oxygen.

It makes so much sense that it hurts my brain to think about all the horrific consequences of America’s War on Drugs, none of which is an eradication of drug use.

Woah, okay, I might be high right now but it’s not weed. It’s the soapbox I unintentionally started climbing there. Apologies. (But not really. Because it’s all true.)

Another preface to my thoughts about Amsterdam: I didn’t take very many photos. It wasn’t an intentional thing, but rather it just kind of happened. And I’m not upset about it. There’s something to be said about just experiencing something and documenting it only with the camera that amazingly exists under your skull.

Speaking of skulls, the Van Gogh Museum was definitely a highlight of my week in Amsterdam, and I have a pin of a skull smoking a cigarette on my bag now in homage to his famous painting.

Have I mentioned yet my obsession with pins? It didn’t start until Italy when almost every souvenir shop I walked to in Rome had them and it reminded me that my mother had collected them during her travels of Europe. If I only had known how frustrating this would end up being for me…

First off, I’m a little OCD and so if I don’t have one from all the countries I visit, it’s going to annoy the hell out of me. Secondly, I’m not matchy-matchy, so they can’t all be boring flags. Except I now have four boring flags to go along with my not flag of Italy.

It is also incredibly hard to find pins! Much more difficult than I would have expected, leading to numerous sighs as I walk through way more gift shops than I ever intended. But I think it’ll be cool in the end when the front of my bag is decked out in these little mementos, so it’s worth it.

Another place I visited in Amsterdam was the hiding place of Anne Frank, her family, and others. It’s not the most elaborate place I’ve visited — Mr. Frank didn’t want to put the furniture and whatnot back in — but it was one of the more… I don’t even know the right word. Chilling? But also inspiring? And heartbreaking?

They put up such an incredible fight. They were so brave, and they so very nearly made it, only being found with ultimately such a short time left in the war.

To experience the tight quarters in which they holed themselves up, it was just one of those amazing hair-standing-on-end moments that I will never, ever forget.

Something one of my close friends has talked about during this adventure is how he’d like to experience a concert of an American band in a different country, and I did that also while in Amsterdam, going to see Old Crow Medicine Show at the Paradiso. Coincidentally, that same friend had seen them on New Year’s Eve at the Ryman in Nashville. This show was also at an old church, an absolutely beautiful venue.

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It wasn’t quite the same effect as my friend was alluding to because his main point was wanting to hear folks who speak a different language singing along to songs in English, but English is incredibly widely spoken in the Netherlands. That didn’t change it though from being an incredible experience to see how music resonates across so many different lines, man-made and otherwise.

I didn’t intend on staying in Amsterdam as long as I did, but I couldn’t find a place to stay in Belgium until later, and so I tacked on a couple extra days that were peaceful if also wet and cold… and sometimes snowy. The place I stayed in was quite unique: a houseboat on the Amstel River. Highly recommended experience. It was an unbelievable view to wake up at water level every morning.

This leg of the trip is coming quickly to a close as I’ll be flying back to Florida a week from tomorrow (the 23rd). If I’m being honest, I’m ready for a break. It’s weird to describe because it’s not a negative feeling. I have really enjoyed myself, and I’m very much looking forward to coming back via the transatlantic cruise I’m taking at the end of April.

But I’m also ready to just be in one place again for a bit, with time to reflect without feeling like I’m being wasteful with my resources (thankfully Momma and Pops don’t charge rent… yet). Here I’ve felt a pressure — especially after the slow pace of the first month or so — to experience as much as I can. It’s true that my outlook on the trip changed when I did that, but I do think I have found some places now where I could enjoy that more slow-pace style that I was going for earlier.

Anyways, I’m rambling as I’m wont to do.

I can’t wait to tell you about my day in Brussels.

And I definitely can’t wait to tell you what I’ve decided to do as one of my last things for now. It’s a bit… surprising… for me.

I think.

Rocket Man | Elton John

What is the extent of your knowledge of the history of the Czech Republic and Prague?

Before I arrived in my — spoiler alert — second-favorite city of my journey, I knew about the Velvet Revolution and that was it. While the peaceful separation of one country into two is certainly noteworthy, I’m embarrassed at what I did not know. I didn’t know that they were occupied not once but twice in the 20th century and showed amazing resolve in the face of both occupations, holding firm to their right to exist and never giving in before finally coming out on the other side of it free.

Twice.

And the echoes of those days still whisper through the streets. There is a palpable joy felt in this remarkable place, a care-free spirit that must only come after you have had to fight for your freedom for years and years.

When I’d pass by folks who seemed to be further along in their years, I couldn’t help but pause and think about what all they have experienced. The older folks looked a bit more weathered, and it is easy to understand how living under the control of someone else would make you that way. The younger folks reap the rewards of the steadfastness determination of their elders, and you sense it is not without appreciation.

A truly magical place that I did not spend nearly enough time in.

I only had two full days in Prague, and so my first day started like the last several of my stops: with a guided walking tour holding my phone to my ear listening to Rick Steves. Look, am I the only one who can’t wear earbuds? Like, they don’t fit in my ears. At all. They just tumble right on out. And I’m not about to walk through the streets of a Central European city with the massive over-the-ear headphones I have.

When I’m doing these walking tours, I often forget to pause and take photographs, and so for a while, this was the only picture from Prague that I had.

A mocking statue of the more-prominent King Wenceslas statue located outside in the Wenceslas Square.

But you do have to, if nothing else, admire the art nouveau aesthetic.

As the tour continued, it became apparent that one of the highlights of visiting Prague was going to simply be looking up. The buildings, especially when you get into the Old Town, are a mishmash of architectural design, and yet, they meld together perfectly. None of it is jarring. It all just fits.

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It really is remarkably beautiful.

That first full day in Prague also provided me with my first sustained social interaction that I’ve had over here. My introvertness isn’t totally to blame here. I just haven’t had a strong desire to go have a drink or be out “late” at night, and that’s the only situation where I would end up talking to anyone. Unlike my father who will talk to ANYONE, that’s just not me. And yes, I realize I’m missing out, but that’s just fine with me.

But Everton was playing that night, and I was enjoying Prague so much that I wanted to find a place to watch them instead of staying in and trying to find some nefarious way of watching them. So that’s how I ended up at an Irish pub, with the television right above my seat, which I do believe permanently impacted how my neck works.

Thankfully Everton was awful that night or else the damage might have been worse, because instead of watching the second half, I spent it talking to the Dutch guy next to me.

I had a couple adult beverages in me by the time he asked me if I was pulling for Everton, and so my friend from the Netherlands spent the next five hours listening to me make up for lost time. He gave me some tips on things to do while in Amsterdam (I’ve already ignored one thing he told me not to do), and we spent a lot of time trading perspectives.

This is what I imagined every night of my journey would be. LOL. I absolutely should have known better. But that being said, I’m thankful it finally happened, and I’m also totally fine that it hasn’t been like that the entire trip. Honestly, that would have been exhausting for me. I like having friends and folks to talk to, but I also very much like my time. This leg of my journey is coming to a quick close (I leave on March 23), but I will be more open to putting myself into situations to meet folks when I come back later in the spring.

A balance between what I thought it would be and what it has been will be just about right, I think.

The highlight of the second day will go down as one of the highlights of the entire journey.

There have been a few moments that have made me emotional (in a positive way). Seeing Big Ben on that first morning, for example, or my first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. Walking around Stonehenge. Exploring the Colosseum.

There’s a common theme there.

But on a Thursday night in Prague, I sat in one of the most beautiful musical venues I’ve ever been in, listening to stringed instruments play Mozart’s Serenade No. 13 for strings in G major (you might know it better as A Little Night Music), on the verge of bawling my eyes out.

My first reaction was to look like Bill Clinton did the night his wife accepted her party’s nomination, his mouth agape with a permanent smile etched on his face as the balloons fell around him, but then as the performers worked their way through the piece, an overwhelming sense of appreciation for the experience I was having washed over me.

It’s not that it was something especially unique, as there’s numerous concerts just like the one I was attending nearly every night in Prague. It’s just that there I was, a little country boy (okay, maybe not so little) from Franklin, Tennessee, doing yet another thing I never even dreamed of doing.

All of these experiences existed only in my mind, if they even existed at all. Maybe I’d go to England one day, I’d tell myself. But a three-month long journey across the European continent? A year ago I would have called you absolutely crazy.

And there are days where it still feels absolutely crazy, but in the absolutely best way.

And thus, I was quite glad to be sitting alone in my box, not having to be so discreet as I wiped away tears of joy.

I left Prague the next day, but before I stepped on the train, I turned around and took one last figurative look back at this city I had fallen in love with so hard and vowed that I would indeed be back.

Wading in the Velvet Sea | Phish