Why Corfu? Well, we knew the name because it’s famous. Mostly, though, we landed on Corfu simply because when we looked at the map of Greece, it was the handiest island to reach from our earlier plans — expediency at its finest.

Many know of Corfu thanks to the wonderful writings of naturalist Gerald Durrell. His “Corfu Trilogy” (recommended by my brother) is a great read! I got a head start on loving Corfu with the first book, “My Family and Other Animals” (1956). It tells of Durrell’s early childhood on Corfu with his chaotic but humorous family. A celebrated TV adaptation of the book, “The Durrells in Corfu,” was filmed in 2018.

Ours being a self-guided journey, we found our Air B&B and the nearby grocery store after only one slight motoring mishap, and settled in, wine glasses in hand. The next morning, day one of our two full days on Corfu, we set out to circumnavigate the island. Forty miles long and 20 miles wide, the island boasts generally two lane roads, winding and narrow. The inland terrain of Corfu is punctuated by two mountain ranges whose highest points reach 2,972 feet and 2,785 feet respectively. It’s a rugged, diverse place. Speaking as the driver, I can attest to how exciting the roads were, with lots of elevation and twisty turns and, sometimes, large tour buses coming the other way!

Sitting as it does at the junction of the Ionian and Adriatic Seas in the north, Corfu looks across to Greece’s neighbor, Albania. The strait between Corfu and that beautiful, rugged coast ranges from two to 14 miles. We stopped often to admire the view, see the sights, and, on the north coast, enjoy a beachside lunch in the town of Sidari. Our timing was ahead of the summer hordes of tourists who would before long line the many bays and beaches.

In the afternoon, we drove along the west side of Corfu. Along one stretch in the highlands dominated by olive trees, we stumbled across the Mavroudis Olive Oil Estate. There, a handsome young man, the latest in many generations of his family, gave us a splendid, spontaneous tour and olive oil tasting. Afterwards, we followed more of the island’s 135 miles of coastline south almost all the way to the tip. Corfu is famous for its beaches, and many are located along the west coast. We stopped at Issos Beach for a walk and ambled for some wonderful miles, our happy feet in the sand. The appeal of the Greek islands was completely evident.

Our second day was devoted to the island’s cultural and historical sites in and near Old Town. A UNESCO World Heritage site, the old city bustles with tourism. Narrow, winding streets are too small for vehicular traffic, and we were smart to arrive in the cool of morning. Because we happened to park next to it, we climbed up to Neo Frourio (the “new citadel”), a looming huge stone fortress. Built atop older Venetian ruins by the British during their occupation (1813-1863), it lent wonderful views to the east across the city and another major site, Palaio Frourio (the “old citadel”). Then we  enjoyed walking and browsing shops as they opened for the day while we made our way through the city. We paused to see the famous Spianada Square and then went into Palaio Frourio.

The Venetian fortress is perched on an eastern overlook of the straits. These fortifications date back to Byzantine times (6th century) but were amplified and fortified by the Venetians when they arrived in 1386 to occupy Corfu. They stayed for more than 400 years, which led to significant Italian influences on every aspect of life in Corfu. (The British took over in 1815 after the Napoleonic Wars until Britain ceded it to modern Greece in 1864.)

Our exploration of the Venetian citadel was hampered by a high white fence separating tourists from...what? We could see a beehive of activity and hear people being guided by a bullhorn to stand in straight lines. Then we saw an American flag flying. What?? Finally, we learned that it was a movie production. Watch for the release of a film starring Daniel Craig in coming months!

By afternoon, with the heat of the day and the suffocating hordes in the streets searching for the just-right souvenir, we ate some gelato and then evacuated back to our quiet, peaceful lodging. There, we enjoyed the evening celebrating a great trip before heading home the next day. 

Although the mountainous nature of Greece had never crossed my radar, it didn’t disappoint. We arranged a wonderful, self-guided five-day, 35-mile walk. Our local host, the delightful and knowledgeable Lucas, of Lucas Adventures, moved our luggage from one village to the next each day (on roads not built until the 1970s!) while we walked along centuries-old historic trade routes that were once the only pathways between the region’s villages.

Zagori, as with so much of eastern Europe, has a complicated history of identity and autonomy. It persevered for a long time as an independent area during the Ottoman Empire, focused on thriving trade without outside intervention but instead led by a Council of Elders. The 17th and 18th century economies gave rise to beautiful villages of stone buildings that still endure. Once, there were some 60 villages in Zagori and a population of about 60,000. The people enjoyed a robust intellectual and cultural life, and traditional folk medical practitioners (“Vikos doctors”) flourished, famous well beyond the borders of Zagori for their use of herbs gathered in the Vikos Gorge.

Sadly, the villages are nearly deserted now, thanks to migration to the urban centers. Tourism is increasing, though, and helping to reinvigorate the region. UNESCO added Zagori to its list of Cultural Landscapes in September 2023.  We were glad to drop some tourist dollars there! We enjoyed beautiful springtime weather, early wildflowers, and views of distant snow-capped peaks. Our walks were along cobblestoned pathways, up and down on typically mountainous terrain, from one village to the next, as merchants long ago would have done.

We started our journey southeast of the Vikos Gorge in the village of Tsepelovo. That day, a side trail took us to the Beloi viewpoint for our first glimpse of the gorge (which was, predictably, gorgeous!) before we arrived at Vradeto. Mr. Spiros of the Balcony Hotel served up a delicious dinner on his patio – and so our days went.

Day Two: down, down, down the Vradeto Scala (“Steps”). This was a tough, switchbacking descent on an impressive old cobblestone path. I could imagine caravans of mules laden with goods making their way up and down this “main” road! The trail brought us to the river on the valley floor, then up to Kapesovo, then down (again) to Kipi.

That afternoon, we walked a 2.5 mile loop to see three of the region’s 160 iconic stone arched bridges (in addition to the splendid one that greeted us on the outskirts of Kipi on our arrival). The bridges were built in the heydey of Zagori, often by wealthy traders to benefit their communities. Another key feature of the Zagori region villages are the central squares, each with an immense plane tree. Folklore has it that a plane tree was planted when villages were founded, to demonstrate the presence of water. On our hike on Day Three, we went through Koukouli to Vitsa, whose 800-year-old plane tree commanded our deep respect and attention. After refreshments of lemonade and cookies, we finished the day in Monodendri.

The start of Day Four found Molly and me dropping steeply thousands of feet into the gorge. Then came magical miles along the valley floor, through woods worthy of Lord of the Rings and along a dry white stone riverbed, before the climb back out at Vikos Village. We bet on whether we’d meet up with anyone, and were solo for many hours. Then, along came a handsome (!) shepherd, his two dogs, and dozens of goats wearing bells. In all, we encountered maybe 12 people or so all day. We scrambled across some easy third class sections and some other exposed areas, but nothing was too hard (well, until we faced the end-of-day uphill to a shower and dinner!). There, we caught up with Linda who sadly had to skip the hike that day due to a hefty respiratory infection.

By the way, before heading to Greece in April 2026, I thought I’d learn a bit of the language. The Greek alphabet, though, upended my lifelong relationship with letters. I soon gave up, overwhelmed. During our two weeks, it felt successful simply to ask for “vepo” (pronounced “nero”) and receive some welcome water! Vai! (“nay”!): yes! Water!

Our final day in Zagori led us back down the trail into the gorge, then across to the path out on the other side. There, Lucas picked us up at Mikro Papigo village for the ride back to the small city of Ioannina for Part Two of our Greek adventure (see the next blog). We agreed: we were happy to have discovered Zagori and to have had the opportunity to hike the 35+ miles and 95,000+ steps we did there. There are many other paths, Lucas promised, if we ever want to come back. I could be convinced.

[If you’re drawn to Zagori, you can’t go wrong with having Lucas help you plan: https://lucas-adventures.com ]

Jake raced (earning a whopping $8,000+!) under the name of Jac-O-Turn for Northview Farms until he was three and came to me. We have been partners for 28 years. We learned the sport of Eventing together, and rode from Beginner Novice up to the Preliminary level until 2007, winning third in the Area VIII Preliminary Championships that year at Richland Park Horse Trials (MI). Philippa Humphrey rode him at the Intermediate level in 2008 before he went briefly to two other owners, and finally back to me for a well-earned retirement.

I owe a huge debt to gratitude to the multitude of people who were part of Team Jake over the years, starting with my longtime friend and coach, Kathy Walters, BHSAI, who taught us from the get-go until we were ready to ride at Preliminary. To her credit, she sent me up to others who knew that level since she hadn’t ridden it. For some time, I had support at competitions with Cathy Wieschoff (KY) for course walks and advice until Philippa Humphrey arrived from the UK and took me on as one of her first clients. Another highlight was the time in 2003 when we trained for a week and then competed in Kentucky with Olympians David & Karen O’Connor.

And the vets! God bless ‘em all, especially Jeff Bunn, DVM, who was with us from the start. He and Stephanie Ruby, DVM, (Equine Medical, Lowell) were there for me and Jake many times over the years, and when they couldn’t help, others stepped in. Pam DiTonto was a steady member of the team as Jake’s chiropractor. There were so many others: massage therapists, saddle fitters, equipment and trailer folks, the whole she-bang of what it takes to ride at the levels we sought. Jake loved you all, and for you, I remain grateful even if you’re not named here.

And his stables! He was among the first to board at the new Thomet Stables (Ada) and lived there for the better part of 20 years, off and on. In Kalamazoo, we stayed with Diane Marcina for a couple of years. Later in his retirement, Jake was coddled and loved and fed abundantly by the finest horsewoman, Janet Bowman, at her farm (Rockford). His final stay was with the very capable Dani Harrison and her family at El Caballo Loco Farm (Ada). Wherever he went, Jake made human and equine friends easily, deeply valuing all his pasture buddies (as long as he could be at the top of the herd heap).

Even after his glory years, while Ashley Tittle was riding him, he remained a celebrity. At one event while they were heading for the cross-country jumping, two girls stopped, startled, and asked, “Is that the famous Gentleman Jack?” He still had that magical vibe. He was also notorious for “Jake moments” as we called them (usually involving some hefty bucking, one bout of which left me with a broken nose...). Oh, Jake: you had a unique and special spark. It was a great honor to be his human for all these years.

RIP, my friend. You owed me nothing. Your memory will not fade for me. 

It’s not often you encounter truly unique and interesting foods like quinoa and coca and guinea pigs. Peru has them all—plus chocolate and amazing coffee, for the record.

I was most fascinated by the quinoa. It’s great food, good for you, comes in a couple of thousand varieties, and has been domesticated for 3,000 to 4,000 years. The Incas, who regarded the crop as sacred, referred to it as chisaya mama ("mother of all grains"). I find quinoa to be delicious. It has a round, grainy, nicely-chewy texture and can be used in a wide range of dishes—even ice cream. The seeds are cooked much the same way as rice is prepared. Quinoa leaves are also edible, but commercial availability of the greens is limited.

In 2013, quinoa was honored by the United Nations General Assembly in a declaration making it the “International Year of Quinoa.” It was, they said, “in recognition of ancestral practices of the Andean people, who have preserved it as food for present and future generations, through knowledge and practices of living in harmony with nature.” Most quinoa grows naturally almost throughout the Peruvian Andes, but it is also grown elsewhere in the Andes and in Spain. Short-maturity varieties are also grown in the San Luis Valley of Colorado.

Quinoa (pronounced “keen-wa”) was named by the indigenous people of the Andes, who speak the difficult language of Quechua. According to Wikipedia, quinoa is, “a species of the goosefoot genus (Chenopodium quinoa), a grain crop grown primarily for its edible seeds. It is a pseudocereal rather than a true cereal, as it is not a member of the true grass family. [It] is closely related to species such as beetroots, spinach and tumbleweeds.” [Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quinoa on July 10, 2015] Nutritionally, quinoa is very high in protein (14% by mass), and contains low levels of gluten.  Relatively high in amino acids, some consider quinoa to be a complete protein. It’s also chock-full of vitamin B (the “stress vitamin”), and even contains some potassium and calcium. Great food! Super food, some call it.

About the guinea pigs: yes, they are a staple in the Peruvian diet and they are often found living in Peruvian kitchens (until delivered to the soup pot anyhow)! We tried them on the day we had a “panchamanca-style lunch” where meat and veggies are cooked in a traditional underground hot stone process. The flavor was unremarkable. Not normally squeamish about such things, I did find that I had to compartmentalize the fact that they are considered pets in America.

Peru’s other big food is coca because it is an important and long-standing part of the culture. Considered sacred, coca is central to important rituals of community and friendship. The stimulating effects of coca have been used by the Andean people for centuries. (Yes, it’s the stuff that results in cocaine when it’s in the wrong hands.) Some Andean villagers showed us their stash of dried coca leaves and the traditional way of making a wad and tucking it into your cheek to savor on the trail. We were also introduced to the delight of coca tea (but don’t drink it after about 4pm!), coca chewing gum, and coca toffee.

Sadly, when both Colombia and Bolivia got in trouble for supplying cocaine to the USA, much of the cocaine trade moved south into Peru. Nowadays, Peru is the world’s second-largest producer and exporter of the illegal stuff (with Colombia still on top). The drug trade has interfered with the age-old Andean use of coca as a dietary staple because the coca-growing areas are increasingly under the thumb of the drug cartels (and in the gunsights of the drug enforcement community). Very sadly, producing cocaine involves an environmental disaster of poisonous brews that flow into the sources of the Amazon River basin from those illegal operations.

Even now, years after spending time in Peru, it is a pleasure to rinse a batch of quinoa seeds (to reduce bitterness), bring them to a boil, and let them simmer for 20 minutes or so before fluffing the cooked seeds as they cool. I might add some sauteed veggies or a little meat. Then I’ll  sit down to a delicious meal, knowing I’m bound for good memories of that journey while chewing the somewhat-nutty flavor of quinoa and deriving the healthful benefits of this great food. (I’ll skip the guinea pigs and cocaine, though, thank you!)

[Note: An earlier version of this newly-edited and updated blog appeared at Susan smith’s blog, “Design Destinations” in July, 2015] 

But as soon as I earned my EMT, I headed straight for the ambulance world. After a year in private service with Physician’s Ambulance in Denver and earning my paramedic certification in January 1979, I was honored with a position among the paramedic pioneers at Denver General Hospital.

It was a time of innovation and invention and courage and (very) high standards set by our medical directors, who risked their licenses on the actions of our dedicated and ballsy group. As a testament of our bonds, many of us are still in touch to this day.

Even in the late 70's, the concept of Emergency Medical Service was still a relative upstart. But in the wake of this year’s EMS Week (an annual May celebration inaugurated by President Gerald Ford in 1974), I have been humbled to learn about the true pioneers of my craft. If you want to know where it all began, pick up the book, American Sirens, by Kevin Hazzard, and read about the men of Freedom House in Pittsburgh, PA.

They were 24 Black men living in the disadvantaged and unserved Hill district and led by two visionaries, Dr. Peter Safar and Dr. Nancy Caroline. In 1967, the first Freedom House men trained for 32 weeks before becoming the nation’s first true paramedics. In an era when victims of sudden illness or injury were tossed (usually alone) in the back of vehicles driven typically by funeral home workers or the police, Safar and Caroline taught those first paramedics to package trauma patients to preserve life and limb. CPR? Of course; Safar invented it. On medical calls, they read EKGs and delivered medications. They were the first non-doctors to intubate airways. Caroline also wrote the seminal paramedic text, Emergency Care in The Streets.

In 1975, Caroline engineered a demonstration of their prehospital skills during an international symposium on critical care in Pittsburgh by staging a mass casualty event outside the conference hall. Many of those observing the event (maybe even some from Denver) went home carrying that flame of possibility to their own communities. Later that year, the City of Pittsburgh kicked Freedom House in the teeth, effectively doing away with the Black men and all that they, Safar, and Caroline had built and proven, resulting in a deservedly angry and bitter end.

If life is a battle sometimes, those fighting to preserve it are its army. At the forefront to this day are my colleagues in Emergency Medical Service. EMS is an integral and essential element of public safety along with law enforcement and the fire service. Each has its own set of skills for responding to emergencies, its own role to play. That’s how a good emergency system should be. The closest (typically fire fighters with nearby fire stations) can handle basic life support needs: start CPR, stop the bleeding, catch the baby, stuff like that. The further-away paramedics are more spread out, honing their skills by running a higher volume of calls. Law enforcement is crucial for crowd management and safety. We all work together.

But there remains consistent confusion about my world. Let me clear up a thing or two. In many places, as in Denver, paramedic-level care comes as a separate third municipal service, or advanced-level EMS comes via private ambulance services. Elsewhere, the fire department handles both fire and paramedic-level EMS calls. My personal opinion is that a smaller volume of calls makes it challenging for someone to maintain sharp advanced-level skills but that’s how many communities have chosen to run things. Either way, every fire service nowadays runs more EMS calls than fire-related calls (leading one wag to describe it as an EMS organization that occasionally fights fires, but that’s a different discussion.)

Here’s a thought, then: if you’re inclined to thank your emergency providers, please know that thanking one does not mean that your gratitude will reach them all. Soapbox moment: of the emergency services, the one routinely, if unwittingly, marginalized is EMS. So please take time to thank your prehospital emergency medical care folks whenever possible—whether or not it is EMS week.

For the curious, Kevin Hazzard’s book is well worth your time. And so is the following video :
Heroes On Call: The true story of Freedom House Ambulance Service. This 21 minute Emmy Award-Winning Documentary can be seen at  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UvNfxg6HOe0 

On our drive from Skoura, we had two main stops. First was Ait Benhaddou, an 11th century fortified village rebuilt in the 17th century. It is a prime cinematic location used as the backdrop for dozens of movies and TV series ranging from Lawrence of Arabia to Game of Thrones to the newly-released movie, Odyssey.

Then it was up and over the famous Tizi n’Ticha pass (until only a few days before closed by snow!). At last, we reached Marrakech. Or is it Marrakesh? Take your choice, but the Moroccans spell it “Marrakech.”

As the finale to a fabulous two weeks in Morocco, Marrakech delivered. It was three nights and two days of everything you can imagine: labyrinthine alley streets, crowds, bustle, souks with every merchandise imaginable, spice and herb markets, hammans, historical gardens. The center of it all, the infamous and giant square known as Jemaa el-Fna, is where Margaret and I were good sports, posing with cobras while draped by non-poisonous snakes. Why not? In Morocco’s more gruesome past, Jemaa el-Fna is also where, until the 19th century, criminals sentenced to death were executed, sometimes dozens in a day.

Our capable local guide, Moulay, entertained us with history, stories, and more as he showed us around the city. No matter where we went, the emphasis on religion and learning was evident. Every wall and even the ceilings were decorated in intricate patterns of stucco, carved plaster, zellige (like mosaic) tiles, and cedar wood. The Bahia Palace...the Jewish quarter, or “mellah,”... Ben Youssef Medersa, a former Islamic school...the Saadian Tombs...it was a whirlwind of sensory overload that I both welcomed and found exhausting. To really know Marrakech, I think, one would want to plan a (much) longer stay, but what a thrill to have such a fulfilling taste of this amazing place.

On our final morning, we departed from antiquity and visited a garden in Ville Nouvelle (New City) established by French painter Jacques Majorelle in the 1920s. The place was imbued with a powerful shade of “Majorelle blue” a striking cobalt blue named for him. In 1980, the Majorelle Gardens were suffering. Fashion designer Yves Saint-Laurent purchased and restored the site. Lush, with hundreds of species of palm, cactus and other plants, the garden also has a brilliant museum with more than 600 items from Berber culture housed in Majorelle’s original studio building.

Famous for its focus on trade, Marrakech has for centuries been known for its thriving souks, and this continues to be a mainstay. As we wandered through them, we saw tradesmen and craftspeople in shops sometimes the size of a closet. After enjoying the national cuisine for so many days, Amy could contain herself no longer and stopped at an attractive tagine shop. We enjoyed watching her barter, with Ali’s help, and walk away with her ceramic cooking vessel carefully wrapped for the long journey home. As for me, I had wanted a djellabah since Chefchaouen. I finally found it in a minuscule shop in the alley near our riad (hotel) where the weaver had to crawl under his loom to get out. There was joy on both sides as I bartered successfully and, with a photo and a handshake, departed wearing my waist-length version of this traditional Moroccan garment.

After a resplendent final dinner, complete with Gnaouan singers and a belly dancer, our fellowship disbanded. The following morning we went our separate ways. It was not easy to say farewell to our incomparable trip guide, Ali ait Ichou—who headed out with his next tour group just three days later!

[Our adventure travel company was Wilderness Travel. For more about it, see www.wildernesstravel.com]

On a desolate stretch of road during our drive to Skoura that day, there were suddenly mysterious rows of dirt piles in a straight line leading to the far-off mountains. We had arrived at the Khettara canals, a Moroccan drylands water management system typically built by slaves that thrived in the 14th century. Those we visited were “new” (built in the 17th century). What an amazing feat of engineering: underground canals (to minimize evaporation) dug using a series of vertical shafts about every thirty feet for ventilation and excavation. (The dirt piles were the excavated material.) Reportedly, there were once about 185 miles of canals—and not one pump.  A slight, consistent gradient of only 1-2 degrees moved snowmelt and groundwater hundreds of miles from higher ground to the arid regions, transforming barren areas into lush opportunities. Most are no longer in use due to falling water tables (and electric pumps). It was eerie, though, to enter a disused canal and walk along what once would have been several feet of water coursing to a far-off fig tree somewhere.

The khattara system enabled places like the Tafilalt oasis, a vast region with 116 villages. By tradition, the bottomland is communally owned for growing the 100 species of palm trees and other crops. Later that day, we hiked down from one such village and walked the length of the green valley floor. There, the springtime crops were bursting forth, tended by sophisticated irrigation systems using historical methods for sharing the water locally.

But first! A well-fed tourist is a happy tourist, and at lunchtime all eleven of us crowded into the dining room of a local Berber family for a delicious home-cooked meal. Waves of food arrived: salads, different tagine dishes, breads, and fruit for dessert. Tagine, the national culinary dish, is slow-cooked in a conical earthenware dish layered with vegetables and meat sprinkled with tagine spices, and topped with preserved lemon. It was at lunch that I tuned into a beautiful flag on the wall with the Berber symbol for “freedom.” (Ali says it is also the Berber alphabet’s equivalent of our letter “z”.)

The Atlas Mountains offered a new surprise to us after lunch. We came around a corner and suddenly we were squeezed between the sheer 1,000-1,300 foot cliffs of the Todhra Gorge. The area is widely popular with rock climbers and hikers. We lingered briefly on the valley floor while mostly looking up and wandering past the many hopeful souvenir merchants. I departed with the thought that I may have to go back there someday...

Turning reluctantly from the heights, we headed for our two nights in the modern oasis town of Skoura. Its roots stem from the 12th century and are primarily influenced by traditional Berber culture. In this quiet place are millions of trees that grow the figs, dates, olives, and almonds so prevalent in Moroccan cuisine.

Our quarters for the next two nights were in a beautiful renovated ksar (fortified home). Reminiscent of olden times, the Ksar el Kabbaba had imposing front gates and high mud-brick walls. Inside, an open central courtyard revealed exquisite accommodations, and the gracious, capable, attentive care we found there was truly memorable.

[Our trip guide was the incomparable Ali ait Ichou. Our adventure travel company was Wilderness Travel. For more about it, see https://www.wildernesstravel.com]

After a couple of hours of motoring east towards the Algerian border, we stopped in a trackless place to stretch our legs. Our hosts led us along a small stone ridge where the rocks were embedded with hundreds of beautiful fossils!

Then we skirted the end of a dune and there, on a ridge with sand stretching toward the horizon, was our private camp, our desert home for two glorious days and nights. In the distance was an eye-catching rock massif called Jbal Bayaa.

We settled into our individual safari tents, each floor covered with gorgeous handmade Berber carpets. The beds and nightstands, solar-powered lights, and en suite bathroom with toilet, sink and shower elevated the experience from basic to proper glamping (glamorous camping)! Slider doors opened to the stunning view. Out front, a table and chairs, also on carpets, beckoned us to sit and drink it in.

Most of all, I had anticipated the desert silence. Soon, I needed to wander. Intending to go just a little way, my soul was drawn like a magnet away from camp. After days of visiting populated, thriving, busy, albeit truly wonderful places, all that was before me was peace and silence. Farther and farther I went, until there was nothing to hear but my breathing and footsteps in the still air of the sunlit afternoon. I sat and reveled in the warmth of the sand. I gazed at the wind-sculpted ripples on nearby dunes. Everything was a stunning dun color, except for the brilliant blue of the clear sky.

It wasn’t long before I heard something worth exploring: grunts, mostly, and burps and other sounds that could only signal the arrival of the camels! They and their three handlers came into a swale nearby that was hidden from the others, but I got a sneak peek of the afternoon’s activity! Before long we were donning proper headgear (a “shash”) and being shown how to hang on while a camel rises beneath you! Off we went, this time powered by the elegant shuss of camel’s feet on sand. The gait was unhurried and steady, a rocking motion that felt just as I had imagined it. (The saddle: not so comfortable!) After dismounting, we scrambled up a tall dune for photos and to see the impending sunset.

Back at camp in the mess tent and outdoor lounge were refreshments including (of course) proper mint tea. Islamic religious strictures on alcohol made our discovery that the set-up included an impressive bar even more wondrous. Our Muslim hosts were wonderful for considering our needs! Cheers.

I got up a couple of times in the night and was saddened to see cloud-covered sky. But when I peeked out at 6am, the sky had cleared! Silently, I bundled up and slipped out into the cold morning. The camp was silent, and I had the  sparkling bowl above to myself. There were so many stars that I almost missed picking out the Big Dipper! It gave me a memorable glimpse of the majesty of the firmaments before light pollution.

After breakfast, the group made its way several miles across to Jbal Bayaa, some of us on camels, others preferring to walk. (I was on a camel, of course!) Our 4x4 vehicles met us there and we visited a nearby nomad winter camp. (We learned later that they call white people “Romans” in the wake of Roman occupation long ago.) The nomadic lifestyle is hardscrabble, and these are hardy, hard-working people devoted to their animals and the earth that sustains them. As in so many places, it is a diminishing lifestyle as modernity tempts young people to pursue a different sort of life. Although shy of strangers, they were welcoming and we even played some futbol (soccer) with the children.

Also on the agenda that day was a cooking class to learn how to cook tagine (the national dish). Later, around a campfire, we enjoyed Gnaoua (pronounced gna-wa) music, a hypnotic, rhythmic Moroccan genre rooted in the heritage of formerly enslaved people from further south in Africa.

And again that evening the sunset again wow’d the crowd, followed by a final sunrise that threatened to outdo it.

The Sahara is a hefty 3.5 million square mile presence across eleven northern African nations, including most of eastern Morocco. Its dust swirls up and across oceans at times. It is a geological feature with a life of its own, and will not be harnessed or bound. It is fun to recognize that any impact I had on it during those two days was swept away immediately by time and natural forces. That remarkable desert will always be there, but it will never be the same for long.

[Our trip guide was the incomparable Ali ait Ichou. Our adventure travel company was Wilderness Travel. For more about it, see https://www.wildernesstravel.com]

Flowers are everywhere, even in the concrete jungles of cities, where a rising emphasis nowadays brings the color and beauty of flowers to the streets. I remember how impressed (and happy) my eyes have been, to witness the abundant flowerbeds along the main boulevards of Chicago and elsewhere.

I am not an avid gardener, but this personal failing does not stop me from loving flowers. I do not study and plan and plant and nurture gorgeous gardens! I wish I was better at it, but gladly, I can get help from people with better backs than mine to brighten my place with a wonderful array of flowers. The best I ever seem to do is plunk some impatiens and coleus plants near the front door and pop some nasturium seeds along the driveway border.

My best friend always keeps fresh cut flowers in her house. I adopted the habit a while ago, and the value of this extravagance has, well, blossomed over time. It makes me especially happy when I can cut my own hydrangeas, daffodils, lilacs and Russian sage to bring indoors. Flowers in a vase catching the morning light always brighten a day, especially when we are crawling through the dark grey tunnels of Midwestern winters.

Every flower gets my vote. Even dandelions make my heart happy. (And the bees of early spring really need the nectar, so please wait to mow until they are done blooming. Pass it on!) Along the roads and pathways of my daily walks: flowers. In humid swamps and up in the high country: flowers. Scented or not: flowers Every color, every geometric pattern, tall and short, showy and plain: flowers. What a gift each one is.

And so, yes, I am a flower geek. I don’t know all their names, or how they like to grow, but that’s ok. Every day, it matters to take the time to stop and really notice the flowers brightening my world. They have my humble and deep appreciation. They never fail to improve my outlook. They enliven days that are going well, and inevitably boost sagging days. The role of flowers in my world is well-entrenched, and I hope the same is (or can become) true as well for you.  

This is an edited version of a blog previously posted in Generally Write on September 22, 2023.

Fés has served as Morocco’s imperial capital off and on some eight times, through different dynasties and reigns of power. It has certainly had its share of trouble, being rocked and ravaged by invasions and sieges and overthrows by one ruling dynasty or another in what must often have seemed a perpetual struggle for power.

But in 2026, our visit to this historical hub of manufacturing led us into a center also renowned for its sophisticated arts and crafts. We visited people making ceramics and zellige (mosaics), tanning and dyeing leather, spinning vibrant silk thread of every hue and shade, selling antiques, and weaving beautiful textiles and fabrics. Trying to peek at all these things in just one day was, well, ambitious! Properly visiting a place like Fés surely warrants more time.

The original, oldest part of the city is called Fés el-Bali (“Old Medina”). It is an exciting and intriguing jumble of some 9,000 narrow streets which, to our eyes, more often resembled alleyways. UNESCO lists it as the world’s largest car-free urban area [Source: Google.com]. The streets wind through the different medinas (quarters) such that not even tiny cars could get through. In fact, one of the biggest challenges for our group of just 10 people (plus guides) was not to lose anyone in the crowd and crush.

One of the most famous sites (and sights) in Fés el-Bali is the Tanner’s Quarter. As we walked into one of the oldest, the Chouara Tannery, we were handed sprigs of fresh mint to hold up to our noses against the stink. Our view was from a third-floor vista looking down upon dozens of round stone and brick vats. The medieval atmosphere evokes traditions spanning thousands of years managed these days by about 50 families passing the trade from father to son.

Many of the vats held white liquids consisting of “cow urine, pigeon feces, quicklime, salt, and water”! [Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chouara_Tannery, accessed March 23, 2026] For several days, the brew works to clean and soften the goat, sheep, cow and (less often) camel hides. This readies them to absorb the dyes, many of which are derived from natural sources: poppies (red), indigo (blues), henna (oranges) and more. After drying in the sun, the leather is sold to artisans who produce exquisite Moroccan leather goods. (Ask me sometime about my lovely blue suede jacket, purchased at the behest of my new BIF, aka “bad influence friend,” Wendy!)

The souks (Arabic for “marketplace”) were a feast for all the senses. We wandered past the food section (veggies, fruits, meats including a camel head) into many other fascinating areas: spices, olives (so many different ones!), slippers and shoes, henna, silks and brocades, garments such as kaftans and djellabahs, jewelry, Moroccan lights with their pinhole designs and so much more.

Our guides were masterful at maneuvering us from hither to yon. We visited Fondouk el-Nejjarine, formerly a caravanserai, or inn, where travelers could find lodging both for themselves and their animals. This one had a beautiful bricked central courtyard for the animals. Above it rose three storeys with railings of intricately carved wood. It is now a “Museum of Wooden Arts.”

The other main section of the city is Fés el-Jedid (“New Fés” or “White Fés”). The concept of newness is relative: Fés el-Jedid was built in 1276 as a stronghold against invaders. Until 1912, when the French Protectorate came along, Fés served as Morocco’s administrative center. In the 18th century, a royal palace complex called Dar el-Makhzen was built, where Morocco’s current monarch, King Mohammed VI, stays when he’s in Fés. We stood in awe of its gateway of exquisitely engraved bronze doors for some time, just taking in the intricacy and beauty.

It was a long but glorious day. Earlier, before losing ourselves in the old medina, we visited a ceramics co-op where we watched how Moroccan mosaic and ceramics are made, with their gorgeous shapes and elaborate, detailed designs. At the end of the day, we visited another co-op, this one with weavers who demonstrated their looms and the way they could craft amazing fabrics. In the middle of the busy day, though, came a true highlight. We stopped for lunch and were treated to a famous Fés specialty not found everywhere. Moroccan Pastilla is a savory pie filled with spiced chicken (or, more authentically, pigeon), caramelized onions, and toasted almonds wrapped in multiple layers of thin “warza” (like phyllo dough) and topped with cinnamon and powdered sugar. It is crispy! Complex! Delicious! I could go back, just for that.

[Our trip guide was the incomparable Ali ait Ichou, and our local guide (reminiscent of Al Pachino) was the incomparable “Mayor” of Fés, Rachid. Our adventure travel company was Wilderness Travel. For more about it, see https://www.wildernesstravel.com]

Even before the Romans arrived, Volubilis was a thriving Berber (more correctly known as Amazigh) settlement. Throughout northwest Africa, Amazigh people have a rich, proud history spanning centuries and lasting through to current times. At one point, Volubilis served as the capital city of the Kingdom of Mauritania under King Juba II, an Amazigh man and a prince whose life straddled the epochs: 48 BCE to 23 CE. Among the accomplishments of this scholar, prolific writer, and royal person was his marriage to the daughter of the Egyptian queen, Cleopatra.

After the Romans departed, Volubilis was inhabited by Christians, Jews, and Greeks before becoming an Islamic settlement in 788 when Idriss I (credited as the founding father of Morocco) lived there. But when the city of Fes took the seat of power from Volubilis in the 11th century, Volubilis shrank from view and was, for centuries, largely forgotten.

Our group of ten was largely oblivious to this place with the Latin name as we trundled along in our van on the Moroccan roads between the cities of Rabat and Fes in January 2026. We were crossing a beautifully green, rural stretch when Volubilis came into view on a nearby hillside. It seemed remote and at first underwhelming. As our local guide, Rashid, led us up a nothing-fancy dirt path, though, Volubilis blossomed for me into a place of real fascination.

What had not succumbed to neglect and abandonment was destroyed in the 1755 earthquake that leveled Lisbon. After being rediscovered in the late 19th century, Volubilis (pronounced “va-LOO-ba-lis) became the most extensive Moroccan archeological site dating back to Roman times. It is a 100-acre wander through history. (One fun fact offered by Rashid: the origin of the word “spa”! It is short for “salus per aqua,” Latin for “health through water.” Now you know.)

Made prosperous by trading opportunities and its capital status, the level of sophistication includes stunning floor mosaics in many of the aristocrat homes, an aqueduct that carried water to the fountains and baths from a half-mile away, impressively-engineered drains, and many olive presses. It is bisected by a wide boulevard called the decumanus maximus (common to Roman cities) that leads several hundred yards from the city’s main gate southwest to a 26-foot high triumphal arch. The arch, built in 217 CE, was once crowned by a sculpture of a chariot and six horses, long gone. Only this arch and the walls of the basilica were standing when excavations, beginning in 1915, brought Volubilis back to light. So far, only the city center has been excavated.

The heart and nucleus of a Roman city (so we were told), is the forum. More than simply a market area (which is partly true), the forum also served as a public space for processions, elections, public speeches, even criminal trials. At the basilica on the eastern side of the forum, the senate would meet and higher orders of business and civic administration were conducted. Sometimes, as we take our tourist group shots, I found myself pondering, “what other feet have walked across these stones?” For thousands of years, even while it was abandoned, Volubilis (and so many places like it) has contributed to our ability to sense of the impact of mankind. It is humbling to me.

[Our trip guide was the incomparable Ali ait Ichou, who is also an Amazigh man. Our adventure travel company was Wilderness Travel. For more about it, see https://www.wildernesstravel.com]

[Sources: https://www.britannica.com/place/Volubilis accessed March 11, 2026 and “Morocco,” Alison McGill, Sr. Editor (NYC: Penguin Random House, 2019]

After the earthquake, the city was rebuilt yet again, this time by the reigning Sultan Sidi Mohammed Ben Abdellah. He called it “Dar El Beida” (Arabic for “white house”) but with the huge advent of trade with Europe, the name of Casablanca finally stuck starting in the 1780s, so I’m told. It was later solidified in the pantheon of place names by the 1942 romantic drama about a guy named Rick and his famous café. (The café, by the way, was a fiction built on a Hollywood set. In 2004, an enterprising American named Kathy Kriger, a former diplomat, built Rick’s Café near the Casablanca shoreline where people, tourists mostly, can enjoy some nostalgia and live music with their meals. Maybe the piano player will play it again, Sam.)

The Casablanca of the 21st century finds it less chock full of touristy stuff and more focused on being the financial capital of this very modern nation. It has become a powerhouse of international commerce, banking and trade.

On our day tour, our Booking.com guide, Hamid, centered our activities on two places: that white-housed hillside, and the mosque. As we drove through the area of (still mostly) white houses, we paused to see the former Anfa Hotel, site of the pivotal World War II “Casablanca Conference” in January 1943. The meeting was primarily between US President Franklin Roosevelt, UK Prime Minister Winston Churchill, and the sovereign (later, king) of Morocco, Sultan Muhammad V. (Soviet Secretary General Joseph Stalin was unable to attend because he was contending with the Battle of Stalingrad.) The outcome of this meeting was the Casablanca Declaration, a unified statement of purpose that said the Allies would accept nothing less than unconditional surrender by the Axis powers. (Given its historical importance, the former Anfa Hotel is now being renovated and will soon serve as a museum to commemorate those events.)

Earlier in the day, we visited the Hassan II mosque. Our timing yielded perfect morning light after a day of rain as well as minimal numbers of fellow tourists, who tend to arrive in droves. It was a memorable experience. A recent addition to the Casablanca skyline, the mosque stands on a promontory overlooking the adjacent Atlantic Ocean. It was built in just six years from 1987 to 1993 by the son of Mohammed V, King Hassan II (1929-1999) who reigned over Morocco from 1961 until his death. He wanted to build the farther-west mosque in the African Arab world in order to incorporate the elements of not only land and air, but also water. Thus, part of the mosque’s foundation lies deeply embedded in the ocean water.

Among the largest mosques in the world, Hassan II mosque is deeply Moroccan. It was built and decorated by Moroccan builders and craftspeople using carved plaster, ornate tile designs (known as “zellige” which is different from mosaic), and carved cedar. The work was painstaking. For example, we were told that it took craftsmen four to five days to carve each square meter. Source materials were almost entirely Moroccan except the 56 chandeliers. The cost of construction—about US$700 million— was largely by public donation. Twelve million people stepped up to give. Each received a receipt and certificate, even the smallest donors of just 5 dirham (about fifty US cents).

The minaret on Hassan II mosque is the world’s second tallest at 689 feet (210 meters). Luckily, the muezzin who call the faithful to prayer five times every day can take the elevator instead of the 1,200 steps to the top! Atop the minaret, a laser beam oriented towards Mecca lights up electronically in the evening and can be seen for miles. Inside, the ornate decor and almost relentless designs include walls of hand-crafted marble, chandeliers holding a total of 80,000 lightbulbs, 360 speakers embedded throughout within ornate plaster columns. The gold-gilt roof is retractable, which is surely a relief when a full house of 25,000 people gather to pray, especially in the hot months! They can be joined on the gigantic plaza outside by another 80,000 people.

In addition to the mosque itself, the complex has other structures: a madrasa (Islamic school), hammams (bathhouses), a Moroccan history museum, conference halls. The library is said to be exceptionally comprehensive. In the courtyard are forty-one elaborately decorated fountains, and the beautiful gardens are popular for family picnics. In all, the place is enormous, and worth a visit. It is a true monument of achievement.

While driving around Casablanca, we could often see the beautiful mosque from a distance. On a nearby ocean point, the historical fishing shanties have been demolished, sadly, to make way for upscale development (including one being planned by Ivanka Trump). When the FIFA World Cup starts in Morocco (co-hosts: Portugal and Spain) in 2030, the Casablanca scene will surely be much different than what we fortunately witnessed. 

What an opportunity it was to go there and encounter a superlative guide, itinerary, and group of ten fellow travelers. Our initial plans took several of us north from Casablanca for three days to the “blue city” of Chefchaouen, pop. 46,168 (in 2024). After returning to Casablanca to meet up with our main group, we traveled for ten days by minibus, 4x4 Landcruisers, and even camels (!) as we circumnavigated the Atlas Mountain range, ending in Marrakech. As they say in Morocco: “Yela!” Let’s go!

When researching this trip, I had never heard of Chefchaouen, but given my love for words, the place-name alone intrigued me. It has as many vowels as my name! Our five hour drive carried us through beautiful agricultural areas on the flat terrain near the Atlantic coast, then uphill into the Rif mountain range to the small city founded in 1471.

Our guide knew where to make a quick stop for some Moroccan wine at the outskirts of this dry town. (There are 14 wineries in Morocco offering excellent wines, despite Islamic prohibitions regarding alcohol.) On our way into what felt for all the world like a speakeasy, we had our first glimpse of the Blue City across the valley...and blue it is! Why? For Jewish immigrants escaping the Spanish Inquisition starting in the 1490s, it perhaps symbolized the color of the sky and protection. Or maybe to ward off mosquitoes. Or maybe because town leaders a few decades ago recognized a unique draw for tourists. Whatever the history, the effect is remarkable.

Chefchaouen, like many old Moroccan cities, was built to fend off invaders. The imposing original citadel, known as the “kasbah,” with its high walls and ten towers (and scary jail) was built in the late 1400s. It is now a museum, with a paradoxically calm central courtyard filled with beautiful trees and gardens. The “medina” (walled city) surrounding the kasbah evolved later, with its lower walls and seven arched gates. Its ancient origins resulted in a warren of very narrow, mostly cobblestone streets, rising and falling over the mountainous terrain, twisting and turning helter-skelter. It was easy to get lost, but we never felt any alarm.

All medinas divide organically into smaller neighborhoods, or quarters. Each quarter includes five elements: a fountain for water, a school, a bakery, a mosque, and a “hammam.” A hammam is a traditional public steam bath which, while mysterious to westerners, is locally valued for both deep cleansing and (segregated) social gathering.

At night, we returned from our adventuring to a wonderful Moroccan feature: our riad. Wealthy families traditionally built their homes (riads) designed with stout exterior walls looking inward to an interior courtyard with a fountain and gardens, open to the sky—very private, very quiet. Many riads have been converted nowadays to boutique hotels, and we were the beneficiaries of this wonderful lodging concept for much of our journey.

It was rainy during our days in Chefchaouen, but all the Moroccans were thrilled; the nation had endured a severe seven-year drought which seemed to be ending at last. Sadly, within days of our time there, northern Morocco, including the Chefchaouen region, was hit by epic, lingering storms. “According to the International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies, as of [Feb. 12, 2026], these events have claimed 43 fatalities, left 23 people injured, displaced roughly 300,000 residents, and affected a total of about 2 million individuals.” [Source: https://reliefweb.int/report/morocco/] Our hearts go out to everyone affected.

[Note: Our guide was the incomparable Ali ait Ichou. Our adventure travel company was Wilderness Travel. For more about it, see https://www.wildernesstravel.com]

Luckily for me, the perfect opportunity soon arrived on an alumnae trip with NOLS (the National Outdoor Leadership School). In 2014, I joined a group including two very good longtime NOLS buddies, as we sampled the delightful part of the world known as Parc Naturale delle Dolomiti d’Ampezzo. It is not far from the popular ski resort of Bolzano and Cortina d’Ampezzo, site of the 1956 winter Olympics. This blog (originally appearing in another blogsite, “Design Destinations” in 2014) is rewritten in honor of the upcoming 2026 Olympic Games in Milan and several skiing centers in those dramatic Dolomite mountains.

The Dolomites are composed of sedimentary carbonate rock imbued with a lot of calcium [source: “Dolomite” in Wikipedia.org]. Although sometimes multi-hued, the predictable result are often brightly white vistas. Imagine: a white mountain range without snow. Stunning.

The Dolomite area is intensely popular with hikers, and so it is laced with well-marked trails. Some send you straight up (say, 3,500 vertical feet, for example, as on our first day), or down through steep scree fields. Some meandered through grassy meadows and past alpine lakes, where we might pass cows swinging their bells in lovely aural accompaniment with our footfalls. Some were the same paths used by ill-equipped soldiers in what was a brutal part of the Great War in the early 20th century—and we could still see the bunkers and battlegrounds. The fighting that occurred in those times is referred to as “il fronte verticale” or “the vertical front.” This is in reference to the extreme conditions encountered by soldiers, many of whom were from the south of Italy and had never seen snow. There were, as a result, more deaths from cold, avalanches, harsh conditions, and steep terrain than in battle.

Our group walked for seven days and nights, exploring the mountains from Lago Braies to the roadhead at Borda di Cadore. Sometimes as we walked, we were in socked-in, foggy drizzle, sometimes not. I can attest: some of the trails were challenging, especially on the last couple of days. They could often be muddy-mean. Very muddy! Did I mention mud?

We rested our heads each night at a different high-country hotel, known in Italy as a rifugio. These destinations were welcome after days spent hiking 5 or ten miles (for a total of 50 miles overall). At each rifugio there were shoe-drying rooms, adult beverages, hot showers (sometimes), and multi-course dinners. We stayed in bunkrooms where we had comfy beds, quilts or blankets, and pillows, using our own sleeping sheets (and earplugs to blunt the snoring!).

Although it was rigorous, the Dolomites are a place where I’d return to if it ever becomes possible. As the newest round of Olympics ramps up, I feel very grateful to be able to return at least in my mind’s eye to that beautiful place. All in all, it was a splendid adventure. 

I know people who travel with their special coffees, their own pillows, their creature comforts from home, and I am not totally immune to that inclination. I always take a favorite scarf, for example, and my own bar soap. But leaving for an adventure implies a willingness to depart from treasured routines and daily habits, to make space for the main reason for going: to see what happens. Adventure means the chance to see the ways that differences in people, place and time can be engaging and interesting and worth the struggle of going.

My eagerness to upset my norms is not shared by everyone. I have met (but honestly do not judge) people who choose not to travel largely because they like their routines, they want things to stay the same. There’s a lot to suggest that routines are helpful. A routine is a regular sequence of predictable, unchanging actions. A good routine is a stabilizer in a world that can be chaotic and even upsetting. When the daily news raises blood pressure and hackles, a routine of tai chi or meditation can help. When the seasons are changing, the routine of bringing the warm clothes up from storage (and replacing them with summer-wear in a few months) is a wonderful marker for the passage of time. Here’s a fun one: the 11-year-old German shepherd I adopted a few months ago has a routine of following me every time into the bathroom for a hug while I’m seated. It’s very sweet!

One reservation I have about routines are those that hold a person captive. If some daily occurrence (routine) is happening less by choice than by intractable habit, it could perhaps begin to feel like a rut. Someone once said that a rut is nothing more than an open-ended coffin. My own experience of growing up in an alcoholic home makes me watchful against such traps.

So, when I choose to interrupt my various routines (and those of my dog), I do so mindfully and willingly. I know that, upon my return, I can resume it all. It’s a dance: turn outward and see the world, turn back and c’mon home. Because I’ve been away, it all feels somehow delightfully fresh and, at the same time, wonderfully familiar. This return to my at-home routines is like greeting a cadre of old friends.

Yes. The morning drink powder and its cute wooden scoop will be here when I walk back into the house in a few weeks. That first morning back, I will reach in the pantry in a foggy, jet-lagged state and be pleased to find it. Well, hello, old friend, I might think. I will head across the house to the green chair by the fishpond (mug of hot deliciousness in hand) to write in my journal. All these small actions, these routines, help me land again. Life in all its pieces and parts, all its interrupted routines, will resume. As glad as I was to have the chance to head out on an adventure, I know I’ll also be happy to get all this back again. I will celebrate the freshness of it according to my travel-changed eyes.

And so, I suggested to her, why not say “yes”? We have all witnessed the way a poorly timed "no" can cause unwelcome meltdown in a toddler’s world. Similarly, saying "no, you can’t have that" to our inner child when s/he has fixated on a chocolate bar is probably a doomed mission.

“Yes” is a simple maneuver. It’s a more welcome word, one that can nicely redirect one’s attention without the opposition inherent to the path of “no.” It can help break a toddler’s fixation on, say, needing to have that certain toy or food item. What a difference it can make, to say “Yes! Of course you can have your toy...as soon as you [fill in the blank: get in the car, pick up your room, help me clear this dinner table...].”

In a similar vein, I have often found it helpful to use the “Yes!” strategy on my own self-discipline. I learned this back in 2010 when I emerged as a flabby mess after the sedentary habits of grad school. My battle cry became, "I refuse to age into doughiness"–you know, that nasty feeling of unwelcome layers of insulation that add jiggle to your heft. The power of “yes” became my ticket to reining in the weight-creep that had occurred.

“Yes,” I would reassure my needy inner self, “you can certainly have that bag of chips...after you drink two glasses of water.” I was constantly making such deals with myself. Taking the time to drink that water (or stretch for 10 minutes, or go outside to feed the birds, or...) buys my resolve enough time to bubble back up to the surface. The distraction and pleasure of “yes” makes me worry less about failing and helps me appreciate ways where I can succeed. When my good intentions override my impulsive behavior, the turn of events helps me forget the moment of weakness, helps me walk past the kitchen, helps me attain my real goal of skipping the unwanted calories.

The power of “Yes” can go further than momentary recalibrations of resolve. For example, according to the experts, humans descend into decline over time. “No,” some say, “not old age!” I know a person who refuses to let me utter the “O” word in apparent horror of the idea of “old.” What about putting a different spin on it? Personally, I’m impressed how my 70-plus year old body is holding up, considering the wear and tear. Think of the way items we grew up with (some of which are eerily showing up in museums) are valued. Well-aged furniture in its original condition eventually earns the designation of “antique.” Autos are considered “classic” after 20 years and “vintage” when they get to 90. Old is, ok, a somewhat time-worn word. Instead, I think, isn’t there a certain cache to other words like “vintage” and “classic” and “antique”? I say “yes!”

I cannot buy into the doomsday reports that aging inevitably means negative, dire consequences. Of course, our bones get more porous, our blood pressure spirals upwards, muscle mass diminishes while our heft seems to mushroom. Regardless, there’s no need to cry an existential “no!” It is possible instead to choose to look at things differently. Yes, I appreciate the endurance of this one mortal body of mine. Yes, I am willing to work at maintaining a healthy level of fitness. Yes, I invest in my well-being because I intend to be well. I say, “Yes!” Why not? It sure beats the alternative.

[This blog has been enthusiastically edited from its original version, which was posted April 6, 2015.]

The day was brisk but the skies were sunny and clear as we drove south 45 miles from our cabin in Hot Springs to the Biltmore entrance in Asheville. We had reserved a 10:30 a.m. entry, but I was confused. Why were we being told to allow 45 minutes to get from the entrance gate to the parking area? As it turns out, it’s a 3-mile long driveway, artfully twisting and climbing from the valley floor through beautiful wooded terrain. My imagination was on fire thinking of the true horsepower required when the house was finished in 1895 to clip-clop up to Biltmore House.

Met in the parking lot by an enthusiastic docent (who was still there four hours later!), we learned that the drive can be clogged by motor homes and inexperienced drivers. On our off-season Thursday morning in November, we had made good time. The docent was the first of dozens of friendly and helpful Biltmore staff/volunteers who offered us exceptional customer service throughout the day.

Our walk from the parking area brought Biltmore into view suddenly as we came around a corner. Even from the far end of the huge grassy lawn (complete with fountain), the grandeur of this Gilded Age mansion was clear. At nearly 179,000 sq. ft, the chateau is still the largest privately owned house in the United States. Built by George Washington Vanderbilt in the French Renaissance tradition of the Loire Valley, its 250 rooms include 35 bedrooms, 43 bathrooms, and 65 fireplaces. Although it actually served as the family’s home, the Vanderbilts really enjoyed entertaining! There are a grand foyer, a music room, gathering areas both upstairs and down from the sweeping staircase, a cool patio and a stunning library housing 10,000 of Vanderbilt’s 23,000 volume collection, most of which he surely read. The huge kitchen and pantry areas support an ample breakfast room and a lavish banquet room. For fun, there is a bowling alley, a well-stocked workout room including weights, and an indoor swimming pool (with separate changing areas for men and women). The high-ceilinged, well-lit and airy stables housed 30-40 horses for riding and driving, and about twenty carriages.

Using plans drawn by architect Richard Morris Hunt, construction began in 1889 and took six years, 1,000 workers, and about 60 stonemasons. The cost was about $5 million (about $190 million today). The basis of George Vanderbilt’s inheritance began with George’s industrialist grandfather, Cornelius (aka “The Commodore”) who prospered mightily from shipping and railroads. George’s father, William Henry, the fourth of 13 children, carried on in the Commodore’s footsteps, beating out Rockefeller and Carnegie to be the wealthiest American by 1885, with a net worth of about $200 million ($6.35 billion today).

Vanderbilt married Edith Stuyvesant Dresser in 1898. Their only child, Cornelia Stuyvesant Vanderbilt, was born at Biltmore in 1900 and grew up at the estate. After George died unexpectedly in 1914 at age 51 (pulmonary embolism following an appendectomy), Edith was intent on carrying on George’s vision and stewarded Biltmore through World War I. When she remarried in 1925, Cornelia and her husband, Englishman John Francis Amherst Cecil lived at Biltmore, where their two sons were born. The family began to share their legacy with the public in 1930. To this day, the family owns Biltmore and its descendants are directly involved in its operation. It was named a National Historic Landmark in 1963.

George intended Biltmore as a country get-away. It perches on a stunning ridge overlooking the mountains of western North Carolina. The vistas added fuel to George’s love for natural beauty.  He purchased 125,000 acres of land, much of it depleted by long-standing farming practices. A pioneer in sustainable land use practices, George (who never went to college) became a passionate and self-taught forester, inventing and supporting many innovative forestry practices. And he hired well: the acreage and the closer-by gardens were designed by the famous landscape architect Frederick Law Olmstead. In 1914, Edith sold 86,700 acres to the US government for $5/acre to help fulfill her husband’s vision for forest conservation. It was the nucleus of Pisgah National Forest which is now about 500,000 acres. This legacy gift was instrumental in establishing both our national forest system and the US Forest Service.

More than a million people visit Biltmore each year, and it’s not difficult to understand why. While the statistics are impressive, I discovered a surprising empathy for George. The youngest of a family of nine, George was shy and introverted. He was passionate about learning, travel and art. He was reportedly very generous to and caring of his necessarily ample staff. The family’s on-going respect for the people who built and continue to run the house was evident throughout our tour. Despite the grandeur and lavishness of Biltmore, a palpable vibe of humility reigned for me. I noticed it in the audio-tour, in the honest pride of the staff, and even in the lack of outright ostentation that can be common among the ultra-wealthy. It was enough to make me want to go back.  

When the pretty lights and bright decorations for Christmas start, oh, somewhere back at Labor Day, the grace of gratitude offered by Thanksgiving inevitably gets essentially lost. But in my book, it is the strong, silent holiday that stands steadfast beside the wild chaos and often fake exuberance of that December event. Hands down, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.

What I am doing for Thanksgiving is less the point than what I am feeling about the opportunity to just say “thank you” in as many ways and to as many people as I can. No money need be exchanged, there’s no pressure to outdo someone else, postal mailing deadlines aren’t relevant, there’s not even all that much pressure to show up. Sure, it’s a family day (thus the cause of much of the angst). It may involve taking a few days to drive or fly to gather with people you may or may not care to spend time with. But the main event is really only for a few hours and a football game, right?

All of which to say, I am surely not alone when I hem and haw in answer to that question about holiday plans. People have surprisingly ingrained ideas about the right answer. Yet many face innumerable non-traditional, multi-parent, blended family situations. Unless you are lucky enough to have a reliable annual tradition to guide you, there’s a perpetual struggle. Maybe it means going one place for one holiday and another for the other. Maybe it means putting up with a least-favorite relative’s behavior. Maybe it’s tolerating the red-hot political divide. It’s complicated.

So the other day, when a friend made the inevitable inquiry, I said I might be in one place, might be in another, depending on a situation waiting to be clarified and that I just might be alone. When the gasp was audible, I reassured him that I would be fine. I do “solitary” well, and (usually) skip “lonely.” But I do find it interesting the way some people are appalled when a plan doesn’t fit their preconceived notions of how something like this  “should” be. They instantly begin to try to find ways to include me. This is deeply appreciated, of course! But, as my friend and I agreed, every year is different and sometimes a new plan is needed. He concluded our conversation with this beautiful idea: “Just be your own pilgrim.”

What a wonderful way to approach Thanksgiving! What gracious permission not to stress out about the logistics of this precious holiday. However it unfolds (and it will unfold with treasured friends, no matter where I land), I’ll bring my best pilgrim self to the table.

Then, of course, soon comes the next question: “So, what are you doing for Christmas?”

So, in June 2025, two buddies and I decided to take an autumn trip to the hill towns of Hot Springs, Marshall, and Asheville, NC. Our express purpose was to infuse some tourist dollars while these communities continue to get back on their feet. We booked flights, and arranged five nights in a (delightful) cabin near Hot Springs plus a night in Gatlinburg, devastated by wildfires in 2016, killing 14 people and injuring 190.

Wow, what an experience! During our week in November, we met tough, grateful, friendly, resilient people. Six weeks after the storm’s first anniversary, they were glad to see us. We spent time (and dollars!) in shops and restaurants everywhere we went. Our day in Asheville was mostly spent at Biltmore (a must-see, by the way - stay tuned for another blog).

Our day in Marshall was with my cousin Susan, whose second-floor apartment in the old mill was inches above the French Broad River’s flood waters (which reached the first floor ceiling). (Support this talented artist if you can! See her jigsaw puzzles, cards, and more at https://www.mcchesneyart.com/). We enjoyed sea bass tacos at a main street restaurant reopened just that week, and stopped at several shops and art galleries. Each proprietor could tell a mud-caked story.

We mostly spent time in the Hot Springs area, 16 miles north of Marshall and 36 miles north of Asheville. Because the French Broad River flows north, Hot Springs not only got flooded by local rain, the flood waters from both the other towns hit it, too. To boot, the river merges with Spring Creek in downtown Hot Springs. At its worst, the water there pulsed at 101,000 cubic feet per second, “equal to the amount of water flowing over Niagara Falls in high season and ten times stronger than the Class IV rapids in the Colorado River at the Grand Canyon.” [Source: Stronger Than The Storm, edited by Shelley McKechnie–the profits of which benefit local recovery efforts, available online]

In the fresh wake of my own orthopedic recovery which has taken most of 2025, I tested my rehabbed body for three days on hiking trails in the area. First was a 2-mile meander along a peaceful river the day we got back from Marshall. That went well, so the next day, using excellent hiking pamphlets produced by Madison County Outdoors, we had two lovely hikes. First was along the banks of the French Broad River, then steeply up to Lover’s Leap. The story goes that a Cherokee chief strategically wanted his daughter to marry another powerful man, who murdered her heart’s desire. She jumped from the cliff to be reunited with her love...and the murderer was attacked and killed moments later by a panther. Happily, the forest was autumn-colored and calm for us on this 1.7 mile hike.

Later, we hiked 1.1 miles on a tranquil, off-the-beaten-track called Betty Place. The path meandered past immense rhododendron bushes blanketing the hillside. Surrounded by very tall trees, we crossed the creek and looped down the other side of the drainage. Then we headed to our cabin for the hot tub and movie night with popcorn!

Our final day on the eastern flank of the Smoky Mountains was my first true test: a 5-mile out-and-back hike up 1,430 feet on the Appalachian Trail to Rich Mountain Firetower. The day was cool but clear, and splendid. After regrouping (including hot tub time), I felt great physically. Our souls were then nourished by an evening of bluegrass music at the local brewery.

Our next plan was to drive south on Highway 209 to the eastern portal to Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The route included the famous section known as The Rattler. This popular road has 290 curves in 24 miles. Driving it on a (very) low traffic day was really fun, just sayin’.

Soon after, at the national park’s Oconaluftee Visitor Center, our plan to drive west to Gatlinburg via the park road was thwarted. The road over the top was snowed in. But then we realized the southern route around the bottom of the park would take us to the famous Tail of the Dragon. This notorious, iconic section of road bested The Rattler, with 318 curves in just 11 miles! Because it was a snow-squall day in November in North Carolina, we got to drive in nearly solitary splendor. W.h.a.t. F.U.N.

On our final day, we drove to Cade’s Cove in the park (worth the drive). Suddenly, a black bear heading uphill from the Laurel River crossed right in front of our car! Later, it was time to head to nearby Knoxville and the flights home. It was a wonderful week in mostly natural settings and mostly beautiful late-autumn weather. Walking and eating and shopping (and dropping tourist dollars!) in places still rising from the devastations of last year were worth every bit of the effort to go there. 

On that day, happily, we were very much on a path. Our 301-degree heading carried us directly toward the Azores. It is a place I’ve wondered about ever since its intriguing place-name caught my attention decades ago. Our arrival was delayed a day because a hefty storm was rolling through, so our captain had wisely decided to wait in Madeira to avoid being caught out on the open ocean. The result was that our time in the Azores was cut short by a day.

We pulled up to the dock at Sao Miguel, one of the nine main islands in the volcanic archipelago in May, 2025. Its largest city, Ponta Delgada (pop’n 69,000), is the capital of the Azores, an autonomous region of Portugal. Our one full day there was busy! We went whale-watching on small boats with spotters on the island guiding the skippers. We saw some sperm whales at a distance, and some bottlenose and common dolphins close-by. Then it was onto a bus for the ride to the town of Furnas in the highlands. There, we sat at long tables and enjoyed a highly-efficient lunch at Tony’s (eat there when you go!); it was a delicious traditional stew cooked in the boilers of the volcanic fumeroles. Next we were whisked off for a rapid (read: rushed) tour of the Gorreana tea plantation. It was a typical day for group-travel – on and off the boat and bus, (bossy) shepherding by an impatient guide, and no wiggle-room for spur-of-the-moment asides. It was a good reminder that a tourist (as we were on this trip) must give up some autonomy and live with the convenience of having everything pre-arranged, I suppose.

The next day, after disembarking from two weeks aboard our ship, our flight to the mainland wasn’t until evening. We had thought ahead and arranged a private tour of Sao Miguel. What a difference! Our guide, Gabriel, was a breath of fresh air, and the experience was thoroughly enjoyable. A guide since age 14, Gabriel showed us the northern part of the island. A highlight was descending from the rim of a volcanic crater, over a bridge separating a blue lake from a green one, to a town built inside: Sete Cidades. Serendipity graced us when a Mother’s Day church service let out and a horde of  townsfolk walked in a traditional parade led by an oomp-pah band all around the town. (Gabriel can be found at https://azoresislandsexperience.com – take a look!)

What I learned from my limited visit to the Azores is this: I need to go back! There are nine islands in three groupings which all warrant a proper look-see. If the rest is as good as what I was able to see during my short two days solely on Sao Miguel, I can understand the attraction of this mid-ocean place filled with history and natural wonders.

[If it interests you to read my brother’s “take” on the journey, go to his website at https://sheepdogguides.com/tr/atlan25/atl-itin0.htm]