Most of us wear masks in our daily lives to self-edit and present the best versions of ourselves. It’s natural and deeply human — a way to demonstrate our skills, showcase our capabilities, and earn respect. This has been especially true for me, particularly in professional and academic environments. Over the years, I’ve worked hard to create and polish this mask, shaping and molding it to project someone worthy, competent, and strong.

There has been no quicker way to lose that mask than enrolling in a foreign language immersion class. Oof, I don’t think my brain has worked this hard in ages. To be clear, it’s not as if my career in corporate tech America didn’t demand mental effort — it did. Regularly. But after twelve years in my particular niche of tech, I was comfortable being challenged there. It was familiar terrain. It has been roughly twenty years since I last studied French — a long time to forget verb conjugations and vocabulary.

Seriously, to anyone who has moved abroad or learned a new language to survive, I wholeheartedly applaud you. The humility, bravery, and willingness to make mistakes required for that task are truly commendable. I’m both jealous and in awe.

For one week and one day, I’ve been a student at the intermediate-level of a French language immersion program. The class is entirely in French, four hours a day, five days a week, for one month. There’s no textbook, but plenty of daily reading comprehension, grammar, and vocabulary exercises, along with games and multimedia activities to keep us thinking, reading, and speaking seulement en Français.

Within minutes, perhaps seconds actually, my mask was off completely, leaving my English-speaking mind and self fully exposed. In French class, I’m not able to project any version of myself other than the curious, eager, nervous, wants to improve, vulnerable student that I am.

Vulnerability and I have an uneasy relationship. For decades, I equated it with weakness and avoided situations where I might appear vulnerable. I developed and refined a set of skills that led to a savvy, profitable career, yet I remained deeply afraid of being exposed as a fraud—an imposter deemed a know-nothing and labeled an idiot. For me, imposter syndrome is tightly linked to discomfort with vulnerability. I struggle with not being good at something I care about. In this case, it’s French—but that same self-doubt has surfaced in my work life, with body image, my fitness, and even personal or romantic relationships. I’ve often felt I must always have an answer and be prepared (i.e. not vulnerable) for every situation. French class at forty is serving up a lot of humble pie, reminding me we can’t always be prepared.

I carry many ingrained beliefs around showing vulnerability. So, it’s safe to say I’ve felt overwhelmed and very vulnerable during these six days at school. I haven’t felt this ill-prepared in decades. Yet, layered within that discomfort also lies compassion.

I remind myself (often) that learning a new language is hard. Showing up each day, brave enough to make mistakes and keep putting in the work, is something to be proud of. I’m willing to mispronounce words and botch conjugations in front of my teacher and classmates because it’s the only way to improve, it’s the only way to understand. It’s okay to be wrong, to mess up, and to not have a poised, correct answer every time. It’s ok to be vulnerable. Enrolling in French class in Paris has reminded me how vital vulnerability is—and that we can’t live our lives always wearing a mask. Sometimes, we have to take it off so we can trip over our words en Français.

C’est la vie.

I arrive at L’Atelier 9 at 8:59am on Monday October 27. After a brief conversation with the school manager, Annabelle, she ushers me into la grande salle for the first-day orientation. Around thirty students fill the room—of all ages, races, and native languages.

After a twenty-minute overview of the school and housekeeping items, we’re instructed to pair up and interview another student, speaking only in French. We’re to take notes about our partner and then introduce them to the rest of the class. This oral presentation, combined with our pre-written placement test, will determine our level.

I interview Samuel, who’s from Seattle and currently teaching at a university (in English) in La Défense. His French is pretty good, and he has that professor-meets-teacher’s-pet energy—that is both helpful and slightly irritating.

After about eight to ten minutes, time is up, and we begin presenting our classmates. I listen closely, impressed by some speakers and reassured by others, feeling a mix of humility and confidence about my own place in the group.

I present Samuel to the class, delivering a five-sentence introduction in French with a noticeably decent accent, at least compared to most in the room. My presentation includes multiple verb tenses, and Samuel follows with his own. Afterward, two teachers each ask me a question. Miraculously, I understand both and manage to respond:

Sarah: “Jarryd, pourquoi est-ce que vous voulez apprendre le Français?”

Jarryd: “Parce que J’adore la France. J’aime beaucoup la culture française, la langue aussi, et les cafés, les restaurants ou des vins Français.”

Thomas: “Vous-êtez en congé sabbatique, quel était votre travail avant-ça?”

Jarryd: “Oui, je suis en congê sabbatique, mais avant-ça j’ai travaillé dans l’industrie technologique pour onze ans en Californie et Washington, DC. Maintenant, je ne travaille pas, alors il ya beaucoup des temps pour mes études.”

Just like that, my time in hot seat (la chaise chaud) is over and we finish the peer presentations then enjoy coffee and croissants. After about twenty minutes, the teachers confer and assign me to the B1 classroom, which according to the European Framework of Reference for Languages (ECRL), level B1 (le niveau B1) is considered intermediate. The ECRL is the standard used universally across Europe, and much of the world, to assess and classify a foreign language learners abilities. Le niveau BI is the highest level offered at L’Atelier 9 for our group. I’m a bit surprised they assign me this level, but also proud, too.

Thomas, our instructor, welcomes us to le niveau B1 and reinforces that the class will only tolerate speaking en Français. There are nine of us in le niveau B1 and seven of us are Americans — two of us from California, plus one each from Colorado, New Mexico, Texas and Washington, DC. Our group rounds out with a chic Italian and one very sweet Dominicana. Today five of us had lunch together after class (including both of our non-American classmates) — it’s been nice to meet people and bond over the difficulty of des cours de Français.

Aside from my French lessons (and vulnerability), I absolutely love wandering through Paris. It’s such a beautiful city to get lost in. On a gloriously sunny Thursday—after a wet and rainy Tuesday and Wednesday—I walk from my class in the 9th arrondissement down to the 1st arrondissement. I pass through la Place Vendôme to quickly greet the Ritz Carlton. This timeless hotel stands as a testament to the luxury that defines Paris to its core, having served as the permanent residence for luminaries like Coco Chanel, Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Britain’s abdicated King George VII. The Ritz Paris was also the departure point for Princess Diana on August 31, 1997, before the tragic car accident that claimed her life

Within fifteen minutes I reach le Jardin des Tuilieres. The air is crisp, warmth from the autumn sun lingers, and Parisians promenade through the gardens with effortless poise and panache. The gardens à la Française offer hues of orange, bronzy yellow, and are quickly losing their leaves. Autumn in Paris delights.

Le Jardin des Tuilieres stretch from the courtyard of le Musée du Louvre along the Seine directly to la Place de la Concorde. The grounds are adorned with fountains, statues, gazebos, and rows of meticulously trimmed trees and hedges. Originally the royal gardens built by Queen Catherine de Medici, le jardins were attached to the now demolished Tuilieres Palace. In 1667 a French noblemen Charles Perrault successfully lobbied the royal court to open the gardens to the public — making them the first royal gardens to open to the public in Europe. Fun Fact — Charles Perrault was a nobleman and author who is the original writer of beloved fairy tales Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Little Red Riding Hood and Puss in Boots.

I finish my afternoon stroll by walking along le Quai François Mitterrand, soaking up picture perfect views of Paris along the Seine and late afternoon sunshine, before turning up toward my apartment in the 2nd.

That same evening, I snag a ticket to one of Paris’s newest museums: le Fondation de Cartier pour l’art contemporain. The new space is gorgeous and located inside le Palais Royal, adjacent to le Louvre. Paris is a global hub for art and Parisians love it. Museums are a sport for the French, and during my Thursday evening visit, I observe French of all ages, sexes, races, orientations, and classes, mingling among the colorful, contemporary pieces on display. It’s a beautiful sight — both socially and aesthetically. Below are a few close up pictures of my favorite pieces.

I’ll leave you with the excellent meal I had at le Grand Colbert, an iconic French restaurant in the 2nd that has a devout commitment to the highest standards of French cooking and service. I splurged for the chateaubriand steak frites, served with an incredible béarnaise, a baguette, and a pitcher (un pichet) of a majestic Bordeaux that compliments the evening perfectly.

Until next — Au bientôt tout le monde!

Since childhood I’ve longed to visit and experience life in France. Perhaps it was all the Babar and Madeline I watched growing up that indoctrinated me, but no other country has captivated me or held such sway over my imagination.

After a rough few years, at the end of 2024, I made a commitment to enact bold changes for myself in 2025. I quit my good paying job with a fancy HQ in New York City, I relinquished my apartment in Washington, DC, I sold my late mother’s home in California, and resolved to finally make moves and experience life in France. Coming and living here (for 6 weeks) is the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. Even as I prioritized school, work, relationships, or earning money, the allure of France never faded—but I always found a reason to delay, telling myself it wasn’t the “right time.” It took truly life-altering events to make me realize there is never a “right time”—there is only now.

It took me a while to get here, but on Friday, October 24, I arrived in Paris on a high-speed train from Dijon, entering the city through le Gare de Lyon, not far from La Place de la Bastille. I’ve rented a beautiful apartment in the heart of the 2nd arrondissement on a lively pedestrian street. On my first evening, I checked in, hauled two massive bags up five flights of stairs (the building has no lift), and dined at a charming French-Korean fusion restaurant a few blocks away.

Exhausted from the journey and the stairs, I went to bed only to realize I’d left my phone charger in the living room. When I returned to the bedroom and shut the door, the knob felt loose. I pressed it anyway and closed the door firmly—only for the knob to break off in my hand. Then, I heard the other side of the door knob fall onto the hallway floor. The door was shut tight, locked, and would not open. For thirty minutes, I tried to pry it open with a shoehorn, some hangers, and a carabiner I commandeered in Germany, yet the door wouldn’t budge.

I messaged my Airbnb host, but since it was now close to 1am, he was sleeping. There was no way out of the bedroom at this hour, and also no toilet available, either. Panic started to rise, but then a well placed FaceTime from friends (hi Lauren and Kristy!!) vacationing in Mexico, made me laugh and reexamine the situation.

Yes, I was stuck in my apartment bedroom with no way out and no where to pee, but, I was in France. The heart of Paris to be exact — and there are far worse places to be stuck than in Paris. It was the first night realizing a lifelong dream of mine, and yes it wasn’t going exactly to plan, but I was still living my dream. That was enough to allow the panic to pass and for me to fall asleep.

The next morning, I awoke to messages from my host: help would arrive around 10am from a friend of his (my landlord doesn’t live in Paris). What followed was an impeccably dressed, very chic and strikingly handsome man, dressed to the nines in a double breasted suit, cuff links, crocodile loafers, and a coif that would make Danny Zucko jealous. I was not prepared for this, or him.

But, while waiting for my well dressed Frenchman to rescue me, I reflected on my situation — here I was, after a lifetime of yearning for it, in a Parisian apartment, two days away from beginning a French language immersion program. Despite my eagerness to break free from the bedroom (and to pee), I was awash with happiness. I realized in that moment of prisoner-like solitude, that I was actually living my dream. A dream that previously felt like it was never the “right time” to pursue.

This realization, along with the arrival of my well-groomed savior named Thomas, made me smile and (almost) appreciate my captivity. So, to La Belle France, 18th century apartment doors, and dapper handymen, I say “merci beaucoup pour votre aide.” Together, you reminded me how grateful I am for this experience, and, perhaps not so subtly, just how lucky I am to be finally living out my dream.

Before getting trapped in my Paris bedroom, I spend four wonderful days in Lyon and Dijon — two of France’s most historic cities.

Lyon, France’s third-largest city, sits at the foothills of the French Alps. Its hilly landscape creates dramatic views accentuated by a blend of medieval, Renaissance, and modern architecture. Originally founded by the Romans as Lugdunum in 43 A.D., Lyon is one of France’s oldest cities. Built at the confluence of the Rhône and Saône Rivers, it has been a vital crossroads for trade and commerce since ancient times.

I stay at the beautiful Hôtel Fourvière, a former 19th century convent perched atop Lyon’s largest hilltop, adjacent to the ancient Roman ruins and the impressive Basilique Nôtre Dame de Fourvière. The Fourvière hilltop was the site of the original Roman settlement, and later where the French concentrated their economic, religious, and political power in Lyon.

Directly below lies Vieux Lyon, or “Old Lyon,” a delightful quarter of the city that blends together a maze of medieval and Renaissance buildings, narrow cobblestone alleyways and irresistible aromas of bouchons — traditional eateries that proudly serve Lyon’s most convivial and hearty dishes. I stop for lunch at Fiston and dine on the best French onion soup I’ve ever had, plus a steak and bacon burger served along rosemary potatoes and a mini salade lyonnaise. It’s one of the best meals I’ve had in Europe so far. Seriously, Vieux Lyon feels like Belle or Gaston may waltz around the corner at any moment, while the baker screams to Marie about the baguettes. The entire place is beyond charming.

After lunch, I cross the Saône River via Pont Bonaparte — yes, named for the still-beloved emperor — and arrive at Place Bellecour, where a grand statue of France’s longest-reigning monarch, the fabled “Sun King” Louis XIV, stands proudly at the center. As an avid student of history, I can’t help but appreciate the symbolism: one reaches Place Bellecour by way of Pont Bonaparte, only to be greeted by Louis XIV on horseback at its heart. The eras of Louis XIV and Napoleon mark the period when France was undoubtedly the dominant power in Europe and at the zenith of its global influence. The French have long mastered the art of using urban design and architecture to express prestige, preeminence, and power — after all, lest we Americans forget, it was a Frenchman who designed Washington, D.C.

After three intoxicating days in Lyon, I say “au revoir” to the city and “bonjour” to Dijon — the capitol of Burgundy and the source for some of France’s tastiest exports — Dijon mustard, boeuf bourganion, Pinot Noir and Chardonnay. Burgundy lies in east-central France, north of the Alps, in a soil-rich terroir that has long served as a culinary powerhouse for not just France but all of Europe.

I arrive on a cold, rainy autumn afternoon, and after checking into the Aloft Dijon, I make a beeline for La Moutarderie de Edmond Fallot — one of France’s most famous mustard houses, in business since 1840. Edmond Fallot offers visitors a self-serve mustard bar, shelves upon shelves of mustards, cookware, and other delightful finds (including a Christmas advent calendar filled with 24 mini jars of mustard!).

Once I’ve had my mustard fix, I wander through a now dry but still chilly Dijon, admiring the city’s medieval blend of French and German architecture while hunting for a restaurant that serves the region’s most iconic dish — boeuf bourguignon. If you’ve ever attended one of my dinner parties, you know boeuf bourguignon is one of my signature showstoppers, and a dish I love to prepare for friends, family, or any occasion that calls for French flair and extra panache. So being in Dijon on a cool autumn evening feels like a culinary dream come true.

I eventually settle on Chez Leon — a classic bistrot known for its generous portions, robust (local) wine list, seasonal menu, and beaucoup amounts of French charm. Naturally, I order the boeuf bourguignon, paired with a glass (or two) of Burgundian Pinot Noir and finished with a refreshing tarte des sœurs Tatin — a beautifully caramelized apple tart.

The next day, before catching a 5 p.m. train to Paris, I explore the Palace of the Dukes of Burgundy, the former royal seat of the Burgundian rulers and now a beautiful art museum. The Kingdom of Burgundy was a wealthy and well-connected counterweight to the Kingdom of France from the 10th to the late 15th centuries. Dijon served as its capital, and the Burgundians were politically shrewd, often allying themselves with France’s enemies — most notably their longtime arch-rivals, the English. It was the Burgundians who captured Joan of Arc and sold her to the English, where she was eventually “tried” for heresy and burned at the stake as a witch. By 1477, however, France had grown too powerful, and Burgundy was annexed into the French state — where it has remained ever since.

Finally, before signing off for the week (and because I know you’re all curious), I’ll share a few photos from my Parisian bedroom captivity — along with the handsomely chic Thomas who came to my rescue.

Bisou-bisou mes chers amis 😘😘

It’s a simple inquiry about origins or identity, yet it often carries deep assumptions about nationality, culture, or belonging. In my struggles to answer the question, it has revealed how complex I view the nature of identity — and specifically, where I grew up.

So, where am I from? I was born and raised in San Diego, America’s most laid back big city, but went to college in Washington, DC, probably one of the preppiest places in the US. After riding out the recession of the late oughts back in San Diego — and partying a lot with my childhood friends — it felt like time to move again. As most of my friends were exiting the single party phase of life and putting down permanent roots, I felt the urge to carry on. Jobs, ambition, romance, and probably a deep sense of wanderlust led me up the West Coast to first Los Angeles, and then San Francisco. In ten years I have lived in four cities, on two coasts, and even spent nine months traveling around the country living and working remotely.

At the height of COVID, in September 2020, I left San Francisco to drive around America and experience life elsewhere as a self-proclaimed “digital nomad.” I mostly stuck to the West, visiting and “living” in places like Boise, Denver, Austin or Scottsdale. I had two bags, a yoga mat, my tennis racquet, and my 2017 Infiniti QX50, but I left behind a rooftop apartment, a two year relationship, an office in a skyscraper, plus plenty of good friends in the Bay Area.

To most Europeans, it’s obvious I’m an American. Though, one of the greatest compliments I’ve received on this trip so far, was when a tall German named Thomas said “oh, well you don’t dress like an American.” Fooled him! Honestly, I’m still beaming from that praise, Thomas. Across Vienna, more people spoke German to me than English, and one server in Prague even said I have a “Central European face.”

Initially, when people here asked where I’m from, I stumbled over my response and provided a long-winded reply like “I grew up in California, but just wrapped up four years living in Washington, DC.” If I was feeling cute (or the questioner was cute) I even replied a few times with “I’m a citizen of the world.” Though, that mostly led to quixotic looks from these cute questioners, and more stammering from me.

Through these jaunts, I realized that this very easy question has become very uneasy for me to answer, because it highlights how layered or fluid identity can be for some of us. It points to the reality that many people live between worlds, carrying multiple places in their hearts simultaneously. Some people find home in a partner or community — either geographic or social — while others derive belonging from work or family. For me, at different points in my life, I’ve felt at home in various apartments, with various people, or even “on the road.”

But, after a week in Italy, it became clear what I associate with home. Italy is the first place I’ve been on this journey that has reminded me of California. There are obvious similarities — sunny, mild climates, wine vineyards, beaches and a connection to the sea. The scents here remind me of California, too, though. Aromas from citrus, bougainvilleas, freesias, and salt water, mix together effortlessly in the Italian breeze, evoking memories and nostalgia of being outside in the California sunshine — a pastime I did often growing up at home, in Southern California.

I have struggled most of my life to feel “at home” in Southern California — I don’t surf, I took French instead of Spanish, and I was curious enough about life outside of the SoCal bubble that I moved multiple times to get away from it. But, it has been through this lifelong conflict that I’ve actually come to appreciate the immense beauty and diversity of the place where I grew up. Now, ten years removed from San Diego, and five years gone from the Golden State, it’s taken a trek across Europe to reignite that flicker of California optimism that lives deep within me.

Among all fifty states, few (if any) carry as much cultural and social power as California. Its influence is global, while most states contend for regional or national relevance. When I tell people here that I’m from California (as I’ve come to do in Italy) there is always a response — intrigued, curious, sometimes even envious — as if the word itself conjures up dreams of sunshine, creativity, beauty and reinvention.

It’s funny how time and travel change so much about you, yet they also remind you, of the places you’ve stayed and memories you’ve lived before. For me, Italy did just that. La dolce vita and the sights and smells of Italia reminded me of where I call “home” — and for that, I can’t thank her enough. Grazie mille, Italia. Ciao!

Midday on a Monday I board a fantastic Austrian train in Vienna that is bound for Venice. The trip will take over seven and a half hours to get there, but it is one of the most spectacular train rides I have ever been on. The train departs promptly from Vienna’s Hauptbahnhof station, and within an hour, I find myself deep within the Alps on a magical journey. The route crosses tall, snow-peaked mountains, winds through hills ablaze with autumnal colors, and threads impressive bridges and tunnels that traverse the alpine terrain with both precision and elegance. The scenery is so breathtaking that I can’t stop taking pictures and videos from my cabin, while Julie Andrews’ voice singing the Sound of Music echoes in my mind as we glide past charming Austrian villages.

Around 9pm the train arrives in Venezia Santa Lucia, Venice’s primary train station whose tracks float above the Adriatic, like everything else in this storybook city. I take an expensive water taxi directly to my hotel, the sexy, adults-only Excess Hotel where a young, tall Italian named Marcello informs me of a last minute cancellation, so I enjoy a top floor suite upgrade with a jacuzzi tub — how romantic for me! Marcello hauls my two heavy bags upstairs while I sip prosecco and scrounge together €5 for his handsome efforts.

I sleep soundly and wake to blue skies, sunshine, and breathtaking canal views. Venice feels unreal, and neither my photos nor descriptions can do it justice. This deeply historic city amassed wealth and power over centuries, allowing its noble merchant class to build incredible buildings, bridges, tunnels, and other engineering marvels atop a marshy, sinking group of islands just off Italy’s mainland. The splendor of Renaissance Venice remains vividly on display today, enchanting both tourists and locals alike. I take my time and adjust easily to the slower pace of Italian life, sampling pastas, pizzas, white and red wines, while touring Galleria dell’Accademia de Venezia, the Grand Canal, and end my first day at Gritti Palace hotel sipping paper plane cocktails and chatting up American and German tourists.

Amazingly, my cousin Broc, his wife Jaime, and their three adorably rambunctious boys are also in Northern Italy. They take a car, bus, and boat to come meet me in Venice (thanks guys!) and the six of us spend a lovely afternoon exploring the Doges Palace, Piazza San Marco, Rialto Bridge, taking a water taxi tour, and splurging on pizza and gelato. Being with them on this sunny Venetian afternoon has also helped to remind me that “home” means California ❤️.

After soaking up sun and family time in Venice, I head west toward Lake Como, Italy’s most famous (and luxurious) lake, located just under 30 miles north of Milan. Nestled in the foothills of the Italian Alps near the Swiss border, Lago di Como exudes luxury, sex appeal, and the la dolce vita that Italians have perfected so well. I rent a moderately priced flat in the heart of Como, conveniently close to the ferry building and funicular — two of Como’s prized attractions.

I spend a brisk but sunny Friday taking the funicular to explore Brunate. It’s a short ridE (under 10 minutes) to the top of the mountain where the village of Brunate sits. Once there, I take in the stunning views of Lake Como and enjoy a to-die-for tagliatelle in duck ragu, perfectly paired with a glass of Brunesco. I could probably create an entire album dedicated to the pasta I eat in Italy, but this duck ragu truly stands out as a star

Later that evening, I saddle up to the bar — a concept rare in Europe, where most people prefer sitting at a table and being served — and meet a fellow American named Brett, originally from Vermont but now living in London. He’s also in Como for the weekend, traveling solo, and after a few Old Fashioneds, we hit it off and make plans to tour the lake together on Saturday. While at Hemingway Bar, we meet two more Americans (also seated at the bar) from Arizona — rather fitting for so many Americans to meet at a bar named for the infamous Ernest Hemingway. Corbin and Hannah explain that Lake Como’s ferries offer two options: fast boats that make the trip in about 45 minutes, and slow boats that take nearly two hours to cover the same (eighteen mile!) journey. Why are they so slow? That’s still unclear to me.

Complicating matters further, the fast boat ferry tickets may only be purchased in person, on the day of travel, and they sell out quickly. So I find myself at the ferry building at 7:15am Saturday morning to queue with many other tourists for the fast boat options. While in the queue, in true Italian fashion, one of the ferry employees hastily tapes up a handwritten notice reading “Following Fast Boats Cancelled” then a list of nearly all the day’s departures. The remaining options: 7:35 a.m., 1:40 p.m., or 3:30 p.m. Since I’m in sweatpants and a Dodgers hat, I opt for the 1:40 p.m. and head back to my apartment for more sleep. Brett catches the 9:30 a.m. slow boat, and we agree to rendezvous later on the lake

We connect again in Tremezzo, one of Lake Como’s picturesque lakeside towns. Over cocktails he introduces me to his new friend Jara, a German actress who recently filmed as an extra in Milan for the Devil Wears Prada. After taking in the views from the Grand Hotel Tremezzo and Villa Carlotta, the three of us jump on the 5:30pm fast boat back to Como, armed with crisps and Italian lagers. Jara carries on to Milan, so Brett and I will hit the town for a Saturday night feast of pasta, red wine, and cocktails, along Como’s lively main piazza.

On Sunday, hungover from my new friendship with Brett, I board the wrong train to Milan. Luckily the very pretty Italian train employee tells me I can get off at the next stop, buy a new ticket, then make my way to Milan. I finally reach Milan by Sunday afternoon and I’m exhausted and craving a cheeseburger (#American). Perhaps its my fatigue, or the area in which I stay around Milano Centrale, but to be honest, Milan doesn’t impress me much, so I’m happy I devote only one night here and spent more time in Como.

Finally, on a cool, rainy Monday, I bid arrivederci to Italia and say bonjour to France, as I board a nearly five hour train ride to Lyon — France’s gastronomic capital in the foothills of their slice of the Alps. More to come from my first full week in La Belle France, next time! Au bientôt!

I have always been comfortable by myself. I am an only child; I didn’t grow up with other kids in the house. I had loving, but preoccupied, divorced parents, which meant I didn’t receive a lot of emotional handholding to figure things out. I figured things out by myself. Shuttling between my parents’ homes, my classes, the soccer field or the theater, I developed the ability to make sense out of life, out of necessity. Over time, that childhood necessity has grown into an adult with a strong sense of self and an independent mindset.

We live in a world, especially in America, that glorifies love, relationships, and lasting partnerships. Americans even invented an entire holiday to celebrate love, ironically tied directly to the legacy of one of the country’s most murderous organized criminals, Al Capone, and his St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. Valentine’s Day’s exaltation of coupledom has always felt flimsy to me — as if being uncoupled is something bad — or inherently less worthy of celebrating. I think we all know or have met couples whose unions don’t deserve celebration.

Solitude creates more space for self-discovery. It offers the chance to reflect on future goals, heal from past traumas, and grow without distraction. Rather than rushing into relationships out of fear of being alone, you learn to be comfortable in your own company and trust your path. This is powerful. Possessing the power to live life your own way — perhaps even one that runs contrary to the prevailing attitudes and societal expectations of today — is immensely brave. Some of the bravest people I know are walking their own paths, far outside the norms of what society, their families, or friends expect from them. They are living for themselves.

I can’t tell you how many times people (well-intentioned, of course) have inquired, pressed, or wondered aloud why I don’t have a partner. As if I’m some sort of mutant or pariah because I don’t bring dates to the company holiday parties.

Living single is not a rejection of love—it’s an embrace of self-love. It’s about creating a life that feels whole and meaningful, whether someone joins you later or not. The truth is, it’s perfectly okay to walk your own road and live life your own way. Many of us shoulder personal, family, or professional pressure to conform: find a partner, get married, buy a house, have children and enlist as a card carrying member in the American dream — whatever remains of it. But, what if you don’t want this? What if you want something else? Sometimes you need to hear it (I certainly did) — but that’s okay, too. You’re going to be okay. Walk that path, blaze that trail, sissy that walk. Do it all for yourself.

My last nine days, in Budapest, Bratislava and Vienna, has been a love affair with myself. It has been a reminder that even though I get lonely or doubt my choices and instincts, I’m living for myself — and that’s enough.

The first full week of October I spend in Budapest, Hungary’s impressive capital city. I rent an affordable ground floor flat in the heart of Budapest with a private garden and a very reliable water heater (thank God). It is adjacent to one of the city’s liveliest districts, bustling with bars, restaurants, and tourists like me. But before hitting that Hungarian nightlife, I’ll fuel up with the country’s national dish — goulash. My taxi driver recommends the restaurant Goulash Museum of Budapest. It is a cozy, no-frills kind of place with red and white checkered table cloths, knick-knacks your grandmother would display and — true to it’s name — history, photos and recipes dedicated to goulash. The night I am there the music is only American R&B ballads or funk, so I slurp down my goulash rocking out to Whitney Houston, Stevie Wonder, Kool and the Gang and Earth, Wind and Fire. It’s definitely a vibe.

I’ll spend the next three days wandering Budapest’s grand boulevards immersing myself in Hungarian culture, history, and more goulash. The weather is sunny and bright and I can comfortably wear t-shirts outside for the first time since arriving in Europe.

I walk several of the city’s bridges over the Danube and scale Castle Hill to see Buda Castle. Fun fact — Budapest was once two cities separated by the Danube River: Buda to the west and Pest to the east. Buda is hilly and historically the more regal side, home to the Hungarian monarchy’s primary palace and Matthias Church, where every Hungarian monarch was crowned. Pest developed as the flatter, more commercial side, where most non-noble Hungarians lived and worked. Budapest’s impressive Parliament Building stands in Pest, directly opposite the royal hilltop compound in Buda, symbolizing both unity and rivalry between the two halves of the city. Both sides impress me during my sunny early October visit.

On the Pest side of the river, adjacent to the Parliament Building, you will find two important Holocaust memorials — the Shoes on the Danube and Liberty Square.

The Shoes on the Danube is a quiet but powerful monument dedicated to the thousands of Jews and political prisoners who, as the Red Army approached Budapest, were lined up along the banks of the river and shot by the fascist Hungarian government police. Victims were assembled along the bank of the river and told to take off their shoes, before being shot and their bodies swept away by the River Danube. The rusted shoes, permanently affixed to the riverbank, serve as an enduring reminder of the dangers of state-sponsored violence and the threats of fascism.

In Liberty Square there are several monuments, but one in particular is worth understanding. The Memorial for Victims of the German Occupation was approved by the Hungarian Government and erected in 2014 to honor the lives lost during the Nazi occupation of Hungary. The memorial faced immediate backlash for distorting history, and specifically the role that the Hungarian government played in collaborating with the Nazis to capture, deport or murder, over 500,000 Hungarian Jews, homosexuals, gypsies, political dissidents or other so called “enemies of the state.” As a response, overnight, activists and citizens of Budapest plastered photos, posters, mementoes and personal, family items to the new memorial — transforming the memorial into a counter-monument that honors the victims of the Holocaust and confronts the truth of Hungary’s complicity. The memorial, as it stands now, is a moving tribute to the power of truth. It serves as a potent reminder that the rights to live, worship, and love freely must never be taken for granted — even in “the land of the free.”

On the north end of the square is the monument remembering the Soviet Liberation of Hungary from the Nazis. Perhaps not by coincidence, the American Embassy sits directly opposite this memorial—a historic and architectural symbol of the enduring tensions of the Cold War between the United States and Russia. Flanking the Soviet monument, directly on the sidewalk, are statues honoring two American presidents — Ronald Reagan and George H.W. Bush — the two presidents presiding over the collapse of Soviet control of Eastern Europe and the fall of the Iron Curtain.

Personal politics aside, do you remember when American presidents spoke forcefully and eloquently about freedom, advancing human rights, and protecting the core tenets of democracy — self-determination, a free press, and the right to assemble? I miss our collective ability to honor and hold these truths self-evident. The erosion of these ideals in today’s America reflects not only a crisis in civic education but also a dangerous amnesia about the unique role the U.S. plays in the world. America’s greatness has never come solely from economic power or military strength—after all, the Roman and British empires were both wealthy and mighty. What sets America apart is its moral authority: the ability to rally the world against autocracy and in defense of liberty and justice for all.

As I write this, I can’t help but feel that our current government is betraying the very freedoms Americans once fought so passionately to protect in the Second World War. I bet you a goulash dinner that both Ronnie and George would agree.

Before leaving Budapest, I take part in one of the city’s most iconic cultural rituals: the famous Hungarian baths. I spend a glorious afternoon at Rudas Baths, which has a traditional Turkish hammam that dates back to the days of the Ottoman Empire’s rule over Hungary. The bathing ritual, common across much of Central and Eastern Europe, is both physically and spiritually cleansing, an experience richly infused with aromas and sensations that bring deep peace and calm. I can’t share photos because phones were forbidden — rightfully so since clothing is optional and culturally frowned upon inside the baths. Pro-tip: check the calendar before visiting as certain days are coed while others are men or women only. Don’t miss the rooftop hot tub at Rudas, which offers sweeping views of Budapest—though it does get crowded, especially around sunset

After Budapest, I board a train for the two and a half hour journey to Vienna, Austria’s imperial capital. Vienna is stunning, and so is the complimentary suite upgrade I receive at the Ritz Carlton. After years of flights to places like Little Rock or Phoenix, I’ve built up a healthy stash of Marriott and AmEx points, so the upgrade feels well-earned—especially in a city as elegant as Vienna.

This is my second visit to Vienna in five months, so I explore it at a more relaxed pace. I attend the Sunday morning dressage performance at the city’s famed Spanish Riding School, inside the Hofburg Palace. No photos are permitted during the performance (it spooks the horses) but I snap one of the impressive indoor riding hall before exiting. Afterward, I meander through Vienna’s inner city and stop for a delicious schnitzel and white wine lunch at Cafe Prückel, before spending the afternoon in Stadtpark soaking up the gardens and statues of famous Viennese composers like Haydn, Mozart and Strauss.

I also take a quick day trip to Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia, located about 35 miles down the Danube from Vienna. The city offers old-world charm, with the baroque Bratislava Castle and gardens—(re)designed by Maria Theresa during her reign as Empress of Austria, when Vienna ruled over Slovakia—along with a pleasant medieval old town nestled below the castle.

Perhaps I don’t give it enough time, but my honest take: Vienna outshines Bratislava when it comes to food, hotels, culture, and nightlife. Still, Bratislava is incredibly easy to reach by train or boat, making it a convenient and worthwhile day trip from Austria.

After a lovely weekend, I check out of the Ritz-Carlton and board one of the most spectacular train rides I’ve ever taken—a nearly eight-hour journey through the Alps from Vienna to Venice. More to come next time from that journey and Italia — ciao!

As you may have gathered from my earlier posts, I haven’t quite felt like myself these past couple of years. So, I’ve treated these trips as a way to reconnect with — and rediscover — myself. My five days in Munich, three of which were spent at the world-famous Oktoberfest, delivered in spades. It was a rollicking, heartwarming reminder that life is, indeed, rather sweet.

As I mentioned in my last post, getting to know locals, and drinking with them along the way, has been the most gratifying part of this journey. Not because I want to get drunk with strangers (though that is a lot of fun), but because human connection is so essential. In a world increasingly shaped by screens and algorithms, meaningful, face-to-face interaction has become surprisingly rare, and oddly difficult.

In today’s world, we have countless ways to opt out of real connection: self-checkout kiosks over human cashiers; texting emojis instead of talking through tough topics; sharing carefully curated, editorialized versions of our lives on social media instead of embracing the beautiful messiness that has long defined what it means to be human.

A large part of this journey, particularly when traveling alone, is to push myself out of my comfort zone, and that means making the effort to talk to people I meet along the way. This is especially easy to do at Oktoberfest — and, for me, it’s been especially rewarding, too.

For the past eleven years, my life was dominated by a fast-moving career in America’s booming technology sector. I helped build digital marketplaces, reframed how people moved, lived, or traveled, and I did this all with pride and purpose. I loved working in tech, but mostly because of the incredibly bright people I’ve met within the industry, not necessarily because I supported how technology can erode or diminish our ability to connect with one another. As is often the case with new innovation, old ways of doing things can fade into irrelevance. And while I’m far from a Luddite — I believe deeply in the transformative power of technology — I’ve long worried about our collective ability to survive, emotionally and socially, in a world where genuine connection often takes a back seat to digital performance. At best, it feels phony. At worst, corrosive.

But, I can assure there is nothing phony about München’s Oktoberfest. People come from all corners of the globe to don traditional Bavarian garb, link arms to sing songs from ABBA and Neil Diamond, and break bread or beer steins with friends and foreigners alike. Despite its obvious German heritage, Oktoberfest has become a global celebration — a lively smorgasbord of cultures, languages and traditions — convening in Munich for weeks of frivolity and fun. It is the sort of old fashioned analog fun that feels like a dying art in today’s hyper-digital world. And honestly? I’m here for it. The traditional tracht, the beer, the bratwursts, the shared tables, the spontaneous friendships — it all forms a truly intoxicating blend of genuine human interaction and good old fashioned fun.

Now I understand why cultures all over the world try to emulate this legendary Bavarian blowout. It’s a helluva a lot of fun, but beyond that, Oktoberfest rekindles a sense of hope within humanity’s skeptics (myself among them). Hope that we can still connect with strangers. Hope that we can still set aside differences in languages, cultures, and opinions, to raise a stein (or 4) and enjoy each other’s company.

Hangovers notwithstanding, Oktoberfest manages to restore something in me many of us have lost: a bit of hope — in the world, in each other, and in ourselves. To the friends I traveled with, and to the new ones I met in the tent: thank you. Prost!

I touch down in Munich late on a Saturday night after a brief flight from Edinburgh. Laurie stays behind in Scotland to connect with friends visiting her from California, and Tiffany trains south to London before she returns stateside. In Munich I will meet two old friends — Patrick and Ryan — plus a beautiful new pal named Kat. Patrick is a dear friend from Chicago who is celebrating his 35th birthday with me on September 29th. He jumps at the chance to hop the pond and celebrate his day at the world famous beerfest, and I’m grateful for a friend to navigate the insanity of Oktoberfest on our first night there together.

Before we can respectably show our faces inside the Oktoberfest tents, we must first acquire lederhosen, obviously. Midday on Sunday, Patrick and I set out to find authentic Bavarian tracht, but we quickly discover that rather conservative Bavaria bars clothing sales on Sunday throughout the region. That said, we hone in on a Bavarian clothing retailer outlet store that has folks quietly milling about inside. We linger for a few minutes by the front door hoping to be noticed, with two other American tourists. Very soon the door cracks open and a German man rushes the four of us into his shop, then pushes a large rack of clothing against the all glass door behind us to obstruct the view. He explains to us that selling merchandise on Sunday, especially to tourists for Oktoberfest, is forbidden. These Germans and their rules….But, within 10 minutes I’m fitted for traditional lederhosen, secure tall wool socks, plus a green felt hat with a feather in it to complete the look. I’m quite fond of collecting chapeaus here on the old continent, evidently.

Now it’s time to pay. Since selling merchandise in store is illegal, the shopkeeper explains I will need to pay in cash so there is no electronic transaction recorded. I share I don’t have any Euro on me, so I am escorted by another member of this enterprising staff to a nearby ATM, where I withdraw the money. The store employee holds the bag of clothing while we walk there and he won’t hand it over until I’ve delivered the cold hard cash to his palm. This entire experience makes me giggle and is eerily reminiscent of certain, under the table transactions I used to make in college and my twenties…..you know, before states started legalizing it and collecting tax revenue. Those kinds of transactions.

All is well that ends well, I deliver the cash, and the store employee hands over my Bavarian tracht. Patrick and I remark on what an interesting experience that is, then set out for a giant pretzel, and to prepare for the evening ahead inside the tents.

Ryan, who lives in LA and whom I’ve known since high school, and I make a spontaneous plan to rendezvous at Oktoberfest about two weeks prior (I love a last-minute travel buddy!). He brings along his neighbor Kat, a Delta flight crew member and an absolute gem of a human. She and I hit it off immediately and become fast friends. In fact, our quirky little foursome clicks effortlessly—the inside jokes start flowing almost instantly, and the laughter is nonstop. My heart feels full, and my stomach aches from laughing so hard.

Over the next two days, the four of us dive headfirst into Oktoberfest. Ryan has a German friend named Chris who kindly secures us a reservation at a table alongside some of his own friends, and he acts as our unofficial German ambassador—translating when needed and lending us the local street cred to keep others from swarming our table.These table reservations are prized commodities inside the tents, so if you ever visit: make one in advance. Or better yet, recruit a German like Chris to help. I recommend both.

The Germans are a fun bunch, a tad aggressive about their beer and partying, but I went to college so I’m no stranger to the chugging contests and table top singing they expect of you here. I hold my own inside the tent, and even meet a friend from Hong Kong named Ollie, who introduces himself by running up to me screaming “Hey, I bet I can pick you up!” Before I can protest, he hoists me into the air over his shoulders and thankfully Patrick is nearby to snap a pic. Look at how happy I look grinning in my lederhosen on Ollie’s shoulders!

Finally, on a cloudy Wednesday, our group decides to leave Munich and bid adieu to Oktoberfest. Not surprisingly, all four of us are sick. Our bodies seem to be collectively protesting the last 48 hours of beer chugging, schnitzel eating, and kissing Europeans. Armed with Sudafed and DayQuil in our systems, the four of us board one of the strangest trains I’ve ever been on for a daunting 5.5 hour journey to Prague. The train is a Czech. The tickets are cheap, but there are no seat reservations. Our group boards the second class carriage and finds a table top unattended. Each of us are battling colds, hungry, hungover, and running warm since second class has no windows to open and the AC is faint at best.

Once our tickets are stamped, Patrick holds down the fort, while Kat, Ryan and myself go in search of the train’s cafe carriage. We all desperately need food and water. After walking the entire length of the train, we discover there is a shuttered ‘snack window’ but nothing is available for purchase. Not even water. A German crew member tells us that food and drinks might become available once we enter Czechia… in ‘approximately two hours.’ The three of us collapse in an empty first class cabin for 20 minutes while we determine the best way to break the news to Patrick — who’s requested a Bloody Mary and a sandwich. He will be sorely disappointed when we tell him we couldn’t even find water.

We return to our table top and break the news to Patty. Reality sets in and the four of us realize we have only Ryan’s water bottle to ration for the next 4ish hours to Prague. An hour later, motivated by hunger and what we think are American accents, Patrick boldly approaches the next table top in our carriage and offers €50 for a large bag of trail mix. The table — lovely older folks from Iowa — take pity on us, and Patrick leverages his Midwest nice until they hand over the trail mix. In true Midwest fashion, they also refuse our money. God bless them, seriously.

The rest of the journey only gets weirder. The train snakes through Germany and Czechia, changing direction multiple times—so if you’re prone to motion sickness (like me), riding backwards for hours is just delightful. At every stop, carriages are added or dropped, so the length of the train keeps shifting like some kind of transportation Rubik’s cube.

With about an hour to go, a wave of new passengers boards. Two women approach our table and politely inform us that Ryan and Kat are sitting in their reserved seats. Apparently, it’s common practice on Czech trains to oversell seats. We watch as others around us are also ejected from their seats, forced to give up their spots to passengers with reserved seats. Hot, hungry, and hungover, the four of us grab our bags and trudge through a packed carriage to the narrow vestibule between train cars. It’s already crowded with other displaced passengers. Panic starts to set in—we still have an hour to go.

Within five minutes, a train employee allows us into a first-class cabin. There’s still no food or water, but at least we can spread out and open the windows. We arrive in Prague exhausted, starving, and slightly delirious—but also laughing. Because sometimes the only thing you can do after a day like that... is laugh.

We settle into our Prague Airbnb then immediately stuff our faces with lots of Italian food and red wine before crashing into bed. In the morning more challenges await — the water heater in our Prague apartment doesn’t work, so each of us enjoy cold or lukewarm showers. Despite this rude awakening, we make the best of it and head out to explore this beautiful city. We walk through the Old Town and Jewish Quarter en route to the city’s famous Charles Bridge. On the way we are sidetracked by cozy spot with goulash and chicken soup, both of which help us heal and warm up.

After lunch we cross the bridge and visit the beautiful Church of Our Lady Victorious and the Infant Jesus — one of Prague’s holiest and most beautiful places of worship. Feeling renewed, we set out to climb the steps to the Prague Castle — an imposing hilltop compound with a cathedral, former palace, military fortifications and government offices. We reach the summit at golden hour and the sweeping views of Prague are worth the effort it takes to get there. After a day of eating, praying, and walking a whole lot, we decide we’ve earned cocktails—so we treat ourselves to a luxurious break at the Four Seasons bar. We cap off our final night together with a romantic dinner on a barge floating along the Vltava River

By Saturday, Patrick, Ryan and Kat are gone, and I check into the Jalta Boutique Hotel for a quiet, restorative weekend in Prague. Still nursing a bit of a cold, I take advantage of the downtime: a lot of long, hot showers, a visit to the hotel spa, and plenty of rest to recharge after a few fun but raucous days.

Truthfully, I know I’ll need to return and give Prague the time and attention it deserves. But for now, I choose self-care over sightseeing. Since I’m traveling for a couple of months, I’ve learned to listen to my body better—when it tells me to slow down, I do. That’s part of the rhythm of long-term travel, too.

I enjoy this quiet pause until Monday morning, when I board a very pleasant Austrian train bound for Budapest. No complaints on this train —it boasts comfortable seats, a smooth ride, and I’m sharing a first-class cabin with a lively group of older Peruvians. I practice my broken Spanish, share some crisp French white wine with them, and type up this entry with a smile on my face.

Until next time — ciao from Budapest!

A friend of mine, who lost a parent suddenly and at a young age, described the aftermath as her world shrinking. Her circle narrowed, and her focus sharpened. She became instinctively better at discerning what truly mattered from what was merely noise. This idea has stayed with me, resonating deeply in more ways than one throughout my travels in Scotland.

Scotland is an extraordinary place to be reminded of the earth’s vastness. Here, it’s easy to feel small—to step away from modern distractions and the rush of daily life. The Scottish Highlands, especially, are a remote region in a country already on Europe’s edge. Being there, you feel pleasantly lost, wonderfully disconnected from much of the world. The landscape is a rugged tapestry of mountains, rain-soaked forests, castle ruins, sheep pastures, and churchyard cemeteries. Sparsely populated yet rich in history, the Highlands immerse you in something rare and magical. It’s almost like being let into a secret that few others on earth know.

The contrast between the wildness of the land and the warmth of the Scots you meet makes this region perfect for reminding yourself that the world is immense and full of wonderful complexity. After wandering the Scottish Highlands in early autumn, I can assure you that you won’t want to shrink away from anything—instead, I suspect you will feel revitalized and reconnected to yourself. This was true for me.

At various points in life, your world may shrink. Family will pass. Lovers will leave. Friendships will change. This is an inevitable fact of life. As someone who recently experienced his world getting smaller, my advice—if you’re interested—is to intentionally seek out experiences, places, and relationships that expand your worldview, renew your energy, and broaden your perspective. For me, being in the Highlands revived a sense of possibility and awe that had lain dormant for some time.

To be honest, over the past few years, my spirit and zest for life had been dampened. Quieted by the challenges and realities of modern life in today’s America, shocked by parental loss, and then beleaguered by the financial and legal repercussions that followed, I felt as though I was slipping into a version of myself that wasn’t fully accurate. I wasn’t unhappy or untrue, but I did feel incomplete—like a vital part of me was missing or neglected. My recent trek across Scotland reminded me that there is much more living inside me (and perhaps at the bottom of Loch Ness) than these past few years had allowed.

I’m thankful for my time chasing the sun across the Highlands and for the company I shared while there. But most of all, I’m grateful that Scotland awakened in me the beginnings of a renewed hunger for life—and a more authentic, fuller version of myself. Sláinte!

On the second-to-last weekend in September, my friend Tiffany and I arrive in Glasgow after driving over 300 miles on the left-hand side of the road from England to rendezvous with our mutual friend Laurie for a Scottish holiday. I have known Laurie for decades, and she is an avid international traveler who swaps her home in San Diego with lovely folks from Helensburgh, Scotland for over a month. She kindly allows Tiffany and me to stay at her house and adeptly drives us around Scotland. But before heading to the Highlands, the three of us feast on Scottish hospitality at many a pubs, the Scottish Malt Whisky Society, and a traditional Sunday roast—Britain’s favourite weekly meal.

The scotch is too strong for my taste, but the tradition of Sunday roast in the UK is delicious and I very much enjoy the beef roast and Yorkshire pudding from the Butterfly and the Pig in Glasgow.

After Glasgow, on a brisk Tuesday morning, we depart for the Highlands in a very tiny car packed with three Americans and their luggage. The quarters are tight, but Laurie handles the manual transmission well, and Tiffany endures several hours in the broom-closet-sized backseat like a champ. Both Laurie and Tiffany also endure me talking at length about Loch Ness and its famously mysterious resident during most of our drive. They even indulge me with multiple stops along the loch to look for a glimpse of our girl “Nessie,” take plenty of photos, and make a pit stop at the official Loch Ness Centre..

Loch Ness is over 755 feet deep—that’s comparable to the height of the Golden Gate Bridge underwater! Since 565 AD, there have been over 11,600 recorded sightings of unusual activity and serpent-like beasts in the loch, with the most recent sighting occurring on the very day I visit Loch Ness. At 6:58 pm on Tuesday, September 23rd, the Clansman Hotel webcam records unusual activity on the loch’s surface, not far from shore. Watch and judge for yourself here. I have been a Loch Ness monster believer since I was a little boy, so I’m positive Nessie chooses the day I visit Loch Ness to make a cameo, to reaffirm my faith—and to deliver a healthy dollop of childlike glee that feels really good. Thanks, girl.

With my heart full from a day of beast-sighting, our trio arrives for two nights in Inverness, the capital of the Scottish Highlands, where we explore the city and one of Scotland’s oldest, still inhabited castles, Cawdor Castle. Meandering about the castle grounds imbues a sense of fairytale magic, and the blend of storied Scottish history with a distinct design aesthetic captivates me. Being the sun-worshipper that I am, the castle gardens stun in the midday autumn sunshine, and I feel as if I could spend the entire day here.

With two glorious days in the Highlands complete, Laurie drives us back to Helensburgh (pronounced ‘Helens-borough’) via a rugged and mystical landscape — roads that look like they lead into the clouds, cliffs jutting into space, plus an abundance of murky lochs and murmuring rivers that lead to mighty oceans. I can’t wait to come back to the Highlands, but for now, it’s time to return to Helensburgh to do laundry, relax, and make new Scottish friends at the Henry Bell. Meeting (and drinking) with locals has been the highlight of these jaunts, so far.

After mucking it up with the boys (Neil, Bob, Bill and Gordon) at the Henry Bell, and a good night’s sleep, we set off for Edinburgh, Scotland’s historic heart and capital city. Edinburgh is magical in both appearance and atmosphere. The gothic architecture and historic pride centered here, perfectly captures how the Scots merge British pomp with ancient Celtic and Viking roots. I only spend one night in Edinburgh, but I’m already determined to return. If you ever find yourself in the UK, don’t hesitate to venture to the North and visit the Scottish capital—you won’t be disappointed.

Eight days in Scotland draws to a close with a Lufthansa flight to Munich, Germany, where I’ll meet three new friends for Oktoberfest — more to come on that epic adventure in the next edition. But, until then, cheers everyone!

I realized early on that I would be my best advocate. I figured that if I stayed focused and kept pushing forward, I wouldn’t just get by—I’d actually get ahead. Scholastic and professional endeavors came naturally to me; these were tried, true, and stable institutions where an ambitious and eager personality can shine. I have always thrived in structured environments where the path to success is clearly outlined. With hard work, resilience, persistence, and a touch of good luck, I believe we can create tremendous futures for ourselves. This mindset has been a constant compass throughout my life.

By early 2014, I was in my late twenties when I landed, almost by accident, at a company called Uber. It didn’t take long for me to realize I was part of something very big, but I couldn’t have predicted how quickly it would be crowned Silicon Valley’s next unicorn—or how the intensity of those years would shape me and provide for my future. What followed was a supercharged decade (and some change) of hyper-growth tech startups, dedicating myself completely to companies and their highly celebrated values, and quite literally redefining industries and consumer behavior via some of corporate tech America’s most prolific brands and most noteworthy disruptors.

Eleven and a half years later, with government affairs tenures at Uber, Zillow, and CLEAR under my belt, I decided to pause it all and step away for a change of pace—a change of scenery, and a change in values. For a person who spent decades fixated on applying himself within safe, stable environments like school or work, this change has been massive. Transformative, even. Not necessarily for the new experiences it is bringing me—but for the new emotions and feelings it is stirring within me. After what feels like a lifetime of doing the right thing and devoting myself to an ambition that would deliver me to a new, better destiny, I’ve put the equation I relied on to build my life completely on the back burner. I’ve embraced the beauty of the unknown, the charm of the chaos, and the perspective in the pause.

Perhaps driving this experience more than anything else was the unexpected and sudden loss of my mother in late winter 2024. My path forward, and the vision I’d delicately crafted for success, was instantly knocked off course. A knock that, if I’m being honest, I’m unsure if I’ve fully recovered from. Rather, I think I learned a new way to carry on, and to trudge ahead in a different, even more independent manner. I can’t speak with certainty, but I believe anyone who’s lost a parent young—especially tragically overnight—can relate to this sentiment. There is nothing like a parent’s passing to remind you of your own mortality. The loss of a parent signifies the end of your innocence in such a permanent way that the silence on the other side offers both isolation and introspection.

So, what’s the point of this long-winded lead-up to a travel journal? For friends, family, and folks I’ve yet to meet, I felt it important to outline a bit about myself before diving into my travels. The last 18 months have been the hardest I’ve endured personally, professionally, legally, and emotionally. This journey—or these jaunts I’ve given myself—are designed to help me get back on that course I feel like I was knocked off from in February 2024. To get back in touch with myself and what drives me, in an effort to return to “real life” recharged and reaffirmed, whenever that time comes, and whatever “real life” looks like. The journaling of my jaunts is more than chronicling my travels; it’s also about documenting my journey to a new, different version of myself. When life thrusts change upon you, it’s okay to be knocked on your heels, but make sure you respond. This journal, these jaunts, and this guy typing run-on sentences in a Scottish bar on a sunny Sunday afternoon—this is my response. I hope you enjoy.

Today, in this third week of September, as summer gives way to fall, I find myself in Glasgow, Scotland. I hopped the pond on a United jet from Newark to London on the evening of September 12th and spent a week meandering about England before arriving here this weekend. My friend Tiffany (whom I met at Zillow) has joined me for the journey north from London to Glasgow. She has proven to be an adept travel companion and navigator this last week.

England is a beautifully picturesque country with charming, rustic hamlets and storied medieval villages dotting its rolling hills and gentle pastures. In all of my prior travels to the UK, I focused almost exclusively on London, the nation’s cosmopolitan capital with endless options for entertainment, so venturing outside the city has been very fun and very rewarding indeed.

After renting a car on an early Tuesday morning at London’s Heathrow Airport, I drove (on the left side of the road!!) almost an hour to Oxford. Undoubtedly the country’s most famous university, Oxford is the oldest university in the English-speaking world, and its surrounding city has benefited immensely from the fame and wealth of the college and its alumni. On the day I visited, the weather was particularly pleasant, so after a walking tour of the campus, I slipped over to the Oxford Botanic Gardens and walked among a glorious English garden in the splendid September sunshine. The lore of Carroll, Lewis, Tolkien, and Wilde coursed through the late afternoon breeze—their collective wisdom floating high above the hydrangeas, their wit wafting through the willows, and their mischief bending down through the curves of the Thames to linger above all in the garden this afternoon—the thinkers, the dreamers, the tourists, and the locals. On this Tuesday, I count myself lucky to be among such an esteemed garden.

From Oxford, Tiffany and I made our way to Chedworth, England, for a stay at an adorable Airbnb in the Cotswolds called the Lavender Cottage. We quickly realized the only pub in town (dating back to 1610!) closed in 2024 and made our way to a fabulous country roadhouse restaurant adjacent to the highway called The Stump that is the most classically English place you can imagine. There are large wood-burning fireplaces, hearty stews, taps aplenty, plus well-behaved pups on leashes accompanying patrons clad in houndstooth, tweed, and riding boots. Surprisingly, there are also delicious wood-fired pizzas and a garlic aioli that slaps. Tiffany and I will eat both our dinners in the Cotswolds at The Stump—and, to be honest, I can’t wait to go back.

Before departing for the North, we’ll make stops at Stonehenge near Salisbury, in Bath to see the ancient Roman baths, and at Shakespeare’s home in Stratford-upon-Avon. At each of these, I wish I had more time to explore and would happily return — especially if I can end my days exploring at The Stump.

Before arriving in Glasgow, Tiffany and I will make a luxurious overnight pit stop in the Lake District to stay at the Armathwaite Hall Hotel and Spa. It’s a grand hotel right along the banks of one of the many lakes that have given this beautiful part of Northern England its name. The misty mountains, verdant hills, and quiet elegance of stately manors that scatter the hillsides and valleys are truly breathtaking—apparently so is my charm, as the dowdy British gal who checks us into our room is smitten and trips over her words to offer free parking and “welcome champagne.” I’ll take my wins where I can get them, particularly here in the patrician Lake District.

Lastly, before signing off for the week, I thought I’d share a picture of me driving on the left side of the road, in a fantastically English ‘chapeau’ that I bought at a secondhand vintage store in Bath for £14. I think it suits me!

Until next time — cheers!

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