Chapter 16: Ari

Prague, Czech Republic– August 2025

Previously in 1982, Colleen found comfort in the rigid structure of boarding school life and found freedom from her mom. After a playful encounter near the sports fields, Connor offered to tutor her in Spanish verbs in the student Commons after study hall.

Ari turned over and tucked her head under her pillow, trying to muffle the cacophony of hostel life. Hostelers are never quiet enough, she thought. The younger guests who had crashed into the dorm early this morning were now up again, zipping, stuffing, and cramming their assorted items into too-large bags. At least they were whispering.

Her mind returned to Ally’s comments as they broke up. “You’ve been finding scenes for other people for years. But you never found a set for us. It’s like we didn’t exist to anyone else.”

Her mind jumped to the research she’d done about her great-aunt so far. Last summer, on a visit to Liverpool to see her mother, they’d gone through her grandmother’s old journals. Ari had found a name, Dorothy, her sister called her Doro, written in the margin in careful cursive. Underneath that note was a date, and beneath the inscription, in smaller letters, the word asozial. German for “asocial.” She recalled the details her mother shared.

Dorothy had marched to Jersey on the Channel Islands with the Women’s Land Army. The Brits sent women to help tend farms as part of the war effort. She helped bring in the Jersey Royals potato crop but got trapped on the island when the Nazis invaded from 1940 to 1945. She had lived there with a woman she loved, but her mother knew nothing else about the woman. Together, the twosome made illegal radios from spare parts. Someone informed the Germans about their island-wide distribution. When the Germans broke into their house, they found the cache of parts, arrested the women, and sent them away. Dorothy did not come back.

Ari recalled the conversation with her mum.

“My mother had always been so ashamed about her sister’s life and that she was unable to save her,” said Ari’s mum.

“She must have been proud of her,” said Ari.

“No, she couldn’t talk about her. If she admitted she was a lesbian, she feared the Nazis would label her. They would send her to the camps. And she couldn’t admit to knowing about the radios either; that would also send them to the camps. Exposing her could kill the entire family.”

“There was shame about who Doro loved, wasn’t there?” Ari recalled asking.

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How do you handle them at home?

Open up your junk drawer. The one in the kitchen.

I bet you have the following items in there. Or, if you’re a full-time traveler, what did you have in there?

• A tangle of rubber bands

• Scissors and a roll of half-peeled tape

• Two rogue paper clips and a couple of tacks

• A lonely birthday candle

• A fistful of pens (how many actually work?)

• Scraps of paper, old receipts, and matches

Why do these things live rent-free in our kitchens?

A Fire in Your House

Imagine there’s a fire in your house. You have to grab what matters. None of those items make the cut. Or imagine a garage sale: you might get fifty cents for the scissors, or you could bundle the whole mess into a “grab bag” for a dollar.

Let’s be honest: the total value of that drawer is under a dollar. Yet you probably spent $40 over the years acquiring those fractional leftovers: a whole pack of tacks because you needed two; a fresh pack of batteries because you couldn’t find the old ones.

You keep them because someday you might need a tack, a battery, or a candle. You don’t know when, just someday when a what-if scenario actually strikes, you’ll be ready.

Except “someday” isn’t a date on the calendar.

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Packing the What-Ifs

When we left home with just two carry-ons and two backpacks, those what-if fears loomed large. Even after scaling down from a sprawling house and a three-car garage, we still felt the desperate urge to pack our what-ifs.

• What if I can’t find my exact brand of bra?

• What if they don’t sell Hoka shoes or Osprey packs where we’re going?

• What if I need checks?

• What if the world doesn’t have Colgate, Herbal Essences, or Advil?

We were terrified of getting stranded without our creature comforts, possilby paying $4 instead of $1 for a replacement. So, we stuffed our bags with backups for our backups.

And then reality hit.

What-Ifs Weigh Too Much

The physical weight of carrying all those “someday” items dragged us down, literally pushing our carry-ons over the weight limits and costing us fees. Ironically, the baggage fees we paid could have easily bought the items fresh if we’d ever actually needed them.

We quickly learned a liberating truth: the rest of the world has the exact same problems we do. They just solve them differently, or sometimes the exact same way.

So, we shed the extra tape, the spare batteries, the extra bras, socks, underwear, and jackets. We learned to adapt and solve our problems the way the locals do. As they came up. With the resources at hand.

Now, we shop in local markets instead of Costco; neighborhood bodegas instead of chain supermarkets. If there is truly an American specialty we can’t live without, we simply save buying it for our annual visit back to the States.

We no longer carry the weight of “someday.”

What’s in Your Drawer?

So, I have to ask: what’s sitting in your junk drawer right now? And how are the what-ifs attached to those items keeping you from living your actual life?

Or from circling your date on the calendar to leave.

Because if you’re living for someday, wondering about the what-ifs, your someday never turns into to today.

It’s only when you finally circle a date that “someday” turns into today.

PS Join me on Thursday for a live Substack about Nomad Life Launching tips. Sign up here https://yournomadlife.kit.com/aug-20-nomad-life-community-meetup

The Orme School, Arizona – October, 1982

The morning bell clanged from outside the cafeteria, across the dirt barnyard, through Girls Camp’s great lawn, and into Colleen’s ears.

“What the bloody hell?” Colleen jolted awake as Ayumi laughed, a bright, happy sound.

“I can’t believe even after a month that you’re not used to the schedule yet. Mandatory breakfast at 7:00 with attendance, 8:00 chores, then classes, volleyball, dinner in dress clothes, study hall for ninety minutes, then free time for an hour, and bed at 10:15. It’s all about structure.”

Ayumi was from Yokohama, Japan. She had come to Orme on a full academic scholarship and intended to return to Japan having mastered English, calculus, and whatever else the American desert had to offer. Her side of the room was arranged with a precision that made Colleen’s Louis Vuitton chaos look like a tumbled Jenga. She was also, Colleen discovered within the first week, the funniest person she had ever met. Ayumi delivered observations about American boarding school life with deadpan accuracy.

“Colleen,” Ayumi asked, “why do you keep wearing high-fashion linen to look cute when you’re covered in desert dust every time you come back to the room? Explain the logic to me.”

Colleen had laughed until her stomach hurt. She hadn’t known how much she had needed a chuckle until it happened. Ayumi had a way of showing Colleen the ridiculousness of her mother’s insistence to be one way while the environment required something different.

Her first semester at boarding school was a struggle, but Colleen slowly found joy in the daily rigor. Back home, her mom had been just as strict, but Colleen had been the target. In contrast, the school’s structure wasn’t targeted at her; it pushed everyone to excel. Strangely, there was comfort in the rhythm. The rigidity applied to everyone equally, which turned out to feel entirely different. Just like the morning bell that woke them all at once; strict in its ringing, but comforting in the fact that everyone rose together.

She also loved her volleyball team. They had strength training and practice every day. Her ultrathin frame was developing some nice shape. And she could finally devour the potatoes! She certainly didn’t miss the glaring parental eyes of her mother tracking her every calorie at the family-style meals in the school’s cafeteria. She could finally eat and be herself; not the socialite daughter her mother eagerly needed her to be.

Colleen adored hearing her fellow students’ languages from around the world as she ambled past the original one-room adobe school to the library to study, or to the chemistry lab across the football field. The walk back from the gym through the cottonwood trees excited her the most.

On her way, she could get a glimpse of Connor working his soccer skills after football practice. His Irish flag sweatband held back his floppy red hair, which was still short enough for school regulations. Of course, he sported a variety of soccer jerseys from Europe proclaiming the best football teams in the world. They’d interacted a few times in Spanish class, but he always seemed to avoid her in real life.

Colleen kicked a stray soccer ball on her trail back toward Connor with a surprisingly clean stroke. He trapped the pass with his chest and jogged up to her.

“Not a bad strike. So how’s Up Elliott?”

She couldn’t believe he was actually, really, talking to her.

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Chapter 14: Ari

Prague, Czech Republic– August 2025

Ari’s rainbow-colored backpack sagged from her shoulders, the straps digging into her collarbones. After cheering on the participants in the Prague PrideFest, she was out of energy. Her sixty-three-year old frame stumbled into the hostel. Younger guests lounging in bean bags eyed her. She glanced around, hoping some older hostelers might be around. Ari just wanted to open a beer, put her feet up, and relax. She’d been in seven archives in three years. Prague’s Society for Queer Memory would be the eighth. Whatever was in there, she’d find it tomorrow.

She opened Facebook and posted her picture at the LGTBQI parade. Immediately, the likes and loves buttons started counting approval from a community she helped build. She’d never married; she didn’t see the need. When she wanted companionship, she could always find it in this community that she loved.

She opened the Bolt app and searched for vegan food in Prague, ordered its specialty, a vegan potato goulash, and waited for its delivery. In her three years of full-time travel, she’d tried as many regional vegan foods as she could. Her favorite was the coconut curry vegetable dish of khao soi in Thailand. But she also adored the hummus of Turkiye and how the Turks served the spread with a million little dishes with olives, tapenades, and pickled carrots.

Ari opened her phone’s camera and took a picture. Old habits died hard. She’d spent a career scouting sets for English filmmakers. As a kid growing up in Liverpool, camera crews showed up everywhere, either filming for WWII scenes, Beatles history, or even the anger of the locals fighting the long arm of London politics. Her love for film peaked while roaming the backstreets of the UK in her beat-up Land Rover, looking for perfect settings. But when fake scenes could be created in a lab through CGI, she retired. She was no longer needed.

She titled the photo, “Grungy hostel scene, Prague.”

A chat message popped up on her phone. “Hey girl, where are you?” her friend Vicki asked.

She didn’t know Vicki in real life, but they had become friendly via their Nomad Life Facebook group. Occasionally they’d chat about ideas on where to travel. Since both were solo females and also full-time Nomads, they had tips to share.

“In Prague. Just enjoyed the parade. Thinking about heading to the Josefov Ghetto and then finishing the day at the astronomical clock. Have you been there?” asked Ari.

“The Jewish Quarter? Heavy stuff. You okay with that?”

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November 2022

“Marbahan,” contorted from my lips, the first word I’d learn in Arabic class on our Suez Canal cruise to Saudi Arabia. By the time we arrived in the small port city of Yanbu, my total Arabic word count was five. Fortunately, the immigration agent just smiled, stamped, and waved us through to our 6-hour port stop.

Yanbu, a new port for the equally new cruise trade, hadn’t quite gotten its legs under itself as the world reopened post COVID. We meandered to its one tourist attraction, a recently developed recreation of an historic seaside. 18-inch square timbers jumbled with orange construction tape lay at the entrance, hinting that the re-creation wasn’t quite finished. Pink tropical scarves waved from white coral stone shops with windows framed by stained latticework, while hand-woven raffia baskets necklaced their doorways. Oddly, two classic American cars of light blue and fire-engine red staged the visitors center.

After an hour weaving through the waddling cruise passenger pack, we were bored and wanted a bit more from Saudi Arabia.

On the corner stood a man in his bright, white, thawb covering him from his shoulders to his feet; he motioned Steve, my husband, and me over.

“Where are you from, ha-bi-bi-ti?” he opened the conversation, addressing me as darling, another new word to add to our database.

As full-time traveling nomads, this answer is complicated. Afterall, we don’t own a house and we live out of our carry-ons. We’re never quite sure how our Americanness will get received; we hesitated, then replied, “The USA.”

“I love America!” he beamed.

“We love Saudi!” I replied. Thus began ten minutes of friendlies, where my internal red flag meter that sniffs out scammers went to bright green. Our kind local sincerely wanted us to enjoy his city. He was like me; I had played his role many times in my hometown, offering unsolicited help to tourists on the street. He suggested we grab an Uber and go for a ride.

“See my beautiful country,” he encouraged us.

Uber in Saudi? We’d used our favorite ride-share app around the world, but somehow never figured it’d be available in Saudi. With four hours until we sailed, we hailed an Uber from the app and hired a driver to take us to the one place we’d seen listed in Atlas Obscura.

Within a few minutes, Ibrahim slid up in his Uber car, a black Mercedes Benz GLA class SUV with tinted windows. Perhaps he was a bit confused, wondering about this non-Arabic couple who had hailed him. We slipped into the car’s lush leather seats, water bottles in holders awaiting passengers, and air conditioning blasting out the 100-degree heat. Realizing that it’d be more culturally aware for Steve to initiate our interaction with him, I settled in and watched the two of them greet and stumble through the Uber verification process that it was, us, in fact, who had hailed him.

Ibrahim nervously giggled about his first American passengers and said marbahan, or welcome. He pointed the Benz north out of town, away from the safety of our ship. With a death grip on the phone and my thumb cocked over the emergency button in the Uber app, I anxiously tracked every kilometer on the 20-minute route.

“What the heck are we doing?” I whispered under my breath to Steve. Why did we think jumping into an Uber in a country where we seriously did not speak the language, and did not know where we were going, was a good idea?

He grinned at me. “Having an adventure,” he replied, reminding me that this is what we always do in new countries. We escape the pack and delve in on our terms.

I relaxed.

As we left the city and began crossing the desert, we laughed through a conversation built around the five words we’d learned on the cruise that would get us back to the ship; yallah (go), saffina (ship), khamsa (five), shkran lak (thank you) and marbahan (hello). In addition, we had picked up our sixth, habibiti. Our driver knew another five words of English, and together, our 11-word vocabulary revealed that he had many wives, we had to be at the ship by 5, and thank you can go a long way.

“Oh my god, a camel! A camel!” I squealed. Out across the sand, under a palm, as if a child had drawn the scene, stood an untethered, wild camel cooling itself in the shade.

We’d seen camels as beasts of burden or in zoos, but never freely roaming in the wild. Ibrahim viewed us in the rear view mirror quizzically. Perhaps he couldn’t quite fathom why, what he considered to be equivalent to a stray dog, seeing a camel would be exciting. And we added another Arabic word to our vocabulary, jamal (camel).

We arrived at our Atlas destination where we expected to find a beautiful oasis filled with date palms, a bubbling spring, and a stand to buy snacks. Instead Ibrahim pointed to a dried-up palm leaning precariously over a dilapidated bench. Apparently, our reference hadn’t been updated since COVID had swept through this small town. The view also explained why Ibrahim had been reluctant to take us to our destination.

“Now what?” I asked Steve.

Disappointed, we hesitated to get out of our comfortable Uber. If we exited, would we be able to hail another to get back to the ship once we explored the area a bit more?

Our enterprising Ibrahim jumped in. Somehow, he put together a sentence with our combined 11-word vocabulary that he would “yallah ha-bi-bi-ti jamal.”

“I think he wants to take us to see darling camels?” said Steve.

Not quite sure of exactly what Ibrahim was suggesting, our ever-present, adventurous spirit signed up and buckled in. With three hours until our sail away, we trusted Ibrahim would get us back in time

He re-programed our destination in the Uber app, and we headed somewhat back toward the ship, tracking our route all the while. The concrete highway comforted us, giving us a “back home” feeling of safety with its familiar construction and flow of traffic. Things seemed to be moving smoothly as our trust built in Ibrahim’s promised adventure.

Nonetheless, we kept an eye on the route just to be sure we’d be within rescue distance from the ship if things went wrong. We sat back in the cushy leather seats, enjoying the cool bottles of water.

Then all of a sudden, our trusted Ibrahim took a hard right off the concrete road, onto the sand, into the desert, and away from the ship.

I whispered to Steve, “And this is when we die.”

The Uber app started to spin, having a tough time locating where we were and where we were going.

Seeing our anxiety and our squirming bodies, Ibrahim turns around and restates, “Ha-bi-bi-ti camel, please.”

100 yards later, Ibrahim stops the car, gets out and opens my door.

He motions that we should walk toward the railing we see 50 feet away.

The sand crunches under my feet on the firm ground. A dry heat simmers my skin, and my nose picks up the scent of vastness, empty and deep. I’m sure I’ll find venomous snakes and poisonous scorpions as we approach our target.

We place our hands, waist high, on the slightly rusted railing which is supported by wooden posts painted white, 3 inches square. Another railing runs parallel, but 20 feet away, inside from where we are. On the ground, a 10-foot-wide path of round, dinner-plate-sized footprints press into the sand. In the far distance to our left, we glimpse a finish line of this giant, 6-mile long racetrack. In the center of the course we see freely-grazing, prized camels awaiting their next race in a few days.

Ibrahim had taken us to the camel races!

Green banners announce in white Arabic letters the date of the next day of racing. Sadly, we can’t wait three days for the excitement.

We get back in the Mercedes and, this time, Ibrahim drives across the sand toward a complex of three separate areas, each one squared off with solid black, nylon cloth. Three men in their white thawbs and red keffiyehs walk out of one of the areas, greet us, “as-salamu alaykum”, motioning us to come inside.

We cautiously walk forward, our trusty Ibrahim with us. I hold my phone in my hand so Uber could still track our excursion, mentally noting it’s an hour’s ride back to the ship. The men smile, gesturing to us and occasionally dropping an English word into the conversation, increasing the seven vocabulary words to ten to include home, buy, now.

“I think we’re getting a home tour,” I said to Steve.

“Does it come with the camels?” He joked to me.

The first model home of open-air, Bedouin tents came with walls, no ceiling, and a compost-style toilet. The second slightly larger home at about 400 square feet included layers of thick, red carpets for flooring. The largest 500 square foot home included a makeshift kitchen with a sink and a fire pit. Who could say no to the flexible, nomadic style of Bedouin-style living?

Some chit-chat bounces between our hosts. Then the man, who we think is the lead realtor, turns to us and grabs a stick on the ground. He writes the number $800 in the sand. For one year’s rent, we could get a finished home for $800 with a view of infinite sand dunes and roaming camels!

Today only.

Appreciating the amazing offer, we graciously decline their invite to join the community. We weren’t quite ready to set up more permanent housing.

Five o’clock fast approached; we mimed to Ibrahim that it was time to go. We loaded back up in the Mercedes. Our trusty Uber driver quickly and safely returned us to the ship, stopping along the way to buy us a snack of peanut nougat from a vendor at a streetlight.

With gas at only $.45/gallon, our Uber total summed to $15 after over 4 hours together with Ibrahim. Riding through the desert to visit camels and Bedouin homes certainly wasn’t how I had envisioned our port stop would go in Saudi Arabia. Maybe on our next visit when we don’t have to catch the saffina, we can yalla to the jamal races with our new ha-bi-bi-ti friends?

If you enjoyed this excerpt, there are dozens of more stories in my book, The Nomad Life. Won’t you grab a copy today?

Chapter: 13 George

Los Angeles, CA – August 2025

George sipped his Brandy Alexander while eyeing the last known photograph of John Lennon and George Harrison hanging from the oak walls of the Troubadour bar in Los Angeles. The bartender clearly had mixed Lennon’s favorite drink before. He got the nuance of the sprinkled nutmeg, George thought, and floated the cream on the brandy right.

It would be the last Brandy Alexander George would have in the U.S. After a year tracing famous Beatles sites around America, he was finally jumping the pond to London. He’d leave in the morning out of LAX.

On his second sip, he remembered his wife, Valeria, and how much she loved this drink. He recalled the night he told Vale that he wanted to learn to make Brandy Alexanders. Instead of him getting behind the home bar, she jumped up and took over. When she tried to shake the brandy and crème de cacao mixture, the shaker flared apart, and the sticky boozy mixture sprayed out all over her red hair. They laughed hard. He had leaned over the bar and licked the flavors off her elbows as it dripped down into their shag carpet.

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Chapter 12: Dave and Grazia

Tampa, Florida – December 2023

At least I’ll leave with money in my pocket, thought Dave as he watched his boss give year-end bonuses to all 200 employees. The annual holiday party was obnoxious, especially the open bar. Even after twenty-seven years sober, Dave couldn’t tune out the hypnotic snap of wine corks releasing from bottles. To most, it was the sound of celebration; to him, it was the sound he’d spent half of his life learning to ignore.

Once Dave got his check, he placed it in the inside Napoleon pocket of his leather motorcycle jacket, and decided to leave. He wanted to be around the other gearheads as little as possible. Engineers were boring. Himself included.

He said a clipped good-bye to his teammates and approached his Harley in the company’s parking lot. The shine he’d polished into its chrome last night still shimmered. A tall woman with long, dark hair stood eyeing his bike.

He approached her from her side. “You ride?” Dave said to Grazia, as he eyed her black leather pants, sparkly heels, and fuzzy red Christmas sweater.

“Oh. Ah. No. I’m just catching the sunset. I love getting a shot every night.” Grazia said, adjusting her reindeer-ears headband that was sliding down her brunette bangs. “But did you know the Harley motor sound is one of only seven sounds that’s trademarked?”

“No. Hadn’t heard that,” said Dave, as he pulled on the coarse hair of his beard.

Grazia cocked her head, moving her gaze from the bike to his face. “Do I know you?” Grazia asked. “I’ve never seen you before. I know everyone here. You must be new.”

“I’ve been here thirty-two years. Got exactly 701 days left until I can clear out my desk and ride my bike forever.”

“I can’t believe we’ve never run into each other. I’m going on twenty years myself. Also on the two-year plan. But I’ll miss this place. It’s been a big part of my life.”

Dave shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t wait to ride all the way to Slovakia to find my family. No more blueprints. No more meetings about meetings.”

Grazia positioned her phone and took a picture as the sun touched the Gulf. “Every night I do my best to get a shot. They’re so hopeful, sunsets. I love them.”

She turned to Dave and flipped her hair so slightly.

“Last I checked, there’s no bridge from Tampa to Slovakia. You gonna build that in the next seven hundred days, engineer?”

“Ha. Clever. Nope. I’ll ship the bike, cruise over on the Queen Mary 2, and ride the rest of the way.”

Grazia’s heels clicked as she walked around the bike, examining its sleek red trim that highlighted the strong angles. Dark chrome shone like tinsel on a Christmas tree.

While she eyed the bike, Dave studied her. Grazia’s young attitude didn’t match her age, and he appreciated that. Fun, but not stupid, he thought. A rare combo. He liked extroverted women. They were a nice foil to his introverted self.

He held out his hand. “Dave.”

She gripped his palm. “Grazia.”

Dave reached for the handlebars, unlocking the steering lock.

“I got this Road Glide Limited especially for the trip. I’m going solo, but it’d be fun to have someone on the back with me.”

“Are you inviting me to Europe?” She faced him directly, squaring her hips to his. She tilted her head, twirled the ends of her hair and said, “I don’t even know your last name!”

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As a treat for you, the second e-book in my To Travel a Nomad Life series is FREE on Amazon today only. See below.

While you’re at Amazon, check out the other two books in the series, my best-selling Two Carry-ons and a Plan and Wanderlust Wisdom.

I hope you’re enjoying my new novel, Kindling, which is exclusively publishing as a series on Substack. Catch Chapter 1 here to get started.

Get your free copy of Nomad Life by clicking here or on the cover below.

Is traveling the world full-time as glamorous as it sounds? Could you live out of a carry-on suitcase filled with everything you own? What’s it really like being in a new place every day? Would you sip every wine, taste every gelato, climb every trail, and see every sunset?

Chris and Steve, an early-retired couple who sold everything and left Corporate America, have successfully traveled the world, one month as a time, living a full-time nomad life. From Ireland to Australia, they’ve

• circumnavigated the world

• heard the sound of a million butterfly wings flapping

• fed geriatric elephants special banana leaf sandwiches

• snorkeled with hammerhead sharks

• begged immigration officials to let them cross borders

• navigated the world as a team with just their two carry-on suitcases.

In this second book in the series To Travel A Nomad Life, youtube’s favorite traveling retirees pick up their love story from where Two Carry-Ons and a Plan left off. Now with tales from their daily life and packed with travel tips and tricks for navigating Nomad Life, you won’t be able to put down this next book in this adventure series.

In this 2nd edition, Chris and Steve continue their world trip, and the story picks up from where they left off in Sydney, arriving in Aruba. Plus, you’ll find even more ways to solve the challenges that pop up during Nomad Life. Come join us again.

Get your copy now!

See you next month,

P.S. Are you caught up on Kindling, my new novel about a relay race among senior nomads across Europe? Start reading right here.

The first eight chapters of Kindling released to all subscribers. Only paid subscribers can see past the previews from Chapter 9 onwards.

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Chapter 11: Grazia

Tampa, Florida – December 2023

Grazia had one clear memory of her childhood in Cuba.

A glass wall, la pecera, at the Havana airport, her mother’s hands pressed flat against it from the other side; her father drawing a heart with his finger in the condensation. She was five years old. “Give Tia Rosa a hug from us, dulcita,” she remembered them saying. “We’ll see you soon.”

Her father was a lector in a Havana cigar factory where he read newspapers and novels to the cigar rollers, the torcedores, who sat at long tables with their hands moving constantly, manipulating the tobacco. The workers voted at the beginning of each week for the material they wanted him to share. He understood something few people articulate. What you read shapes what you become. Three hundred torcedores trusted him with that. He took his influence seriously.

Which is why, in 1961 as the Cuban Revolution closed in, he put his daughter on a flight to Miami.

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The first eight chapters of Kindling released to all subscribers. Starting with Chapter 9, only paid subscribers can see past the preview.

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Chapter: 10 Dave

Tampa, Florida – Summer 2023

Dave forced the key into the lock of his storage unit and heaved the corrugated door open. He had chores to do. Inside, stacks of cardboard boxes were caving in on themselves. He’d moved the boxes here after his parents’ accident almost three decades ago and hadn’t been back to the locker in over ten years. A musty smell knocked him back. The air conditioning clearly had failed.

He removed his navy-blue ball cap with a USA flag on it, wiped his hand across his sweaty brow, then tugged the brim back down his forehead. The unrelenting Florida heat dripped from his tshirt. He scavenged a portable trash bin from the warehouse front desk. After three decades paying rent on a tomb, what could possibly still be in there that he needed? He lifted two boxes at a time and tossed them wholesale into the trash along with a lamp, a broken chair, and a basket with moldy blankets in it. Dust spewed into the air.

Clearing out the boxes unhid a pine side table of his mother’s he’d forgotten.

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Kindling is an exclusive benefit for my paid subscribers and founding members. The first eight chapters were free; the remaining novel requires a paid subscription. Please support the arts, writers, and good content by subscribing today. Thank you.

My apologies to those expecting this chapter yesterday. I simply scheduled it for the wrong date.*

Chapter 9: Scott and Kelly

Bucharest, Romania — August 2025, One Day Earlier

“Cheers!” said Scott as he clinked a fresh limonada with Kelly’s elderberry socată.

Kelly smiled at Scott, his disheveled hair and nose slightly sunburned. Around them, the grand Ionic columns of the Romanian Athenaeum and its imposing dome framed the Bucharest plaza. Tourists zigzagged across the tree-lined space, capturing every moment of their vacations, snatching up embroidered purses and hand-painted ashtrays from vendors.

Kelly wiped a smudge of mud off Scott’s sleeve, a hiking shirt she’d seen almost every day for the last two weeks. “If I see this worn-out hiking shirt one more day, I might burn it,” Kelly joked, “It’s got more miles on it than a Flix bus.”

He laughed. “Right back at you with your purple shorts.”

Kelly stretched out her legs. After five days of hiking Romania’s Via Transilvanica, the couple was in recovery mode. They’d hiked through valleys and forests in the countryside of Transylvania. Kelly loved when the villagers invited them to ride in their horse-drawn sleds through meadows they never would have found on their own. Scott taught her about the Saxons and their centuries of influence on Romanian agriculture, they climbed fortified churches that had been built to withstand Ottoman raids, and on one hot afternoon Kelly had begged a local shopkeeper to open his door so they could get ice cream.

Old men sipping afternoon coffees in the cafe ignored the impressive Athenaeum’s facade and continued with their card games, oblivious to Kelly and Scott.

“To five amazing years of Nomad Life. Happy Nomadaversy to the best husband and travel partner ever,” Kelly said.

“A truly remarkable part of our life together, honey,” said Scott. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“Really? You don’t miss any of our stuff?” Kelly asked.

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My mother is 85 and lives in Florida.

I’m 59 and I travel the world full-time.

So when I returned to the US for a visit this summer, all types of reverse culture shock slammed right into me. Costco. 4-lane interstates. Cheap gas.

And she asked, “Do you carry a gun?"

The gun question flabbergasted me.

We were talking about safety around the world. As mothers ask, which they should, she wondered if I ever felt unsafe as I traveled the world.

While I do travel with my husband, I often travel alone, making myself a single solo female traveler. But whether I’m with my husband or by myself, I have only ever felt unsafe once.

Robbed at Gunpoint

Two men with AK-47s pointed them at my hiking group and demanded our cash and jewelry.

In Mexico.

Outside of Oaxaca.

That was eight years ago.

Since Then

I’ve been traveling the world as a nomad for the past five and half years. And not once have I felt unsafe.

Not in Thailand, Australia, Argentina, Peru, France, Ireland or The Netherlands.

Or any of the other 60 countries I’ve been in.

Back trails and alleys included.

Now of course in big cities like Paris, Kuala Lumpur, Vancouver, and Mexico City, I do the smart things; I don’t stay out after 11 pm, I don’t walk in unlit places, and I listen to the locals about where to go/not go.

Where I Feel the Most Unsafe?

Wal-mart. Large outdoor concerts in the USA. College campuses. Las Vegas.

So back to my mom and her question, “Do you carry a gun?”

Let’s break down this question. My mom is pretty savvy; she’s still working, able bodied and full of vigor. But somehow, she’s gotten it into her brain that I would be safer traveling the world if I were packing—not luggage—heat. A pistol. A gun. A weapon with bullets.

First, I can’t even imagine the nightmares I’d have to logistically challenge if I were carrying a firearm with me across borders.

Let’s just assume that I could.

I can’t.

But let’s go with the craziness of my mother’s question.

Where Are the Guns?

I did a bit of research on the guns around the world topic. The US is the only country that allows easy access to guns. Switzerland, Czech Republic, Panama, Austria and the Philippines allow “shall-issue” laws which mean that if you pass all the rules and regs, they’ll issue a permit.

Mexico and Guatemala grant constitutional rights for guns, but Mexico only has one legal gun store in the entire country.

The remaining 180 other countries do not have the right to own firearms. (gunpolicy.org, wikipedia)

My mom believes that good guys with guns will protect us from bad guys with guns.

Which begs the question, which do we have more of in the US: good guys or bad guys? Cuz there’s a lotta shootin going on.

Frankly, I don’t want to and I refuse to carry a gun to go get a loaf of bread.

Do Guns Equal Crime?

So back to travel and safety.

Granted, the world isn’t perfect. There’s crime everywhere.

While larceny and burglary are the most likely crimes that could occur to me, and these crimes are prevalent in many of the countries in which I travel, I take steps to prevent them happening to me.

I don't

• Wear expensive jewelry

• Carry cash that I flash

• Use designer luggage

• Forget my self-defense training

• Or highlight my citizenship.

Or on other words, I limit the opportunity to be a target.

Would carrying a gun around the world keep me from being pickpocketed or robbed? And frankly, would I shoot someone in order to protect my most valued things (total replaceable value of my carry-on items ~$1000)?

No. No.

So, no, mom I don’t own a gun.

Instead, I travel the world to enjoy its safety.

While I may get burgled in Bangkok, I’m not going to get randomly shot in Safeway.

For the past month, Kindling has hit your in box every Tuesday and Thursday. The relay is about to begin; a few more characters need to enter the story.

If you’ve missed a chapter or two, how about enjoying this Sunday with a nice iced tea and catch up?

Here are the first eight chapters. Briefly, Scott and Kelly left Kelly’s Kindle in Bucharest when they left for Sofia. Marcus and Leenie handed their keys to their real estate agent in Fresno and have jetted off to Venice with Marcus singing limericks along the way. A flashback to the 1980s finds Colleen and Connor meeting at a boarding school in Arizona. What happens next?

Chapter 1: Scott and Kelly

Chapter 2: Marcus and Leenie

Chapter 3: Scott and Kelly

Chapter 4: Colleen and Connor

Chapter 5: Marcus and Leenie

Chapter 6: Scott and Kelly

Chapter 7: Colleen and Connor

Chapter 8: Marcus and Leenie

Coming on Tuesday: Chapter 9: Scott and Kelly. Coming on Thursday: Chapter 10: Dave.

There are a few more characters entering the relay. After all, the Kindle is still in Bucharest, and we need somone to pick it up.

Take a moment this Sunday and catch up with a writer, a historian, a wine lover, a limerist, a Cuban, a Harley aficionado, a Beatles fan, an LGTBQI activist, an archivist, and genealogist, and an Irishman.

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Thanks everyone. I truly value each and every one of you.

Chris

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The first eight chapters of Kindling will release to all subscribers on Tuedays and Thursdays each week. Starting with Chapter 9, only paid subscribers can see past the preview.

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Chapter 8: Marcus and Leenie

Venice, Italy – August 2025

Five hours of napping and a couple of aspirin later, Leenie and Marcus laced up their walking shoes and headed to the bus station to ride a vaporetto to Venice. A floating bus the size of two bowling alleys pulled up. With the flurry of tourists, they stepped down to the seats.

Languages ribboned through the air. Italian. German. Japanese. Arabic. Luckily, the announcer included English when instructing riders where to disembark.

The vaporetto entered Venice’s Grand Canal, passing under Calatrava Bridge where tourists posed, snapping selfies on the stone and glass steps, the sleek railings keeping them from falling into the canal.

Leenie breathed in deeply. “We did it honey. We’ve retired. We crossed the finish line. We’re in Venice. We’re in VENICE!”

Marcus squeezed her hand. Baroque, Renaissance, and Gothic buildings reached up to the sky from the water’s edge as the boat serpentined through the canals of Venice. Smaller traghettis scurried locals across the canals, while fancy black gondolas with golden trim piloted by men wearing the classic red-and-white tops ferried tourists. Vibrant pink bougainvillea spilled from windowsill pots. Leenie’s skin prickled as the salty air coated her arms.

They disembarked at San Marco basin, eyeing the Doge’s Palace. Its three ornate tiers of pink and white diamonds atop arches and columns caused Marcus to clear his throat, a telltale sign to Leenie that a limerick was coming.

“There once was a girl from Cali

Who dreamed of going to Bali

But instead without malice

Discovered an Italian Palace

And found it was where she could dally.”

“I think you’re still jetlagged,” said Leenie.

Marcus spied a sign for a walking tour through the Jewish Ghetto. In a country where the Vatican centered it, he expressed his surprise to Leenie that he didn’t expect any other religions to appear there. He scanned the reviews online of the tour and discovered that the walk was off the beaten path and where most tourists didn’t go. “Perfect,” he told Leenie.

They met up with the tour guide, a 22-year old student studying Jewish History at Venice International University, and twenty other tourists. In a cramped public square, the guide shared how the word “ghetto” originated in Venice, and the ghetto where they currently stood was the first to dictate where Jews could live, starting in the 16th century. The tour continued around a Holocaust memorial, past antique stores with hand-blown glass chess boards, and near five historic skolas, or synagogues. They ended at the Panificio Volpe Giovanni, a Jewish bakery, a perfect place to take a break.

Marcus ordered the two traditional lemon flavored biscotti esse and two caffès. They stood at the bar, enjoying their treat while making plans for the rest of the day.

“Marcus, look at me. I know it’s a tourist trap. But I want to take a gondola ride. I mean, we’re in VENICE!” Leenie said.

She watched Marcus fidget, likely doing the math on the 80 euro price-tag. “I think they’re like $100 for thirty minutes. Do you think it’s worth it?”

“We didn’t squeeze into economy class to miss the budget on the dream items,” he said.

They finished their treats and meandered to the canal, finding the gondola stop. Several gondoliers queued, assisting passengers onto their watery chariots. Picking one was hard, as every gondolier dressed the same in his traditional uniform. Yet some boats had red velvet benches and a few had flowers draped around the edges.

Right as they were about to decide, a gondola glided up piloted by a woman. They heard one of the tourists in line grumble, “I hope we don’t get that lady. I want the full traditional experience.”

“I want her!” exclaimed Leenie. They swapped places with the grumbler.

Marcus glanced at the narrow gondola bench then back at Leenie then back at the bench, frowning and showing a clear look of doubt. He stayed quiet. Leenie had dreamed about this experience for years, and frankly, nothing was going to keep her from enjoying it. “Let me help you,” he said.

They stepped into the gondola. The boat wobbled, but the pilot knew perfectly how to position herself so they would easily transition from land to water. Leenie and Marcus sat down, fitting comfortably.

Their float began, but first Leenie wanted the backstory of Venice’s only gondoliera, Giorgia Boscolo.

“The story is simple,” Giorgia said as her long thin arms moved the oars lithely and her golden hair in a ponytail tied with a red ribbon swished. The gondola glided among the other water traffic. “My father was a gondolier, and now I’m one. He supported me. We had to fight a few of the locals, but in the end, here I am.”

Leenie imagined that the fight might have been difficult. After all, Italy was slow to let go of the patriarchy, but she thought it’d be best to let Giorgia share the story the way she wanted.

And so they continued along their way. Leenie and Marcus relaxed into the red tufted bench and listened to Giorgia describe the ride. Rather than discuss the buildings, she pointed out where her cousins, aunt, brother, parents, grandmother, and niece lived. All within two canals of each other. Each Sunday, they gathered at their grandmother’s for dinner. The ladies would hand make the pasta together in the kitchen while the men bottled the family’s wine vinted from their own grapes. She never missed the weekly ritual.

As the float came to its end, Giorgia quieted. Leenie appreciated the experience she’d shown even though Giorgia had only been on the water for fifteen years. Clearly, she knew the silence often creates the best experience for her riders.

Marcus turned to Leenie. “For 38 years I’ve been trying to write a Leenie limerick,” he said as he watched the canal go by. “Still haven’t figured it out.”

“It’s because nothing rhymes with Leenie,” his wife said.

“Teenie, meanie. No, it’s that I can’t find the last line. Every time I think I’ve got it, it’s not enough.”

Leenie smiled. When Marcus got serious, it always made her laugh because his seriousness came off so unexpectedly. He was always the light hearted one who rarely showed his feelings.

“I know. I love you too,” she said as she took a selfie of the three of them. Then she posted the picture to the Nomad Life group with the comment,

Best day ever.

Next: The story rewinds to Bucharest to uncover the growing tension regarding Scott and Kelly’s long-term travel plans.

Author Notes:

Like Leenie and Marcus, we jumped at the chance to take a gondola ride in Venice. Steve was hesitant about the price, too, but in the end, it was the best $100 we’ve ever spent on a tourist trap. We loved every minute of it. Don’t hesitate.

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P.S. Starting with Chapter 9 on Tuesday, you must be a paid subscriber to continue reading Kindling. The fun is just starting. The relay launches soon; and you’ve got 4 more characters to meet. Upgrade now.

A series of life-learning events had taken place up to this point; I’d gotten my Masters, worked at IBM, took a buy-out packaage at 25, moved to Kansas to live with my mother, started a business, hated Kansas, moved that business to Pensacola, failed in that business, gotten fired from a part-time waitressing job, and the rent was due.

So when a sign at the local Florida university advertised a “Teach English!” opportunity in Korea, “Start tomorrow!”, I figured what could I lose?

Fortunately, I still owned a globe and found Korea on a map. My finger traced the Korean pennisula, and my mind questioned, “North or South?” I fired up the modem and had Prodigy send an email.

Within minutes, I had an offer and instructions to buy my plane ticket. I left two days later, paying the cabbie in $37 of quarters to get me to the airport.

Pusan, South Korea (now called Busan) bustled with the energy of an adolescent teen trying her hardest to fit in with the cool kids. Quickly built bridges fell weekly, new LG tvs exploded upon plugging in, and college kids eagerly wanted English skills before Y2K ruined everything.

Looking back, there are probably better ways I could have taken an international teaching job. But for the reasons above, working for a Korean company at a small Korean school, being paid in Korean money, and living in Korean housing seemed like a fun adventurous thing to do.

The flat that the school offered had a mattress, a black-and-white tv, and a spiget for cold water? Sounded perfect. Teach college kids and five-years olds conversational English although I knew no Korean? Excellent. Eat in local restrauants every day because I had no kitchen? Amazing.

Fortunately, my college students befriended me. We’d jump into the new trendy coffee houses where I learned it was cool to be seen with, gasp, an American English teacher!, and they’d teach me to read, write, and speak Korean. When I managed to squeak out “mi guk saram” everyone giggled. As if they couldn’t already tell I was an American, I had to announce it with my terrible Korean.

Eventually my pointing skills in the local family-run diner turned into words. I no longer had to fear if I was eating dog or pig, I could actually order my meals. I dug into su jae bee, the local dumpling dish that every grandmother makes or bi bim bap, Korea’s version of a slop bowl. I even learned the proper way to cook my bul go gi, which, who knew, would become a trendy dinner for American Millennials in 2026.

I mastered the bus. Well, mastered might not be the right word. I successfully managed to get from my flat to my school daily, and I even figured out how to take excursions on the weekend. This wasn’t a simple task; it required my ability to read Korean and to tell the bus driver my destination so he could correctly collect my Korean won.

Fortunately, my local bus driver and I were on a smile-to-smile basis. He’d laugh at my kam sam ni da of thank you, only to find out that I’d learn the country way to say it. When I attempted my Korean accent later in cosmopolitan Seaul, I discovered I sounded like a Southerner in New York, y’all.

Days turned to months. I eventually learned how to wire cash to my US bank, and my account started to fill again. Once a month collect calls back home soothed homesickness. Locals waved hi.

Which brings me to the day I got beat up on the Korean bus.

I really was trying to be nice.

It was the middle of February. Right around Valentine’s Day. Which in Korea, it runs a bit differently than in the US. In the mid ‘90s, Valentine’s Day was only a decade old in celebration. And women would give chocolate to the men. If he was interested, a month later in March, he’d return the gesture via a white gift.

So there was lots of googly-eye stuff going on around me that I really didn’t know or understand.

On this particular morning, I’d gotten dressed in my normal school clothes and made my way to the bus stop. Along the way, I found a purple iris lying on the ground. I assumed it had fallen out of a bouquet; a gift I figured a Valentino was giving to his beloved. After all, Valentine’s Day, right?

I picked it up.

The bus arrived. “My” bus driver greeted me with his smile, and I handed him my fare. Then I also handed him the iris, bowed the appropriate depth, and said an yo his say yo, “Good morning.”

His eyes widened. I walked past. He closed the door.

And then all hell broke loose.

The little sweet Korean grandmothers in their baggy pants started beating me. Banging on me with whatever they held in their hands. Yelling in Korean words I clearly had not learned. Poking me. Kicking me.

I put arms up to defend myself. The bus made its next stop. I exited early through the back door then walked the rest of the way to my school.

What had happened?

My students gasped. Then explained.

A purple iriscan mean either deep admiration in life or deep respect in death.

So basically I told my bus driver I had the hots for him and/or I wished him a happy farewell.

Since that day and over sixty-five countries later, I haven’t been beaten up on the bus again. I’ve done my best to learn to avoid a few gestures like no okay signs in Brazil, no thumbs-up in Greece, and no V signs in Australia.

And definitely, no purple lilies in Korea unless I’m in love.

Have you done a cultural faux pas? Do share!

Chris

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P.S. If you’re enjoying my novel, Kindling, tomorrow I release chapter 8 for free. After that, you have to be a paid subscriber to read the next 47 chapters. If you want to find out if the Kindle gets back to Kelly and make 11 friends along the way, you’ll need to upgrade to paid subscriber if you haven’t already.

P.S.S. Or, you could upgrade to a Founding Member and get chat access to me and a postcard from somewhere on our travels. Only 100 Founding Members accepted. Once the number’s reached, the Founding Members level closes.

The first eight chapters of Kindling will release to all subscribers on Tuedays and Thursdays each week. Starting with Chapter 9, only paid subscribers can see past the preview.

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Chapter 7: Colleen and Connor

The Orme School, Arizona — October 1982

“You’re lucky.” Connor said to Colleen. “So many students get dropped in the middle of the desert and hate it. They count the days until they can go home, but their parents have bigger plans. Or they just find they can’t parent.” He paused. Did he just tread somewhere he shouldn’t have? “But then for some of us, the ranch is a five-star resort compared to the home situation.”

Colleen stopped to pick a rock out from her sandal. “Have you been here long?”

“Third year here. I’m a junior. It’s good here. It’s my home,” said Connor. “Coach Miller, the Dean you just met, he’s a fine man. He’ll watch out for you. Ms. Davis, she’s a bit tough, but she loves us.”

They continued to Elliott House to the top floor, one floor up in a dorm with eight rooms. Colleen’s room was one of only four in Girls Camp that had a balcony. All the other dorm rooms were repurposed cowboy bunk houses of the working ranch. Their low-slung roofs, adobe walls, and wooden slats for doors appeared rustic at best.

She silently thanked her dad for selecting Elliott House. She was glad to be on the second floor, safely away from the rattlesnakes that plagued both her home in California and here in the Arizona desert.

Connor opened the front door to Elliott House and threw one bag over his shoulder. He grabbed the handles of the other two and climbed the stairs two at a time. An impressive act. Colleen noticed.

The door to her room was open. He entered the bright space and dropped her bags next to the closet.

She followed behind him. The room smelled of fresh paint. Connor cranked open a window and pulled the repaired cord of the ceiling fan. Two wooden bed frames held twin, sagging mattresses. Two simple desks squared with identical wooden chairs. Two wooden bookshelves held two black lamps. Two four-drawer dressers. White cinder block walls. Duplicates of everything simplified her choices.

She looked around the room and breathed. The room was rough, but it’d be her space, free from parental judgment. She could be who she wanted to be here.

Her roommate hadn’t arrived yet.

“First rule of dorm life: stake your claim on the good mattress now,” Connor said. “Also, move the room around in a way you like it before your roomie gets here. Don’t wait and be nice.”

Weird advice, Colleen thought. Shouldn’t I wait? At least Connor’s Irish accent sounded sexy.

Connor stopped at the door. Her name was written on a card slotted into the brass holder, Colleen Collins.

“Collins,” he said. “That’s Irish. Huh. I wonder if we’re cousins?”

He skipped down the stairs before she could answer.

Colleen took Connor’s advice and screeched the beds across the linoleum to position under the windows. A spider scurried up the wall. Rather than scream and expect her dad to help, she trapped the spider in a plastic cup, slid a piece of paper between the spider and the cinder block, and released it from the balcony. She returned to her room.

The closet held sixteen hangers. She claimed eight. Now, I need tunes, she thought. She had packed so quickly when her dad finally gave her the go-ahead, she couldn’t remember what was where. She opened all three bags, found her radio, plugged it in and immediately heard Joan Jett belting out, “Leather and Lace.” That’s better.

She easily filled the eight hangers. With her remaining clothes, she neatly folded them and placed them on the liners she put in the bottom of the drawers. In the bathroom that she would share with the two gals next door, she claimed a spot for her toothbrush, makeup remover, mascara, and deodorant. She placed her shampoo and conditioner in the shower, which was old with broken tiles and a bent drain lid, but at least it was clean.

Back in her room, she smoothed the shimmering white 1000-thread Egyptian cotton sheets on the sagging mattress. Really, mom?, thought Colleen. The extravagance felt wildly out of place on a desert ranch. She hung her favorite picture of the hiking trail behind her house north of San Diego. Hopefully there’d be some good hiking here in the desert, too.

She haphazardly stacked the pieces of her luggage in the closet, spilling over into the other half of her roommate’s space. She’d have to deal with that later.

Once unpacked, she returned to the balcony where she’d released the spider. A hammock hung in the corner. She approached it, wondering what the elegant way would be to get into it. She turned her back to the hammock, held one of its edges, and gently placed her bottom into the drape while simultaneously twisting and lifting her legs parallel to the hammock. She failed. It flipped her in two seconds, plopping her on the dirty balcony floor.

“Dammit,” she said, hoping no one witnessed her lack of grace. Her mother would have been appalled.

She wiped off the dirt and tried again. This time with success. In the distance beyond the cottonwood trees, she could barely see the other students continuing to arrive. She wondered where Connor had gone.

“I see you found my hammock,” said a voice at the slider to the balcony.

Colleen turned to find a short, fair-skinned student with straight black hair cut in a bob. She looked about the same age as Colleen, seventeen, wearing white athletic shorts and a red Hello Kitty t-shirt. “I’m Ayumi, your roommate. Welcome newbie. Want to help me get my stuff out of storage from the summer? Or are you going to hog the balcony all afternoon?”

Next: we’re back in Venice, where Marcus and Leenie are boarding a vaporetto into the city.

Author Notes:

I called The Orme School home for three years during high school. Up Elliott One was my room during my senior year. While Colleen meets only one spider in Kindling, we had to deal with a bevy of critters almost everyday, including javelinas and coyotes! I loved the school.

The first eight chapters of Kindling are free to everyone. Starting with Chapter 9, you must be a paid subscriber. Upgrade today.

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P.S. Chapter 8 will release on Thursday. Starting with Chapter 9 on Tuesday, you must be a paid subscriber to continue reading Kindling. The fun is just starting. The relay launches soon; and you’ve got 4 more characters to meet. Upgrade now.

A few weeks ago, Kelly, the star in my new novel, Kindling, left her Kindle behind in Bucharest. A bevy of characters have entered the story—Scott, Colleen, Connor, Leenie, and Marcus—to help relay the Kindle back to her. Soon, you’ll meet Grazia, Dave, Ari, AJ, and George as the story travels through favorite spots in Europe.

The story clips along every Tuesday and Thursday. If you need to catch up, here are the first six chapters.

Chapter 1: Scott and Kelly

Chapter 2: Marcus and Leenie

Chapter 3: Scott and Kelly

Chapter 4: Colleen and Connor

Chapter 5: Marcus and Leenie

Chapter 6: Scott and Kelly

Chapters 7 and 8 come out this Tuesday and Thursday.

Take a moment this Sunday and catch up with a writer, a historian, a wine lover, a limerist, a Cuban, a Harley aficionado, a Beatles fan, an LGTBQI activist, an archivist, and genealogist, and an Irishman.

Not Getting the Emails?

If you have somehow not received the chapters, please do the following:

1. Check your spam.

2. Check your Promotions and Socials tabs.

3. Check your settings.

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   2. Click on Settings

   3. Click on Notifications

   4. Click on Newsletter delivery

   5. Make sure Email is set.

Thanks everyone. I truly value each and every one of you.

Chris

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The first eight chapters of Kindling will release to all subscribers on Tuesdays and Thursdays each week. Starting with Chapter 9, only paid subscribers can see past the preview.

Subscribe now

Chapter 6: Scott and Kelly

Bucharest, Romania — August 2025, The Day Before

Kelly turned her attention back to Scott. He’d asked a fair question. “I loved how we rode bikes everywhere in Riga,” Kelly said. And then we shot up to Finland for the day. What a great city.”

From Riga, they’d gone to Spain to hike and bike the Camino, followed by a week in Paris, and eventually made their way to Romania.

“You know honey,” Kelly said, averting her gaze, then her eyes crinkled as she smiled at him. “What if we did next year differently?”

She felt a shift in their Nomad Life approaching, but didn’t know what a change in lifestyle would be. She was starting to tire of the constant travel. Although India and Africa still loomed, she could feel the pull to return to some favorite places.

Kelly checked her watch. The afternoon was passing quickly.

“Let’s talk about our plans later. I want to squeeze in the Museum of the Romanian Peasant,” Kelly said.

While hiking, Kelly had seen women in the villages wearing the traditional blouses called ia, their geometric patterns hand-stitched with the specific stories of each family’s lineage. Her grandmother had been a professional seamstress her whole working life. Kelly wanted to honor her grandmother’s memory with a visit.

At the museum, exhaustion set in. She managed to send a few pictures of the famous tops to her sister, who appreciated the ode to their grandmother. Although the gift shop tempted Kelly, she passed. There was never room in her bag for anything that wasn’t multi-functional and lightweight.

When they arrived at their hotel near the Greek Embassy, Kelly asked for a late checkout. Why get up early?

While Scott took the first hot shower, Kelly started on the recombobulation of their stuff. They organized their gear to maximize weight distribution, moving hiking clothes into backpacks and computers into carry-ons which they paid to portage to the next hotel while on the trail. She pulled everything out of their bags and strewed it all around the room across the bedside tables, the bureau, and the floor.

With showers taken, they settled into the comfy queen-sized bed; a nice duvet cover and a top sheet, a rarity in Europe, would be good to snuggle. They’d have time to repack in the morning.

“Are you too tired to meditate?” Kelly asked about Scott’s nightly routine.

“No.” He’d started the habit a few years prior after a month with fellow nomads in Buenos Aires. The guys would gather every morning on the rooftop of one of their apartments. One of them led a group yoga practice followed by twenty-minutes of self-reflection. They’d kept up the practice and their friendships despite being spread around the world. “Which book are you reading tonight?”

“I think I’m going to add some notes about Romania. I want to send some thoughts to the trail managers and annotate for my blog.”

Scott finished his nightly meditation. “Good night, Kel. Easy morning, right? No alarms in the morning. Time to sleep in, pack. Have a cuppa tea?”

“Yup. There’s a continental breakfast downstairs.” She kissed him. “Happy nomadaversary, babe.”

Scott smiled, then rolled over to sleep.

Before shutting her eyes for the night, Kelly tried, once again, to sync her Kindle. Her favorite possession still wasn’t working correctly. She’d been fiddling with the settings and had hoped that some good wifi in the hotel would be effective. She could download books but she couldn’t upload anything. It’d been months since she’d been able to backup her notes and screenshots.

She placed her Kindle on the nightstand and turned out the light.

Next: The story returns to the rustic past of the Arizona desert. Colleen is about to settle further into school life, unaware that a fast-moving friendship is about to shift her entire world.

Author Notes:

While we were in Bucharest, we had the chance to squeeze in a meal with some other nomads passing through. They’d found us on our youtube channel and reached out. We love to meet other full-time travelers.

The first eight chapters of Kindling are free to everyone. Starting with Chapter 9, you must be a paid subscriber. Upgrade today.

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10 Pieces of Advice for Full-time Travelers

1. Start with English. (or your first language.) Accidentally, when we left Denver we ended up in Dublin on our first stop. Little did we know at the time that launching nomad life is very differnt than a vacation. Despite being very well-traveled, having our first months of Nomad Life being in an English-speaking (our first language) country made things much more simple. Starting your Nomad Life in a country of your first language is now a major recommendation for new full-time travelers. Question: Where should I go?

2. You’ll Downsize More. When Steve and I left Denver in 2021, we had our carry-ons we’d used for our sales jobs and two backpacks. Mine was a 25L and Steve’s was a 30L. We thought we had practically nothing with us. Afterall, the day before, we owned a 3500 square foot house and triple car garage. Five years later, we’re in smaller carry-ons and smaller backpack. Yet now, we feel like we have way too much. Question: What should I pack?

3. Nomad Tax Is Real. You know those times when you end up paying for something and you say to yourself, “if I would have known.” Those are moments of nomad tax. Examples include learning about cheaper bus passes, asking for cash discounts, taking the local bus instead of the Airport Express. You’ll pay lots of “nomad tax.” As you get more experienced with travel, you’ll get better at this. Question: Hidden costs?

   

4. Grief Is Coming. In last week’s article, we mentioned the life cycle of nomad life. One part of that cycle is grief. At some point, you will have grief hit you. This grief is usually couched in the feelings of loss around your job (retirement anyone?), your house, your things, your routine, your identity. Afterall, you’re no longer “Chris the salesperson, mother, Central Park resident.” You’re a nomad who travels full-time. Different. Question: Do you have regrets?

5. Pace Will Change. Back when we launched, we told everyone we would travel a month at a time, hitting 24 different places in 24 months. That never happened. We’ve yet to maintain one pace. Sometimes we’re fast, sometimes we’re slow. You’ll experiment. Do your best to allow the pace you need to arrive on its own. Question: How fast should I go?

6. Boredom Is Real. If you’re been working and now you’re suddenly not, who will you fill your time? In Nomad Life, planning take a lot of time. More than you think. But at some point, you get used to it and become efficient. You also can’t/don’t/won’t go sightseeing everyday. So what do you do with your time? We write and create Nomad Life content for youtube/Substack/Facebook because we enjoy it—not because we need to make money. Question: What will I do?

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7. 10000 Step Days Are Real. Even if you’ve got a giant budget where you spend $100 a day on Uber, you’re still going to walk more than you have probably ever walked before. We can’t stress this enough. If you are not walking at least 5000 steps a day now, start. Get in shape for 10000 so your Nomad Life is more enjoyable. Question: Do you walk a lot?

8. Don’t Eat the Gelato. When we’re on vacation, we eat more. We enjoy the gelato. We get the extra glass of wine. But Nomad Life isn’t vacation. Sure, splurge on the things you’ve never tried before, but trust me, gelato is everywhere. Question: How do you not gain weight?

9. You’ll Become Irrelevant. I’m not sure how to say this without offending anyone. But the truth is, no one at home cares about where you are or what you’re doing. They’ll ask the obligatory “what’s your favorite place?” but beyond that, you’re irrelevant. They only way to share your travel stories is to incorporate them into something your friends/family say. Otherwise, no one cares about your gondola ride in Venice or your Patagonia hike. But you know who does care? Other nomads: connect with them. It’ll make you feel normal. Question: What about family?

10. It’s a Marathon, Not a Sprint. We’ve said over and over that Nomad Life is not a vacation. It’s a lifestyle; thus, you’ve got the remainder of your traveling life to see the world. As our friend Cris at A Smile in a Suitcase, who moves around the world 2-3 months at a time, what’s your hurry? Question: When will you end?

Previously, we go back to 1982 and the Arizona boarding school where a red-haired Irish boy picked up a girl’s bags and asked if they might be cousins. Read Chapter 4.

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Chapter 5: Marcus and Leenie

Fresno Airport Fairfield Inn — July 2025

Leenie had spent three years researching full-time travel before they retired in Fresno. One trick she took to heart: ease your departure day by staying at the airport hotel the night before an early flight. Eliminate the morning chaos and give yourself a fighting chance at sleep, assured the tip.

At the hotel, Marcus composed the limerick that would launch their journey. He had been teasing it for three days. He read the limerick aloud with appropriate ceremony:

“Just two travelers on their way

To adventure on each and every day

We have no possessions

Nor religious concessions

Taking in the day, come what may.”

Leenie rolled her eyes. Sounds like John Lennon, she thought. She hoped all the red varietals they’d uncover hidden in the world’s wineries would help her treasure Marcus’s poetry better. His obsession with limericks had peppered her life every day they’d been together, even showing up as part of their wedding vows. She wondered if their upcoming stop in Limerick, Ireland, would solidify his dream of becoming a professional limerick’ist or kill it for good.

“I posted in the Nomad Life Facebook group that we launched,” Leenie said. She was elated she’d stumbled upon the Nomad Life Facebook group while researching cities to visit. This diverse group made them both feel welcome. Every week, other full-time travelers posted where they’d be in the world. When folks overlapped they reached out to each other and grabbed dinner, a walk, a concert, or whatever else might be going on in their shared geography. The nomads posted pictures from Danang, Vietnam to Chesapeake Bay, Maryland, and gushed how their meetups carried on for hours.

Leenie believed the group would be a way to meet other travelers and also squelch Marcus’s fear of loneliness and isolation.

Marcus asked “Did you say we’d be tasting reds in Italy? Or that I’m going to win the Limerick competition in Ireland?”

“Venice. It’s too soon to post about Ireland. That’s weeks from now.” Leenie couldn’t wait to check out a boutique winery at the bottom of Stelvio Nature Park near Tyrol, Italy. She’d read about it in Wine Enthusiast.

After a night of perfect sleep avoiding the jittery what-ifs at the Fresno Airport Fairfield Inn (where Leenie tried out her new-found skill of using hotel points for free stays), Marcus pulled their hotel door closed. For the first time in what seemed like forever, no one had to make a bed or scrub a toilet. This was a benefit of Nomad Life that Leenie knew she’d enjoy.

A domestic flight to Newark seemed reasonable. With their extra-large body sizes, she feared the coach seats would be too wrenching. On the flight to Newark, they tested their packing system. Marcus wedged their carry-ons in the overhead, while Leenie shoved the backpacks under their seats. Everything fit perfectly. On their first-ever red-eye to Venice from Newark, she picked the window seat so she could sleep with her head against the window, and Marcus took the aisle to stretch out. Miraculously, the middle seat remained empty. She thanked the travel gods.

When they landed in Venice, Marcus unfolded his cramped legs. Leenie tried to unkink her neck.

“Honey, we need a new strategy if we do any more long flights. I feel like a snail in a too small shell,” Marcus said. “Toss me the aspirin, baby.”

“Me too,” Leenie said, reaching around to rub her back.

They cleared immigration with their carry-ons. Before stepping out into the Italian sunshine, Leenie visited the airport ATM to withdraw some Euros. They bought a couple bottles of water. It’d be good to have some small change in case they couldn’t tap their phones to pay on the bus.

Leenie had researched how to make sure her phone would work when they landed in Europe, and it’d paid off. Google quickly displayed the info they needed to locate the local bus station for a short ride to their hotel.

A sleek public bus pulled up a few minutes late. They tapped their phone to pay and sat down for their ten-minute ride. At the hotel, the host looked surprised. “Signora, why are you checking in too late? You were supposed to be here last night?”

Leenie had learned this trick in the Facebook group, too. If you’re arriving after a red-eye, you often can’t check into a hotel until the afternoon. Rather than dragging luggage around like zombies, make a reservation for the night before your arrival, suggested the tip. She was happy she’d mastered this trick; they needed a good nap.

When Marcus opened the door, Leenie crumbled from laughter. “How is that a King-sized bed? It’s a twin.”

From the doorway, they fell into the bed, Marcus’s feet dangling off the end of the mattress and Leenie smashed up against the wall, like two cannolis squeezed into a take-out box. Their laughter echoed down the hallway. Their bags squeezed between the door and the bed, leaving no room to stand if they wanted. Nor was there space for nightstands or a desk. Leenie continued to laugh, vibrating Marcus on the mattress. He giggled.

“I can’t use my CPAP breathing machine tonight, it won’t fit anywhere,” Leenie gasped, catching her breath.

“That’s okay,” Marcus joked. “We’re so close I’ll just put my hand over your mouth.”

Next: This story returns to the day before the bus ride, when Kelly tries one more time to sync her Kindle.

Author Notes:

We’ve learned that bed sizing around the world is very different than what we’re familiar with in the USA. Fulls are twins, Kings are Queens. This bed in Greece had us laughing so hard; we ended up getting a second room. One for me, one for Steve so we could get a good night’s sleep. Have you struggled with getting the bed size you need?

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