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Guatemala December 2005: Xela and Tajumulco

This is the second post about my December 2005 trip to Guatemala.

Earliest rays of sun at the top of Tajumulco Volcano

I decided to head to Quetzaltenango—Xela for short—early instead of staying in Pana another day. It is always tricky, the first day or so: with only limited time to see a country, do I stay in one place that is nice or head to another place that might be nicer? I thought to move on.

The tourist shuttle bus would cost $20. That seemed crazy to me, since I had spent just over $2 to come on the “chicken bus” from Guatemala City. The chicken bus to Xela would cost exactly $2, and the shuttle lady’s best argument was that it would save me maybe half an hour. If this was supposed to scare me into parting with my money, it didn’t work. I took the chicken bus.

Right on time, the 8 a.m. direct chicken bus pulled up and I got on. It wasn’t even as cramped as the bus the day before. There were stunning vistas of dry, dusty villages, corn fields, and deep valleys. A little before arriving I realized I did not know where in Xela I would be deposited, and then I looked at the guidebook and discovered Xela is Guatemala’s second-largest city—and the bus station is nowhere near the center of town. Oops.

The stunning Xela Cathedral

I hopped off at one of the most chaotic bus terminals I have ever seen. There were food stalls, handicrafts, and a smoking trash pile. A taxi driver told me it would cost 30 quetzals to the center. That was highway robbery to me, twice as much as my two-and-a-half-hour ride had just cost. I pushed on through a maze of shops and a huge market and finally found microbuses—busitos—that would take me to the center for one quetzal. I patted myself on the back for not giving in.

I found my way to a small hostel, deposited my bags, and set out to explore Xela. That took about ten minutes. Okay, maybe twenty. The main thing to see is Parque Centroamérica in the center, a small green expanse about the size of a soccer field, surrounded by neoclassical buildings. I sat on a bench in the sun and wrote in my journal. No one bothered me. One guy headed straight for me and sat next to me even with open bench space all around, but after a few minutes of me staring at my journal, he just got up and left. So different from my experience in Spain a few years before when such a guy would surely have tried to sit closer and grope me a bit before leaving.

Back when planning my trip to Guatemala, I discovered that within Guatemala’s borders lies Central America’s highest peak. Having recently returned from my less-than-successful (though fun) attempt at Mount Kinabalu, Southeast Asia’s highest peak, I thought I should give this one a try. I found Quetzaltrekkers, a non-profit run entirely by volunteers, with climber fees going to La Escuela de la Calle (the School of the Street), a school for poor children in Guatemala. Even better, they offered two-day trips up and down Volcán Tajumulco.

Intricate door knocker in Xela

Before the trek, I headed over to Quetzaltrekkers to confirm my registration. On the way there, an old wrinkled Maya woman about four feet tall beckoned me to a doorway. She wanted help getting down a step, which was probably a foot tall. I understood she wanted help, but when I went over and stood next to her, she grabbed onto me. She just used me to balance herself—and then she would not let go.

She gabbed away at me in Spanish, her little face shining with kindness. She asked where I wanted to go, and I told her Quetzaltrekkers; she told me she knew the way. It was hard for me to slow down to the pace of an old four-foot-tall woman, but she just smiled at me, clutched my arm, and prattled on. When we met people along the way, she would say look at me, and point to me, her friends laughing when they saw her on the arm of a tall blonde foreigner. She took me right to the door of Quetzaltrekkers, then held me by both hands, wished me a wonderful New Year, and pulled me down for a good hug. She was one of the best parts of Xela.

On Wednesday evening I met at the Quetzaltrekkers office in Xela to learn the basics. Tajumulco is 4,220 meters—13,845 feet. We would start our climb at 3,000 meters, where you can already begin to feel altitude sickness, and carry all of our gear up to 4,000 meters where we would camp for the night. There is no accommodation on the mountain.

I met our volunteer guides, Paul from Ireland and Irina from Bulgaria, plus an impressively international group: two Americans (yours truly included), a Canadian, a Japanese man, a couple from the Czech Republic, a couple from Germany, two Israeli soldiers, and an Irish woman.

Then came gear assignments. Everyone had a plate, spoon, and cup. I carried the spice kit—salt, pepper, cinnamon, Tabasco sauce, coffee, tea, sugar, and cream—and, famously, a bag of pasta that must have weighed a few pounds. We were told to buy at least 4.5 liters of water per person; I ended up with five liters. Since one liter weighs one kilogram, that was eleven pounds of water alone. Add the pasta and my other stuff and I was carrying about twenty to twenty-five pounds. That doesn’t sound like much until you realize you’ll be hauling it uphill for hours at 3,000–4,000 meters.

I am all smiles at the start of our trek

We met at 4:45 a.m., crammed into a small truck to Terminal Minerva, and took chicken buses toward San Marcos. I slept most of the way, waking once to find us lurching across a bit of road that appeared to be half missing—probably washed away in a mudslide—gazing out at the unguarded edge of a drop-off. I went back to sleep. Sometimes it is just better not to know.

Another bus later we were dropped on the side of the road near where we would begin our hike. A young family living in the house next to where we disembarked stared at us with wide curious eyes. This was the beginning of what I have come to call “Gringos are Funny.” We just do funny things like ride chicken buses for fun and climb volcanoes with large backpacks.

With our packs on, we crossed the street and climbed a steep embankment. Ten minutes later we reached a clearing overlooking corn fields, with a view of our destination—the summit of Volcán Tajumulco—ahead of us. It seemed an awfully long way away, and I was already tired and needed to pee. The sun was out and the temperature rose to maybe 75 degrees. Most people were converting their pants into shorts and stripping down to t-shirts. Not me. I would be trekking in a mid-weight long-sleeve shirt and nylon running pants. While everyone else looked like they were going trekking, I looked like I was heading to a track meet. Great.

I headed to some bushes with toilet paper and a little dog trailing behind me. The night before I had bought a package of three Pengüitos—like Hostess cupcakes—for a treat along the way, and the dog could smell them a mile away. It isn’t very easy to heed the call of nature in the open while defending your chocolate cupcakes from a hungry mutt, but there was no way that dog was going to get my reward snack.

After a quick round of introductions and the talk about the “shit kit” (toilet paper plus a small garden hoe), we set off. For the first stretch we followed a dusty track the locals drive as far as they can before walking. Within minutes my fairly new white Nikes were coated with dark dust. We passed a chicken bus parked with a tremendous view of the valley below and then what I called the road rally: locals’ trucks parked where they finally accepted they couldn’t drive any higher. In the distance we could hear firecrackers, and small plumes of black smoke rose from the summit.

Then the trail got steep and uneven and the rest of the group began to pull ahead. Oh darn it. I didn’t want to be the last one, but I didn’t want to race up the mountain either and kill myself. Every time I rounded a bend and saw the group resting, they would see me and get up and go again, so I felt like I could not rest. We’d barely been going an hour and I began to think I wasn’t going to make it. Those “whose stupid idea was this?” thoughts were running through my mind.

A chicken bus near the start of our trek

Paul stayed back with me and finally I handed over a water bottle. My pack felt immensely lighter. When I reached a grassy knoll where the others were resting—and did not get up when I approached—I felt quite good. So good that I treated myself to one of the chocolate cupcakes. I joked that they would have to wait for me; after all, I was carrying the pasta.

After that I hit my stride. Whole families of Guatemalans and Mexicans climbed down past us: children walking, babies strapped to mothers, old women, men smoking or talking on their cell phones. The women and girls wore traditional Mayan clothes and plastic shoes, some with heels, and few carried anything that looked like gear. They looked at us and our packs and laughed. Gringos are funny.

After about three hours we reached the lunch spot and had a little feast. Then the food coma hit, along with a deep dislike of putting our backpacks back on. We pushed on anyway, and about forty minutes later reached our campsite. What elation! I practically skipped.

We set up tents—or rather, I watched while others set up tents. I still have yet to put up a tent in my life. To redeem myself I went off in search of firewood, dragged back two giant logs, and then learned they were too green to use. Oh well. I still carried the pasta.

I made it to the top of Tajumulco

Most of us climbed the lower of the two peaks to watch the sunset. From the top the sight was incredible: other volcano peaks broke through fluffy cloud cover, and one cloud in tornado shape whirled up from the crater below. As the sun set, clouds poured in from all around us obscuring the view, but we knew we had already been incredibly fortunate.

Back at camp the pasta was finally freed from my backpack and prepared. We ate pasta with red sauce and cheese, bread, and soup, and toasted marshmallows after dinner. By 8 o’clock I was ready for bed. We would wake at 4:30 a.m. to climb the highest part for sunrise. I figured that gave me eight and a half hours of sleep. Great.

But I didn’t sleep. Even layered up, I froze. My hips felt as if ice lay on top of them and my feet never got warm. I lay curled up in my sleeping bag, crushed in a tent with six people, listening to the shouts and firecrackers from the Guatemalans camped nearby, and waiting for morning.

At last Paul woke us. For the final ascent we left the big packs and carried warm clothes and headlamps. We passed camps where Guatemalans had stayed warm with roaring fires, and I felt very envious. Then the climb became steep, my stomach churned, and my breathing got labored. In the dark, large families passed us on narrow switchbacks, and I was amazed to see older women in skirts and plastic shoes climbing by with no light at all.

How glad I was to reach the top—though it was short-lived. I was only glad because I wasn’t nauseous anymore. Unfortunately, it was very, very cold. Firecrackers boomed overhead. At one point someone set off a rocket that went sideways instead of up and there were yells of “look out” as I ducked. My patience, like the air, was thin. I willed the sun to rise quickly.

At long last the sun peeked up over the horizon. Volcanoes around Antigua and Xela poked up through a thick white blanket of clouds, and there was even a puff of smoke above the active Fuego volcano. I took my requisite picture to prove I was there and then hopped around trying to warm up.

We climbed down a different way, around the crater. It was beautiful, but my prevailing thought was the likelihood that I was going to die by slipping on loose gravel and falling into the crater or over the edge. I moved like a person in a horror film: one in front of the other. In the end Paul had to hold my hand as I tremblingly inched down the gravel. The worst part wasn’t even near any crater or drop-off. I’m just scared of loose gravel. Thankfully only Paul and one of the Czech guys saw my fear; the others had nimbly, like mountain goats, leaped happily down the trail.

Another incredible view from atop Tajumulco

Back at camp we ate oatmeal with cinnamon, packed up, and—much to my delight—one of the Germans took the remaining pasta. On the way down we all picked up garbage the Guatemalans had thrown all over the trail (much to their delight—Gringos are funny).

The trip down felt like a blur: the long trek back, buses to San Marcos and Xela, and finally the walk from Terminal Minerva to the Quetzaltrekkers office. Somehow, we managed. I was exhausted. I took a room at Casa Argentina, where the Quetzaltrekkers office is located, rather than try to find another place. I had grand visions of a long, steamy shower, but had to make do with a lukewarm trickle. I could barely stay awake for dinner and crawled into bed around 9 p.m. I slept well, having finally reached my first highest peak.

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Guatemala December 2005: Arrival and Lake Atitlan

Sunset at Lake Atitlan

Back in the day, I used to do a fair amount of backpacking. I’d take off for a week or a month, head to another country, and make my way around by whatever inexpensive means I could manage. Along the way, I wrote travelogues of my adventures and sent them to friends and family.

I miss those days.

Every so often, I dig up one of those old travelogues, dust it off, and share it here on my blog. In December 2005, I spent two weeks traveling through Guatemala. Unfortunately, I only ever wrote up the first part of the trip—but here it is. Part one of two.

I arrived in Guatemala City blurry-eyed and stiff just before 6 a.m. Guate time. But by the time I stepped through immigration, I was ready to face the day. Then the most amazing thing happened: I walked through the sliding doors past Customs (though there was no Customs to speak of) and out onto the street, and not a single person accosted me.

The bus garage in Guatemala City

I had prepared to stand firm through the throngs of taxi drivers and tour-mongers who would attack me the second I emerged into the Guatemalan air. But there was no one. For a second this took me aback and I didn’t know what to do next. I bought a water with my newly exchanged quetzals so that I would have small change. Again, this was done without a hitch. I was getting suspicious.

Across the street I found a small taxi counter with a signboard. One guy asked me if I wanted a taxi and I said no and he went away. Another approached and tortured me with Spanish for a while; when he was satisfied I had very little clue what he was talking about, he used a few words of perfect English to ask me where I wanted to go. He quoted me the same amount on the signboard—eleven U.S. dollars to the bus station. It seemed a bit much, but I shrugged and said okay, sí.

Perhaps ten minutes later he stopped in front of a closed building with a garage. There wasn’t a sign of life except for an old man sitting on a step. Here, the driver told me, is where the buses to Panajachel depart. I felt a little concerned about getting out on a near-deserted street in Guatemala City at 6:20 in the morning. The old man conveyed the news that I had just missed the 6 a.m. bus but another would depart at 7, in forty minutes. Luckily, just as the taxi began to drive away, the bus station attendants arrived and opened up the garage, revealing a small and dirty courtyard where three buses were parked. I sat down on a bench—which was really just a bus seat—and prepared to wait.

At 7 a.m. nothing happened. By 7:15, by some magic, everyone suddenly got onto the bus. There were eleven other people on board, and I was easily the tallest person by at least half a foot. This made me quite happy for some reason and I mentally clapped myself on the back.

A Guatemalan market slash bus station

And then we drove about ten minutes to the same road where the bus signposts and lines of waiting people stood. And there we sat until 8 a.m. Grrr. Probably if the driver had just left me here in the first place I would have made that 6 a.m. bus that probably really left at 6:15 and sat here while I sat on a green bus chair in a courtyard for forty minutes.

At 8 the bus took off, drove maybe two minutes down the road, and stopped to pick up more people. Three people squeezed into the space where really only two could fit comfortably. I was now mashed up against the side of the bus, my shoulders crunched together, my legs piled on top of one another atop my smaller backpack. They would not move for the entire trip to Panajachel—a good two and a half hours away. I downgraded the measure of my success thus far.

To add to my depression, the “one-armed” man boarded the bus to plead for donations. We were captive, all mashed into the bus like sardines. At first I noticed he did indeed have an arm he was hiding under his shirt and wondered if he really thought we would buy the one-arm story. Then he pulled his sweatshirt up to reveal his thin limp arm, with what appeared to be a bullet hole, severe bruising, and blood near his shoulder. I heard the word accidente but didn’t know what to make of it. It was grotesque but fascinating. The other passengers pulled out change to give him. I toyed with the thought of giving him five quetzals, my smallest bill, but I did not yet know what it could buy—and before I could make up my mind, the bus slowed and he got off.

A street in Panajachel

Thankfully, out the window I spied the near-perfect cone of a volcano in the distance and was cheered. The sun was out, it was going to be a beautiful day, and I fell asleep.

About two and a half hours on windy mountain roads we approached Panajachel—Pana for short—on the banks of Lake Atitlán. From high on the road into town, the lake shimmered for miles and blue volcanoes rose in a ring around it. I tried to take a few photos from the bus, which involved unpinning my arms from their crushed position and then trying to steady my hand as much as possible. How much I missed my lame first-class seat on the second flight—the cushions, the pillow, the ability to move. The attempt resulted in blurry photos of shrubbery overlaid with the reflection of my hands and the camera in the window. I gave up with trying to record the moments for posterity.

It took another thirty minutes to make it down the mountain road to lakeside Pana. I hobbled down the road on near-useless legs, apparently having already grown unaccustomed to actually providing locomotion. I had a few missions to attend to before I could explore: (1) find out my location; (2) find accommodation and put down my bag; (3) pee; (4) eat. Within fifteen minutes I had found my way along one of the dusty main roads and found myself a little room. Then I headed to lunch.

Almost as soon as I sat myself at a little table, I became the target of aggressive sales tactics by cute little Maya girls dressed in traditional finery. The first was about eight or nine, with her wares—pretty dyed scarves—perched on her head. She crouched beside my table and began her pitch in Spanish. Isn’t it lovely, she said. Very good price. I don’t want any, I said. Very good present for your mother. My mother wouldn’t like that, I said. Then perfect for your sister? Nope, she wouldn’t like it either. Then good for your friend. Sadly, I said, I do not have any friends.

Panajachel’s top scarf seller

She was not deterred. She tried other color combinations and asked me my name, where I was from, how long I had been in Guatemala. The first scarf she showed me was rather nice. She was so cute. My resolve began to disappear. I asked if I might take her photo. She told me the scarf and one photo would cost me fifteen quetzals. I gave in.

Unfortunately for me, her friends saw the transaction and immediately descended. One sold scarves, another bracelets; then came a man with carved wooden knives, a boy with embroidered “Guatemala” pens, and more of the same. Waiting for my food, I was a sitting duck. It was, after all, my first day in Guatemala; I had not perfected my mean grouchy replies or stony-silence tactic to such merchants. I focused very deeply on my nachos and guacamole while repeating, “No lo necesito. No lo necesito,” until they drifted away.

I finished lunch feeling overwhelmed.

Now that my immediate needs had been met—and I was the owner of a new scarf—I headed down to the lakeside. People lounged along a stone wall overlooking the water. A lanchara (who knows if they are called this or I just made it up—basically a boatman) tried to get fares to other towns around the lake. Having just eaten, I didn’t really feel up to bouncing across the lake on a motorized vessel, so I sat for a bit. According to the guidebook I could walk to Santa Catarina in about one hour. After so much sitting, a walk sounded perfect. It being one in the afternoon, I figured I could walk a few hours and then come back by boat in time for sunset, an early dinner, and bed.

Five minutes in, I hit a huge problem: a dry riverbed about fifty feet across and no bridge in sight. What was more perplexing was that no river was in sight either—just rock and sand, men digging, dust flying. I returned to the stone wall and went down to the lakeside to cross along the water. Two small streams were jumpable; the third was a good five feet across. I had my good Nikes on and was not in a wading mood, so I followed the stream up and found a log laid across the surprisingly rapid water. Small detour, but now I was across.

Mayan women walk along the road along Lake Atitlan

On the other side families picnicked under trees and enterprising people sold grilled chicken, ice cream, and fruit. I bought fresh coconut and felt instantly better—except then the wonderful sunscreen/bug spray I had on my face began to drip into my eyes stinging them terribly. I stumbled about half blind with tears streaming from my eyes. I probably looked drunk. I mopped my forehead dry and onward I walked.

Soon the path grew narrow and I ignored a Private Property sign, prepared to play the idiot gringa. Then the path narrowed to barely wide enough to fight through the foliage and ended at a private beach. Heavy sigh. I retraced my steps and asked a couple for directions. They told me this was the old path, and now I had to walk along the main road—turning right just after the house with all the boats.

Approaching it from the other side, I wondered how I could possibly have missed it. The yard was literally littered with boats in varying stages of repair. I made my way up to the main highway, looked at my watch, and realized it was already 1:30 and I was basically where I started. So much for making it in an hour. I almost turned back, but now I felt committed, so I turned right toward Santa Catarina.

Not much to say of the walk. The road was dusty but paved and snaked around the hills. Occasionally it opened to incredible views—the sun shining high on the lake, volcanoes wrapped in cloud. The last ten minutes into Santa Catarina were all downhill. The town seemed simple: small houses and a large white (but unimpressive) church the guidebook kindly called gleaming. I took the path down to the lakeside and sat in a small restaurant along the shore with a Coke and some more chips and guacamole, enjoying that no one pressed me to buy. Apparently the boats there were only for private hire—a price I didn’t even inquire about, figuring it to be more than I wanted to spend.

On the shore of Lake Atitlan

It was nearing 3:30 and I figured even if I walked on to the next town and it really took only an hour, the boats were likely also only for private hire. Feeling restored, I decided to walk back to Panajachel. The walk did take an hour this time and I felt very pleased with myself. I arrived in time to take a quick shower (I looked dreadful) and then headed down to see the sunset. It was pretty but not spectacular. I had dinner, and then, exhausted, dragged myself off to sleep at 8 p.m.

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2026 Spring Break in NYC: Part Two

View of Lady Liberty from the museum roof viewing platform

This is the second and final installment of my daughter’s and my trip to NYC in March 2026.

We woke early on our third day in New York City, ready to take on a full day of sightseeing. Thankfully, the weather was on our side. The blackout curtains in our swanky, but tiny, hotel room slowly lifted with the push of a button to reveal bright sunshine. Though it was still a bit chilly, temperatures were warmer than the previous two days, which was key given that our itinerary included plenty of time outside and a lot of walking.

We once again set out to take on the New York subway, this time heading downtown to Battery Park and the terminal for Statue City Cruises, which would take us to Liberty Island and Ellis Island. The quickest route required a transfer, and I very confidently guided us onto the wrong train. Sigh. The New York subway system is very different from what we are used to in Washington, D.C. (it is significantly larger, with 472 stations, 36 lines, and 665 miles of track, compared to 98 stations, 6 lines, and 129 miles in D.C.). Still, we managed to right ourselves and arrived at the Battery Park ferry area right on time.

Just one of the extraordinary views of the Statue of Liberty

We had 9:30 a.m. tickets, the third ferry of the day. The line seemed long when we arrived, but it moved quickly, and before long we were on the small jetty preparing to board. Though the sun was out and the sky a deep blue, the waters of New York Harbor were a steely gray. The waves were active, and the ferry, sans passengers, rocked furiously. Thankfully, boarding moved quickly, and it was perhaps the added weight of some 500 passengers that made for a smoother ride to Liberty Island than I had anticipated.

We found standing-room-only space on the second level alongside the deck. Unfortunately, it was on the wrong side of the ferry, leaving us without a view of our approach to the Statue of Liberty, though we did have a stunning view of Manhattan. This was my fifth trip to New York City, though my first three visits had been brief—a senior year trip in high school, a day spent with a college friend visiting from Connecticut, and another quick trip that consisted of a long day of sightseeing after taking the train up from Washington, D.C. I had long wanted to visit the Statue of Liberty, and finally seeing it there in front of me made my heart flutter, if only just a bit.

Buildings on Ellis Island facing toward the Statue of Liberty

With the wind picking up, we first made our way through the gift shop to warm up a bit before heading along the path that offered a view of the statue’s front. This, however, was where the wind was at its strongest, and we could not stay long. We continued around and made our way to the pedestal, where we explored exhibits on the statue’s design, transport, and construction. During my visit to Colmar, France, in 2023, I had visited a museum in the childhood home of Frédéric-Auguste Bartholdi, the statue’s designer. Both C and I had also visited the Eiffel Tower, built by Gustave Eiffel, who created the statue’s iron framework. Standing there, it felt especially meaningful to finally be at the Statue of Liberty itself.

From the pedestal, we took in a few more views before heading along the promenade to the Statue of Liberty Museum. With the crowds in the museum and displays covering much of what we had already seen, we opted to move on to Ellis Island. The main immigration building, a beautiful Beaux-Arts structure completed in 1900, is an iconic sight, but much of its façade was covered in scaffolding for renovation during our visit, which I found disappointing. We had lunch, took in the Great Hall, and wandered through the exhibits. My favorite displays were the old travel advertisements promoting voyages to America, along with the interactive exhibits showing the number and origins of immigrants to the United States over the years. The advertisements have a certain romantic quality, though the journeys themselves were likely anything but for most travelers. Still, the promise of a new beginning may have made them feel that way. By this point, the crowds were starting to wear on us, so we made our way back to the ferry and returned to Battery Park.

The unique and beautiful Sea Glass Carousel

After returning to Manhattan, we focused on catching a few sights in the Financial District. We started with the SeaGlass Carousel in Battery Park. We added this to our itinerary after C came across several TikToks highlighting New York attractions. We used to be very into carousels and still have a great deal of affection for these simple, but fun, amusement rides. The SeaGlass Carousel is one of the most unique and beautiful carousels we have come across. It is a relatively new addition to the city, opening in 2015, and its theme pays homage to Battery Park as the site of New York’s original aquarium, which opened in 1896.

Unlike a traditional carousel, there is no center pole. Instead, the floor rotates while the illuminated fish glide and gently move up and down. Riders sit inside the fish rather than astride them, creating a much more relaxed and immersive experience. The entire ride feels almost dreamlike, particularly with the lighting, music, and movement all working together. At $6 for a surprisingly long seven-minute ride, this ended up being one of our favorite activities in New York City.

We then wound our way farther into the Financial District to track down some of the area’s well-known statues. We started with the Hello Kitty and Miffy statues just across the street from Battery Park before heading to one of the city’s most recognizable landmarks, the Charging Bull, the bronze sculpture symbolizing financial optimism and prosperity. We had the Sanrio statues entirely to ourselves, but the scene around the bull was quite different. It was nearly impossible to get a photo of or with the statue without also capturing lines of tourists waiting their turn or frustrated New Yorkers trying to weave their way through the crowds.

My delicious Liberty bagel with avocado and herb cream cheese

I managed only a few less-than-spectacular photos before we headed to our next stop: a well-earned snack at Liberty Bagels, located just a minute away. This was another New York spot C had discovered online and insisted we add to our itinerary. Though the company only opened in 2018, it has quickly become one of the city’s top-rated bagel shops, which is especially notable given that bagels are considered one of New York’s signature foods, alongside pizza and hot dogs. Liberty Bagels is known for its fresh, hand-rolled, kettle-cooked bagels made daily. Given the popularity of its Wall Street location, I had expected a far worse line than the one we encountered. We still had to wait a bit, but that gave us time to take in the scene, including the mounds of colorful cream cheese behind the counter that resembled gelato. We each ordered one of the shop’s signature bagels. I chose a Liberty bagel with half regular cream cheese and half avocado cream cheese, while C went with a rainbow bagel topped with strawberry cream cheese. Both were enormous and far too much for one person, so we each ate half, wrapped up the rest for later, and continued on with our sightseeing.

We made two final stops in the Financial District: first at the Fearless Girl statue and then at Trinity Church. While the Charging Bull may be the more famous landmark, I appreciated bringing C to see Fearless Girl more. From there, we walked down famous Wall Street before crossing over to the striking Neo-Gothic Trinity Church. Though the current structure was built in 1846, the church itself was established by royal charter in 1697 by William III of England. Given that he and his wife, Mary II of England, also established the College of William & Mary—my alma mater—in 1693, I have always had something of a soft spot for him. Though I would have liked to spend more time there, we had already spent hours sightseeing and simply did not have the energy for much more. We did, however, wander through the cemetery, where we found the grave of Alexander Hamilton. With that, we caught the subway back to our hotel for a bit of rest.

That evening, we made our way to the Lena Horne Theatre to see the musical Six, a high-energy pop musical centered on the six wives of Henry VIII, reimagined as modern pop divas competing over who had the most difficult experience being married to the infamous monarch. It was an amazing show filled with infectious songs and an incredible amount of energy. C already knew some of the music, but I had not heard a single song beforehand and still found myself practically singing along by the middle of each number. Since the trip, I have caught myself humming the songs and playing the soundtrack on repeat.

A Starduster, one of Ellen’s singing waitstaff, beautifully belts out a song

On our fourth and final day, we slept in. After several early mornings, it was nice not to have to rush anywhere and instead take things a bit slower while Broadway stretched out below our hotel window. We eventually headed to Ellen’s Stardust Diner for an early lunch. The diner, where aspiring Broadway performers serve meals while belting out songs, felt like a quintessential New York experience mixed with a themed restaurant. Though we arrived around 10:30 a.m. in hopes of beating the lunch rush, there was already a line stretching halfway down the block. Ellen’s is extremely popular with tourists and does not take reservations. Thankfully, we managed to get inside just before 11 and were able to order lunch. It really was a blast. One sing-along followed another, which honestly made it a bit difficult to focus on eating. We both loved it.

For our final major stop of the trip, we headed to Museum of Modern Art, with a brief stop at Rockefeller Plaza along the way. Long ago, when I visited my former college roommate in New York, we ended up at MoMA on a lark. What I remember most from that visit was not necessarily the art itself, but riding the escalators, goofing around, and trying to make sense of some of the more abstract pieces. I have never been a huge fan of modern art, though there are several works at MoMA that I absolutely love, including Salvador Dalí’s The Persistence of Memory, Andrew Wyeth’s Christina’s World, Vincent van Gogh’s The Starry Night, Gustav Klimt’s Hope II, and Edward Hopper’s Gas. On the other hand, I strongly dislike Joan Miró and Jackson Pollock and remain somewhat undecided on Pablo Picasso and Andy Warhol.

What is this? Seriously. C tries to puzzle out the meaning of this exhibit with a room all its own at MoMA.

Still, much like that earlier visit years ago, C and I probably had the most fun with the strangest pieces in the museum. I had not been entirely sure how much she would enjoy MoMA, but we ended up spending a good two hours there before finally calling it a day.

We had an extraordinary time in New York City and truly made the most of our four days there. From world-famous landmarks and museums to Broadway, bagels, subways, and even a few roller coasters, we managed to experience so many of the sights and activities that make the city so memorable. Most importantly, though, it was another great mother-daughter trip that I think both C and I will remember for a very long time.

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2026 Spring Break in NYC: Part One

A beautiful view of the gardens at the MET Cloisters

I cannot quite pinpoint when New York City became the plan for Spring Break this year. With everything that happened last year—and 2026 not exactly starting off on an easier note—I did not plan this trip as early as I normally would. For a while, I was not even sure we would go anywhere at all. The idea of staying home, though, was not all that appealing to either me or my now 14-year-old daughter C. I needed something to look forward to, something to plan. A return trip to New York City seemed to fit the bill. It may not have been the best bang for the buck—NYC is not cheap!—but it felt like the kind of place where we could fill a few days with the mix of things we both love, without needing to plan something overly complicated.

To keep this trip more affordable and less complicated, I opted for four days and chose to take the train. I had no interest in dealing with stressful driving in Manhattan or paying city-center parking costs. I have always enjoyed train travel; it feels far more relaxing than driving or flying. We had not taken a train trip since our journey from Chicago to Los Angeles, and I was more than ready for another.

Our itty-bitty, centrally-located high-rise room just off Times Square

We boarded Amtrak’s Northeast Regional at Union Station in Washington, D.C. The 3.5-hour journey was comfortable, and the time passed quickly. Before long, we were arriving at Moynihan Train Hall in central Manhattan. We gathered up our belongings and made our way along the crowded city streets. Weaving through the steady flow of people as we walked the 20 minutes to our boutique hotel just around the corner from Times Square. I wanted us to be in the center of the action. On our last trip, C had been ready to turn around immediately after we witnessed a bloody assault within minutes of our arrival. This time, as a teenager, she declared she was much more prepared to take on the city.

Soon after getting our things into our hotel room, we were off. We headed down to the subway just off Times Square, catching a glimpse of the No Kings protest as it was making its way down Broadway. We then took the subway north to Upper Manhattan to visit The Cloisters. Part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art system, The Cloisters sits in Fort Tryon Park and is dedicated solely to the art and architecture of medieval Europe—the only museum of its kind in the United States. Opened in 1938, the building itself is as much a part of the experience as the collection, constructed using architectural elements brought over from five French monasteries, including windows, doorways, and columns. Until a few years ago, when I read the thriller The Cloisters by Katy Hays, I had no idea this museum even existed. Since then, a visit to the Cloisters has been on my must-do list for New York City.

Beautiful sights from the MET Cloisters, including my favorite piece, an ivory knight chess piece

I really enjoyed our visit to The Cloisters. Many of the pieces on display are absolutely exquisite, including the seven extraordinary Belgian tapestries known as The Hunt of the Unicorn, created between 1495 and 1505. It is remarkable to see these works still intact more than 500 years later. Even C seemed at least mildly interested in parts of the collection, which I took as a small win. Still, it is not just the artwork that makes this place special. The building itself—its chapels, stained glass windows, long halls, cloisters, courtyard, and gardens—is very much part of the museum’s collection and ambiance.

Though the day was sunny and clear, it was still quite cold. The season felt just a bit too early for the gardens, with little in bloom. There is a beautiful view of the Hudson River from the grounds, but C had no interest in lingering outside for long in the chill. Even so, we spent about two and a half hours exploring before making our way back to the hotel.

The cute Jellycat Diner

We had a nice dinner near the hotel, then headed over to the FAO Schwarz toy store. C had made it through several hours of medieval art, so it felt like the right time to shift to one of her main interests: Jellycat. These are high-quality plush toys from London, many featuring whimsical designs, including a food and drink line called Amuseables. They are incredibly popular right now and can be surprisingly difficult to find in the United States, often limited to specialty shops, quick to sell out, and sometimes have long waitlists. At FAO Schwarz, there is something called the Jellycat Diner (the only one in the world!), which is not actually a diner but a small, ticketed experience within the Jellycat section. I had to log on four weeks in advance to secure our spot. The experience itself lasted about ten minutes, with an employee “cooking” C’s chosen Amuseable. She picked out a plush pancake. I did not entirely understand the appeal, but C was all smiles during and after. As she walked the streets of Manhattan carrying her Jellycat bag, she looked like she had just won the lottery.

On our second day, we took a bus from the Port Authority Bus Terminal to the American Dream mall in East Rutherford. At approximately 3 million square feet, American Dream is the second-largest mall in the United States, with the Mall of America holding the top spot. The mall offers far more than shopping. It includes an indoor amusement park, a water park, an aquarium, an indoor skiing center, mini golf, a LEGOLAND Discovery Center, and much more, alongside the usual mix of retail stores.

That weekend was my niece NH’s 18th birthday. She is currently a student at the School of Visual Arts in Manhattan, so it worked out well to meet up and celebrate together. My sister, brother-in-law, and nephew had driven up, and we made plans to meet all of them at the mall.

The aquarium was quite a good one. It featured a great touch pool, a large central tank with rays and sharks, and several displays of seahorses. Seahorses are one of my favorite sea animals, and they are not found in many aquariums since they require specialized care. Afterwards, C, my sister, my nephew, and I made a beeline for the riding mechanical animals. My sister and I are still very much kids at heart, and we thoroughly enjoyed our ten minutes zipping around with our teens. We could not convince my brother-in-law and my niece of the joy they were missing. Boo. Their loss.

SeaLife Aquarium at American Dream, including C taking a break in front of the large tank

Following our lunch at the mall food court, we headed to Nickelodeon Universe. C and I have visited our fair share of theme parks, including every Disney park around the world. I have been to two other indoor amusement parks – Lotte World in Seoul, South Korea, and Trans Studio in Makassar, Indonesia. The Nickelodeon park at American Dream is the largest indoor amusement park in the Western Hemisphere.

I had purchased our tickets ahead of time and just needed to print our wristbands at a kiosk. Getting inside, however, did not go quite as smoothly as I had planned, because I had purchased C and my tickets for the wrong park! I bought ours for the Mall of America in Minneapolis! That was a costly mistake, but I had to shrug it off so we could all get in and have some fun.

The park itself is bright and colorful, with natural light coming in through overhead windows and reflecting off the white interior. The layout lets visitors see much of it at once, with roller coasters and other rides weaving through the space in a visually appealing way. I quickly realized, though, that my sister and her family are far more enthusiastic about thrill rides than I expected. Since it was my niece’s birthday, she set the plan: start with the easiest rides and work our way up. There are some rides that I just want nothing to do with — like rocking rides, especially ones that go up too high, spin, or go upside down. And while I will consent to take on some roller coasters, others are not for me. But my sister and family wanted us ALL to get on everything.

Bright, airy, and colorful Nickelodeon Universe Theme Park

I managed to dodge two of the rides, but my sister dragged me, unhappily, to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Shellraiser coaster. And the front row. I never, ever ride in the front row of a coaster. The Shellraiser has the world’s steepest coaster drop, at 121.5 degrees. It makes the climb excruciatingly slow, then hangs at the top for the longest 15 seconds of one’s life, before plunging down. I might not have hated it so much had it not whipped my head around repeatedly. I closed my eyes and wished for it to be over.

After working our way through the major rides, we said our goodbyes to my sister and her family and shifted gears to something C and I had been looking forward to—shopping. That had been our agreement all along. We spent some time exploring the stores before eventually making our way back to the bus and returning to New York City. It had been a full day and a great way to spend time together as a family.

It had been a full couple of days. We were tired, but in the best possible way, and looking forward to what the second half of the trip would bring.

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Winter Weekends Away Nov ’25-Jan ’26

View of Philadelphia from the Camden Waterfront, New Jersey

January 2026 marked three years since my curtailment from my last overseas position — and the longest I have been consecutively in one place in the U.S. since January 2009. I have to admit that I am getting some quite itchy feet; I think I am ready to move again. Until then, I continue to do my best to make the most of being posted to Washington, D.C., to give myself and my now 14-year-old daughter C great experiences.

Between the longest government shutdown in the fall, a difficult year that left me with less bandwidth than usual, and the cold and early nightfall that settles in this time of year, I opted to depart from my usual activity-filled seasons. Instead, I decided to mark each month — November, December, and January — with a memorable weekend away with C.

November: Philadelphia

Early on a Saturday morning in mid-November, C and I headed north to Philadelphia to visit Eastern State Penitentiary. I have long had an interest in history and architecture, and this popular tourist spot had been on my list for years. When I learned that Eastern State hosts a twice-a-year Scout Day event, with a kid-friendly program that also allows Scouts to earn the architecture merit badge, I knew it would be the perfect time for C and me to visit.

Opened in 1829 and in operation for 142 years, Eastern State was considered the world’s first true penitentiary. Unlike earlier prisons, where inmates were crowded together and punishment was the primary aim, Eastern State’s goal was redemption through social isolation and reflection, promoting “penitence” by design. When it opened, it was more modern than the White House, with central heating, flushing toilets, and running water in every cell. Its Gothic architecture and central hub-and-spokes layout would go on to influence more than 300 prisons worldwide. Ultimately, the 23-hour isolation model proved just as dysfunctional as the systems it sought to replace, and the practice fell out of favor.

Scenes from our visit to Eastern State Penitentiary

After its closure in 1971, the building deteriorated. However, its designation as a National Historic Landmark in 1965 helped preservation advocates lobby for its protection. In 1988, it opened as a museum and educational facility. Especially interesting is that it was not restored, but left as a stabilized ruin — crumbling cellblocks, peeling paint, and corridors open to the elements (we kept our coats on, as there is no heat). It is a seriously cool place to visit. Scout Day included hands-on activities and discussions with professionals — such as architects, masons, and preservationists. C and I really enjoyed our visit.

After visiting Eastern State, we headed across the Delaware River to Camden. Our first stop was lunch, but the pizza place we were aiming for had bars on all its windows and sat in a neighborhood that did not inspire confidence, so I kept driving until we found somewhere we felt comfortable getting out of the car. After regrouping, we made our way to the Camden waterfront, passing the headquarters of the Campbell Soup Company and the Camden campus of Rutgers University.

We were there for one of our favorite shared activities: visiting an aquarium. We were there for one of our favorite shared activities: visiting an aquarium. We have been to aquariums all over the world, from Shanghai to Chicago, Lisbon to Sydney, and Boston to Tokyo, to name a few. Camden’s Adventure Aquarium is considered one of the best in the United States. It is the only aquarium in the world to exhibit Nile hippos and boasts the largest collection of sharks in the American Northeast.

Adventure Aquarium sights — Nile Hippo, the Flamboyant Cuttlefish, and the tentacles of the Giant Pacific Octopus

Besides the hippos, Adventure Aquarium is one of only six facilities in the United States to house little blue penguins, and it boasts the largest V-shaped rope bridge in the world — suspended directly above the shark tank for extra effect (rest assured, there is no chance of falling in). We also lingered over a few personal favorites, including the long-snouted seahorse and the flamboyant cuttlefish. Afterward, we walked along the waterfront and watched the sun set over the Philadelphia skyline before making one final stop at a nearby mall so my teenager could fit in a bit of retail therapy.

December: Richmond

On a Saturday afternoon after C’s guitar recital, we headed south to Virginia’s capital, Richmond, about two hours from D.C. Though I grew up in Virginia, attended college down the road in Williamsburg, and have lived in and around Washington for roughly seven years as an adult, I have only visited Richmond twice before. There is always so much to do closer to home, or it becomes one of those places you assume you will get to someday. But, much like when we went to Lancaster, PA, to see Riverdance at a fraction of what it would have cost at the Kennedy Center, I found tickets to Les Misérables in Richmond and decided to build a short trip around it.

We stayed at a hotel downtown and, at C’s request, had Mexican at a small cantina a few blocks away. Though it was cold, it was not unbearably so — one of those clear, crisp nights where the air feels sharper than the temperature suggests — and we walked to the historic Altria Theater. Along the way, we passed several beautifully detailed buildings that made me think I should return to explore more thoroughly — perhaps without C, who recently informed me that Virginia is largely composed of “historic stuff” and therefore of less interest to her than other destinations. Built in 1926, the Altria is a stunning example of Moorish Revival architecture and a fitting setting for the evening’s performance.

The following morning, we visited the Edgar Allan Poe Museum, which houses the largest collection of Poe artifacts. Given his frequent relocations as both a child and an adult, that is noteworthy. Richmond is where he spent large portions of his childhood. The museum is located in the Old Stone House, the city’s oldest standing residence, dating from around 1754.

I was pretty excited to be back at the Edgar Allan Poe Museum. I had last visited in January 2015 on a quick trip to Richmond to obtain an APHIS signature on documents necessary to take my cats to Shanghai and made a quick spin through the museum to make the four-hour round trip more worthwhile. C was not overly thrilled about visiting a museum in an old house, but when I told her there were two black cats — Edgar and Tib — who serve as the museum’s mascots, she changed her tune.

Edgar Allan Poe Museum in Richmond– Left: One of the resident cats leads us to a museum building; Center: The Old Stone House; Right: Bust of Poe in the Museum’s courtyard garden

The museum is not large, but it has a bit of everything — original manuscripts, letters, furniture, and personal items alongside film and book memorabilia. The courtyard and additional buildings are not original, but were created as part of the museum in 1922. I loved the small, old brick buildings and the courtyard, and it was fun having one of the resident cats keeping tabs on us; as we moved from building to building, he stayed close. And C, in true teenage fashion, found her greatest enjoyment in the gift shop, where she bought herself a “Tell-Tale Heart” stuffie.

January: Massanutten

In January, I decided it was finally time to take C snow tubing at Massanutten Resort, a sprawling 6,000-acre resort in the Shenandoah Valley about two hours southwest of Washington, D.C. I had initially planned it to be a mother-daughter getaway, but then realized I could turn it into a birthday celebration for C by inviting two of her best friends to join us.

The weekend before, a snowstorm had dumped about eight inches of snow in Arlington, much of it coated in several inches of freezing rain that turned it into rock-hard, icy “snowcrete.” Schools were closed all week, and the government was for much of it, but by Friday, the roads were clear enough for me to drive. With temperatures still well below freezing, the mounds of icy snow lingered along the roadsides.

The view from our Massanutten condo

We arrived in Massanutten just after lunch in a nearby town, checked in, and — at the girls’ request — made a stop at the gift shop before heading to our one-bedroom condo. We scored an end unit near a snow-covered hill and the woods, and it was beautiful. While I stayed warm indoors, the girls suited up to try body sledding down the hill. When I next looked outside, they were snuggled into a snowbank, talking and laughing.

C and I had only snow-tubed only once before, during our trip to Santa Claus Village in Rovaniemi, Finland. That tubing hill was slightly sloped and very gentle. Not so at Massanutten. The slide drops 120 vertical feet over three steep waves across 900 feet. According to the website, speeds can reach up to 30 mph “depending on conditions.” With the course covered in smooth, ice-coated snowcrete, the conditions were definitely right for very fast tubing.

We stepped onto the conveyor belt that carried us — tubes in tow — to the top of the hill. Once at the summit, we had a tremendous view of the area and the steep slope ahead. What had we been thinking?! The line was short, however, and there was little time to second-guess ourselves before we were flying down the hill on a slide that was equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. I laughed the entire way.

The hill ahead – that finish line seems quite far away

We immediately grabbed our tubes and headed back up for a second run. As the sun went down, more tubers arrived for the night slides — complete with lights and music — and the line grew as the temperature dropped. By our third slide, the wait was even longer, and we were all feeling the cold. Despite my ski pants, my legs were chilled, and my toes — even in fuzz-lined boots — were losing feeling. The girls were complaining, too. Though we still had another 30 minutes left in our session, we called it quits after an hour and a half. Three times down an ice-slicked hill was plenty.

On our second day, we slept in after a late night — me watching television while the girls stayed up talking. We spent a good hour in the arcade, where the girls were highly strategic about selecting games that yielded the most tickets to exchange for prizes. (C and I do love a good arcade.) Afterward, we had lunch at a local diner before returning to the resort for a few hours at the indoor water park. The girls made the rounds of the water slides and lazy river, while I rotated between supervising and enjoying the adults-only hot tub.

Three winter weekends — Philadelphia, Richmond, and Massanutten — each offered something different. Breaking up the season with short getaways gave us experiences to look forward to and shared memories to make in the midst of a season I am not a fan of.

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Cruising Away, December 2025 Winter Vacay: Part Two

Cruise port in Falmouth, Jamaica

This post continues our winter vacation, a few days into the cruise. On our fourth day on board, we stopped at our second port: Falmouth, Jamaica. Here we would have our longest onshore activity, and one that all five of us would do together. CZ had come to Jamaica as a young adult and loved visiting Dunn’s River Falls, and wanted to experience it again with her son, Little CZ. C and I had visited Jamaica for a week in December 2018, when C was nearly seven years old. At that time, we joined a tour that included Dunn’s River Falls, but we opted not to climb. Now that the kids were old enough for the adventure, we hoped us adults weren’t too old!

We had booked a seven-hour shore excursion, though, like so many cruise-organized tours, it began with the familiar half hour of staging and instructions in the ship’s theater before we were led off together and loaded onto buses. We were told the drive from Falmouth to Dunn’s River Falls would take about an hour. Everyone was in good spirits—chatting, speculating about the climb, and looking forward to the day ahead—and we didn’t really register the time when we arrived. We were ushered off the bus, funneled through ticketing, and then into the Falls area itself. From there, we were divided again into smaller groups of around fifteen people, each assigned a guide who would lead us through the maze of slippery rocks and fast-moving water, up the tiered terraces of the Falls.

The gorgeous terraced falls at Dunn’s River, Jamaica

It had been overcast as we disembarked the ship and drove to the Falls, so we were a little worried the water might be cold. But as we formed a daisy chain with our group and stepped into the thigh-high pool at the base of the Falls, the sun broke through the clouds, and we found the water quite pleasant. And here I will admit: when we visited the Falls back in 2018, I hadn’t just been worried about climbing with a small child—I had been nervous, period. Over the past few years, though, I’ve become braver, taking on more adventurous activities, and I was genuinely excited to climb the Falls.

It was so much fun! Our guide took us slowly. There were spots where he led us up one route, only to recalibrate and take us another way. There was a lot of laughing, plenty of tentative foot placement, a few close calls, and some slips—but we made it.

But then there was the waiting. Standing around while each family reviewed the tour photos and debated whether to purchase them. It took a while. Eventually, our guide gathered us up and led us back through the inevitable souvenir gauntlet and onto the bus. We piled in and headed toward our second destination, the Blue Hole. What should have been a 20-minute drive felt longer.

C and the great leap at the Blue Hole at Ochos Rios

The Blue Hole is a beautiful place: a natural limestone river sinkhole filled with aquamarine water, framed by lush greenery and fed by a series of small falls. It’s the kind of spot meant for swimming, rope swings over deep pools, cliff jumps, or simply standing still and taking it all in. Once again, we were herded off the buses and grouped together, only to wait for our guides. Having cooled off in the air-conditioning on the drive, CZ and I didn’t want to get back into the water, but we had no opportunity to say so. Instead, we were swept along with everyone else, driven like cattle toward the falls, without explanation.

C, Little CZ, and his dad were up for the adventure. From the upper terraced falls, they jumped into pools—first from around six feet, then from ten—all in preparation for the twenty-five-foot leap beside the largest waterfall. CZ and I stood back and watched, and I couldn’t help but feel proud of C. Not one of them hesitated, and except for Little CZ’s dad, who was good with one go at the big jump, Little CZ and C quickly swam back for another go.

We made it back to the ship at Falmouth just in time for sunset.

This was our first inkling that the tour was falling behind schedule. Our bus tour guide approached us at the observation point and asked if we were ready to depart. We pointed out that our kids—and much of the rest of our group—were still in the water below. The guide muttered that guests were only supposed to have one go at the jumps, which didn’t seem right. Where was the leisurely swimming in the pools downstream? The rope swing? There was suddenly a push to get everyone out of the water and back onto the bus. This felt odd, given that the only items on our tour were Dunn’s River Falls and the Blue Hole, with an “if time” stop at Reggae Hill. It was now around 1:30 p.m., and we still had more than an hour’s drive back to the ship. With sail-away set for 3:30, we clearly didn’t have time.

But they took us anyway. There wasn’t much at Reggae Hill. There was a lovely view of the river, where other tourists drifted past on bamboo rafts, but we were there largely for an overpriced lunch: a piece of jerk chicken, a cup of Jamaican rice, a fried plantain, and two drinks for twenty-five dollars. There was nothing else to eat and no other food to buy. And we were rushed. They ran out of beverages. Before some people had finished eating—or even received their food—we were already being herded back onto the buses. It was after 2 p.m.

We made our way down the winding streets toward the single road back to Falmouth harbor, only to find it clogged with traffic. We inched along. I fell asleep. I woke up sometime after 4 p.m., and we were still driving. Someone from the cruise ship must have called in a favor, because we were suddenly accompanied by a police escort for our minibus caravan. We arrived back at the pier around 5 p.m., two hours late, and we all hurried aboard.

That evening, we were back on board in time to catch another round of family karaoke. C met another teen girl, and the two of them headed off to the teen club together—the start of exactly what my daughter had been hoping for: making friends on the ship. After that, we settled into an easy rhythm. We each had our own things to do: CZ booked massages or hit the gym; C spent time with the other teens; Little CZ and his dad hung out by the pool; I took long walks around the decks. And then we came back together—sometimes just C and me, watching the ice show or going ice skating; sometimes CZ and I, sharing a trial massage, walking the jogging track, or spending time in the Solarium; and sometimes all of us, meeting for dinner, making candy sushi, or enjoying family karaoke.

Christmas on a private island — just us and the other 5,000 passengers of our and another cruise ship.

On our last day of the cruise—Christmas—we docked at Perfect Day at CocoCay, Royal Caribbean’s private island. It truly was the perfect day. The temperatures had warmed, the wind had finally died down, and the sun shone brightly in a cobalt sky dotted with cotton-ball cumulus clouds.

C and I disembarked early to join a tour to a neighboring island to swim with pigs. I have taken C to pet cheetahs, bathe elephants, hold sloths, and swim with stingrays; it felt fitting to add one more unique animal experience to the list. After a quick fifteen-minute motorboat ride, we landed on another cay, where we were introduced to some of the cutest water-loving pigs imaginable. At first, the experience felt more like a swim-with-pigs assembly line—no personal cameras allowed on the beach, lots of handlers, and interactions that felt a bit forced. But back on the deck, things relaxed. Tourists, guides, and pigs alike chilled out, and it turned out to be a lot of fun.

C and a piggy friend enjoy the waters off Coco Cay

Back on Coco Cay, C met up with some of her teen friends from the ship, while I joined CZ, Little CZ, and his dad for lunch and then spent the afternoon on one of the beaches. In the afternoon, C rejoined us so that she, Little CZ, and I could do the island’s ziplines. It felt glorious to be warm, safe, and among friends in such a beautiful place. I wished we could have spent another day or two there.

We reboarded the ship in the afternoon, eager to make the most of the little time we had left. CZ and I took on the twin waterslides—the kids refused to join us, but we wanted to be sure we had tried them at least once. Afterward, we sat at the back of the ship overlooking CocoCay as the sun set and, eventually, the ship cast off, pulling away from our final stop and beginning the slow steam toward home.

That evening, all five of us dressed for Christmas dinner and then headed down to the theater for the finale of family karaoke. C peeled off to join her new friends for their farewell teen party. It ended at midnight, when she sat with two of her ship friends in the open doorway of our cabin—first laughing, then whispering, and finally, crying their goodbyes.

The following morning, we disembarked in Port Canaveral. None of us was quite ready to say goodbye to CZ, Little CZ, and his dad, so the five of us headed instead to the Kennedy Space Center. My only previous visit was as an infant with my parents. C had never been, but after two summers at Euro Space Camp and earning her Astronomy and Space Exploration merit badges through Scouts, I thought she would appreciate it.

The sun setting on Perfect Day at Coco Cay as we steam back towards Port Canaveral

The place is enormous—140,000 acres in total, though the visitor complex covers “only” seventy—and we quickly realized that six hours would barely scratch the surface. We wandered through the Rocket Garden before making our way to the Space Shuttle Atlantis building. After a short film on a massive screen, the doors opened dramatically to reveal Atlantis itself, suspended in a darkened room as though still in orbit. It was quietly breathtaking. There is enough in that building alone to fill a day—interactive exhibits, a shuttle launch simulation, even a slide—and we lost track of time entirely. By the time we boarded the bus tour to the Apollo/Saturn V Center, with a stop at the Gantry at Launch Complex 39, the afternoon was already slipping away.

At the Apollo/Saturn V Center, we ate lunch beneath the massive Saturn V rocket and watched the stage-and-screen presentation on the Apollo 11 launch. It was an ambitious way to spend our final hours together—rockets, spaceflight, and human daring—before returning to our condo in Jacksonville for one more evening with my aunt. The next day, we began the long drive back to Washington, D.C., each mile carrying us north, back toward winter.

It was the kind of vacation I needed at the end of a hard year—simple, grounding, time with close friends and family, and full of the small unpredictabilities that make a trip its own.

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Cruising Away, December 2025 Winter Vacay: Part One

The colorful exterior of Nassau’s Straw Market

For our 2025 winter vacation, I wanted to keep things simple. Even back in March, I could tell it was going to be a hard year, and while I knew I would want a getaway at Christmastime, I also knew I would not have the energy to plan much.

My daughter C and I had cruised before: once with Royal Caribbean to the Norwegian Fjords in the summer of 2023, and again with Celebrity Cruises to the Southern Caribbean in December 2024. And though cruising never really fit my younger self’s travel style, these days I have found that while it isn’t how I want every vacation to go, it can be a welcome break from my more heavily planned, detail-oriented holiday.

By the time December rolled around, I was incredibly grateful to have a simple, straightforward trip set up—one that let us escape the Virginia winter, spend time with friends and family, and have ample mother-daughter time, with enough activities on the ship for both of us to allow for valuable time apart, and very little additional thought on my part.

To further uncomplicate our trip, I decided that we would drive to and from Port Canaveral, our port of embarkation. For last year’s cruise out of Puerto Rico, our flights were changed repeatedly between purchase and departure, each time becoming less convenient. I did not want to go through that again.

Traveling by car gave me back a small amount of agency, which felt good in a year where so much felt out of my control. Later, I realized that the decision also felt very on brand for 2025. We ended up with more road trips than I would have predicted, including drives to Lancaster, Philadelphia, and New Bern, our summer southern European driving vacation, and a road trip to Ohio for a friend’s wedding.

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South Carolina’s South of the Border: Kitschy but quiet. Next time, we should time our stop for midday

On the Wednesday afternoon before the cruise, we packed up the car, stocked up on road trip snacks, and hit the road. We were excited to get out of town, and I was thrilled that traffic on I-95, notorious for traffic jams, was light. We made good time and stopped for the evening halfway through North Carolina.

The following day, we were up and on the road early. It would be a long slog to our condo in Jacksonville, Florida, our next stop. Driving I-95 can be mind-numbingly boring. We broke up the morning with a stop at South of the Border, just over the South Carolina border. On many a trip along this corridor, we have passed this mega attraction, but never stopped. It’s the quintessential kitschy 1950s roadside stop blown up to 2000s excess with a motel, camping, restaurants, oversized fiberglass statues, mini golf, and the largest indoor reptile exhibit in the U.S. Though, at 9 AM on a random Thursday morning in winter, it was nearly deserted. So, we just filled up on gas, stretched out our legs for a bit, and got back on the road.

It was many more hours and miles before we arrived at our condo in Jacksonville, where we would spend the next two nights relaxing and catching up with my aunt. It was wonderful to have the temperatures warming between North Carolina and Florida, to gradually shed our coats and sweaters. We had nothing in particular planned. Just spending time with family, which was another benefit to driving over flying. Then on Saturday, C and I once again loaded up the car and drove the last 2.5 hours to Port Canaveral to board our cruise ship.

View of the Royal Promenade inside Royal Caribbean’s Adventure of the Seas

There was the usual madness at the port—parking, walking to the cruise terminal, shuffling through the line—but overall it went pretty quickly, and we soon found ourselves on board in our cabin. Putting down our bags was like setting down the baggage of the past year. It would be temporary, but for a little while, I could feel lighter. Then C and I headed to the café on the promenade to meet up with my long-time friend CZ, her son Little CZ, and Little CZ’s dad to catch up and explore the ship for the rest of the afternoon and evening. That night, as we steamed off into the Caribbean, I slept the best I had in months.

The following day, we arrived at our first port of call: Nassau. When I booked the cruise, Nassau was not part of the itinerary. It was instead Labadee, Haiti, a 260-acre private and secure beach area exclusive for Royal Caribbean. However, after the State Department reissued the Level 4-Do Not Travel warning in July, due to an increase in violent crime and civil unrest, the cruise line suspended visits to the island. Though Labadee is really just a private playground with little cultural interaction with Haitians and it wasn’t clear to me how much money actually reached the locale population, I was still curious about the stop, though not heartbroken it was cancelled. We waited many months to find out the alternative destination, which online sources indicated could be Nassau, Grand Cayman, Grand Turk in the Turks and Caicos, or Puerta Plata in the Dominican Republic. I had my fingers crossed for the latter two as they sounded more interesting, but in the end Nassau it was.

Having been to Nassau many times, CZ opted to stay on the ship. Little CZ and his dad headed out on a food tour, while C and I disembarked for our own self-guided walking tour. The heat hit us immediately. The port was crowded and loud, full of Caribbean brass drum music and the buzz of excited passengers spilling off their ships. Little wooden shops, painted in bright Caribbean shades of fuchsia, coral, azure, lime, and yellow, lined the way. The energy was contagious. We were here! In the Caribbean.

The pink facade of Government House and C on the Queen’s Staircase, Nassau

And all my teen wanted to see in Nassau was Starbucks! Fine. That was our second stop after the Straw Market, which, unfortunately, was not quite open when we arrived. Some shopkeepers were just setting up, but most stalls still had tarps over their goods. Frankly, the goods looked like the same old beach wear, t-shirts, rattan bags and hats, and kitschy goods we had seen in so many Caribbean stores. Then we walked over to Government House, a beautiful, flamingo-pink Georgian colonial-style building in the center of the old town. Though that too was hard to see as metal bleachers, likely set up for a Christmas parade, blocked the view.

I then dragged C to the Queen’s Staircase, a 66-step limestone staircase carved out of the rock between 1793 and 1794 to link Fort Fincastle to the waterfront area. To reach the stairs, one walks through a shaded corridor between the limestone walls, covered in vegetation. It was really lovely. But it was also crowded. I waited quite a long while to capture my daughter’s photo on the stairs with few other people around. At the top of the stairs, my plan had been to explore Fort Fincastle, but it was closed for renovations. We decided to return to the ship for lunch, planning to disembark again later to see the Pirate museum and perhaps another museum, but we did not get back off.

A partial view of the Adventure of the Seas mini golf course

Day three was a cruising day (the cruise line counted boarding day as Day one), and we had a few activities planned. C and I had an early morning pickleball lesson on the sports deck, but it was very windy—the net wouldn’t stay in place, and the balls were quickly blown astray. We later tried mini golf, where the wind sent our golf balls skittering just as easily. Though we weren’t going to win any tournaments anyway. CZ and I took a short walk around the pool deck, our hair whipping into our faces; it was warm, but the wind made being on deck feel like an endurance sport. Thus, CZ and I retreated to the adult-only solarium to relax and talk. After lunch, C, CZ, and I headed to a lounge for a geography quiz and ended up taking first place. Later, all five of us joined up to watch family karaoke, where even C and Little CZ’s dad went up on stage to sing Men at Work’s “Down Under.” We followed that up with dinner together in the main dining room. All in all, a nice day at sea, and a great start to the cruise.

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A Hard Year

Cherry blossoms in Spring 2025; nature (particularly trees and flowers) and nature photography are two things that help me cope with life’s challenges

It has been a hard year.

Although the year isn’t over yet—and I may be tempting fate by writing this now—I’m hoping that putting these thoughts down will do two things: first, keep any more surprises at bay; and second, help me process everything that has already happened.

The first big moment of the year was Inauguration Day on January 20. I rarely wade into politics on my blog, and it’s perfectly normal at any time not to feel enthusiastic about a particular candidate taking office. But this year, I felt particularly anxious about the start of this administration and the policies it would sweep in. Even so, I wasn’t fully prepared for some of what followed—but more on that later.

At 8:47 PM on January 29, an Army Black Hawk helicopter collided midair with American Airlines flight 5342 over the Potomac River, just minutes before the plane was to land at Ronald Reagan Airport. All 64 people on the flight and the 3 aboard the helicopter died. Among them were 28 skaters, coaches, and family members from the figure skating community—11 of the youth skaters were ages 11-16.

My 13-year-old daughter began figure skating in Arlington last year. Although she didn’t know the skaters personally, she had seen them on the ice. The MedStar Iceplex in Arlington—where she practices—was also the home rink of many of those skaters. At the memorial, as she stood taking in the names and photos of skaters her age, my daughter sobbed. I felt helpless to guide her through a loss of this kind; there was nothing I could say that would make it understandable. The tables of stuffed animals, flowers, photographs, and memorial books remained at the rink for about two weeks, a quiet reminder of how many lives had been intertwined there.

In the aftermath of the Flight 5342 disaster, the Medstar Iceplex remembered those lost.

In June, when my daughter performed in the annual Ice Show, several competitive youth skaters put on a beautiful program to honor their friends and teammates. The photos of the skaters and community members we lost still hang on the rink’s walls and will soon be included in a permanent memorial to Flight 5342.

Two weeks later, things became more difficult. On the evening of February 13, a doctor called to tell me that my mother—who lived in a memory care unit—had been admitted to the hospital. This wasn’t unusual; ever since her fall in January 2024 and her hospitalization on February 14, 2024 for severe infections and psychosis, she had required ongoing care in various facilities and continued to experience medical complications. I had been the main point of contact for her care and had received many such calls over the past year. But this time, the doctor explained that she was in respiratory failure and was not expected to recover.

After speaking with him, I informed my siblings and aunt, then called my father. When I told him my mother was back in the hospital, he became distressed and started breathing rapidly, and I had to call 911. Emergency responders forced entry into his home and transported him to the same hospital.

Mom receiving care in her final days.

I spent most of the next two days there, moving between my father’s room on the second floor and my mother’s on the third, coordinating with medical staff and notifying family. On February 15, around 5 PM, the nurses made my mother comfortable and we turned off her oxygen. My sister CH and I stayed with her for several hours. She rallied unexpectedly, and I left around 11 PM.

My mother lingered until the evening of February 19, when she passed away. My father stayed in the hospital for two more days before being transferred to a rehabilitative facility, where he remained for six weeks.

In the first weeks after my mom passed, I was busy managing the bureaucratic details that come with death. As the point person with the crematorium, I provided and reviewed the information for the death certificate, handled the billing, and arranged for the collection of her ashes. I also closed out her room at the assisted living facility. At the same time, I was supporting my dad—visiting him during his rehabilitation, coordinating with his care team, and eventually taking him back home. It wasn’t until several months later that I was able to think about my mom herself.

We had not been close for a long time, but certain things still stay with me. She didn’t have an easy childhood as the youngest of seven in a working-class family outside Pittsburgh. She worked hard, often two or three jobs at a time. When we were little, she told us stories and made up songs—good enough that my sisters and I once performed them in our elementary school talent show. She made excellent handmade Halloween costumes, and when I was ten and my sisters were eight and six, we swept the local contest with first, third, and fourth place. I was a bag of McDonald’s French fries (and it was I that won first!).

Tulips next to mom’s urn; Co-workers sent me tulips after mom’s passing, not knowing that they too were her favorites

She loved yellow corn on the cob (not the terrible white kind!) with plenty of butter, Big Macs, stove-popped popcorn drenched in real butter, and those pink wintergreen candies that tasted vaguely like Pepto-Bismol. And she loved Coca-Cola. When I was a kid, we kept two two-liter bottles in the fridge at all times—one for her, and one for the rest of the family. And when she visited me in Jakarta in 2010, an animal handler at the Taman Mini Indonesia Reptile Park invited her into the Komodo dragon enclosure, and she enthusiastically said yes! And then she forced me to go in as well (she called me “chicken” and I could not let that stand), even though I really did not want to get into a cage with a 9-foot-long lizard whose bite could kill me.

I had little time to mourn my mother, though, because other difficult things were unfolding—this time in my professional life. The new government administration began rapidly cutting the federal workforce. It wasn’t done with care or coordination. USAID was quickly dismantled, leaving many of my friends and colleagues—people I had worked alongside in Indonesia, Malawi, and Guinea—suddenly without careers. Across the State Department, others took early retirement, resigned, or were abruptly fired.

The stress and uncertainty were constant, and there was real sadness in seeing so many good people lose the work they had devoted their lives to. And underneath all of it was the worry that my own job might be next. It was a different sort of grief.

Sign in Washington, DC, in June showing support for federal workers

I have been a near-daily meditator since 2018, and I started seeing a therapist in the fall of 2024. At the start of 2025, I added ice skating to the mix. My daughter was learning, so I figured I might as well try it too, and maybe pick up something fun that pushed me a bit. I love getting out on the ice—with no cell phones, I couldn’t read the news, doom scroll, get caught up in cat videos for far too long, or really think about anything other than remaining upright and finding joy in that. These activities helped, but halfway through this year, I knew I needed more to help me cope.

I started with some 5Ks with my daughter. She had asked to see my old running event tees and medals, and after looking them over, she asked if we could run together. Back when I started this blog, I was a runner. I had participated in numerous 5K, 10K, 10-miler, and half-marathon races. But once I left Shanghai, went into training, and then moved to Malawi, the running fell by the wayside. I am not in great shape now, but C and I have already done 4 5ks in the latter half of this year.

We also went ahead with our vacation to Europe in August. With everything that had been happening, including the uncertainty swirling around continued federal government employment, I had debated about canceling. I am extremely glad I did not. Going on that Balkans travel adventure with my daughter was amazing and restorative.

I prepare to get my Rage Room on

My sister was struggling with the grief, too. She had lost her job, a close family member on her husband’s side, and two friends in the same timeframe as Mom. I had been looking into a grief circle for both of us, but the timing did not work at first. So I asked her if she wanted to go to a rage room with me. I thought she might think it was dumb, but she did not even know what a rage room was. When I explained it, she agreed without hesitation. So in early August, the two of us went to a place out in Winchester. With the music turned up loud, we took baseball bats and smashed a bunch of things for thirty minutes. It was certainly not a solution to everything, but it was very therapeutic.

The overlook of the Ohio River near my mom’s childhood neighborhood in Beaver, PA

In September, C and I drove to and from Toledo for the wedding of a college friend of mine. Along with enjoying a ceremony and reception at the Toledo Zoo and Aquarium, I planned a few activities connected to my mom. While we were in Toledo, I visited my Aunt Julia, my mom’s only living sibling (my mother’s brother passed away in May), and my cousins. We spent a Sunday morning at her house and then had lunch together. On the drive home, I stopped in Beaver, Pennsylvania, where my mom grew up, and sprinkled some of her ashes along the river overlook near her childhood home.

My sister would have preferred horses, but the donkeys sure did take a shine to her

Finally, in October, my sister and I joined a grief circle led by a Foreign Service friend of mine. JS and I began our Foreign Service careers in the same orientation class years ago. During her second tour, she experienced three devastating personal losses in a short period of time. After moving through the initial stages of grief, she sought more ways to live with and accept the losses, from running a marathon to writing a book, and then helping others by becoming a certified yoga and grief coach. We joined her and four others who were experiencing loss at a small farm near Purcellville, Virginia. We meditated, shared our grief stories, and then took part in equine therapy with several sweet and friendly rescue donkeys.

None of these activities alone solved the grief or completely lifted the weight of the year, but each one helped me keep moving. Meditation, therapy, ice skating, time with family, the rage room, the trip to Toledo, and the grief circle all gave me different ways to breathe and stay grounded. Together, they helped me find small moments of steadiness during a very hard year. Here’s to hoping 2026 is a little lighter.




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In and Around DC: Activities Autumn 2025

I do love the changing of the leaves in Northern Virginia

Being posted to Washington, D.C. has been a different kind of Foreign Service experience for us—one rooted in home, routine, and the chance to enjoy experiences we often miss while overseas. I packed this September and October with outings and activities that maximized the season and kept us very busy.

I kicked off the season with a visit to the George Washington University Textile Museum, a team outing my office director organized as a bonding activity. As Foreign Service Officers, we’ve all lived in various countries and many of us have collected meaningful textiles along the way. We began by sharing a textile of personal significance and telling its story before heading into a guided tour of the museum, just a few blocks from our office. The galleries were filled with stunning pieces—carpets, tapestries, kimonos, and intricately decorated clothing. It all reminded me of my own travels and life abroad—and of the (much more modest) pieces I’ve picked up along the way. Our guide—a former Foreign Service Officer herself—made the tour especially engaging and relatable.

Amazing acrobatics, stage presence, and storytelling of Cirque du Soleil’s Luzia

Our next few outings were all performance-related. I had been hoping to take C to a show at Wolf Trap National Park for the Performing Arts, but hadn’t yet found the right performance. I have fond memories of Wolf Trap, as my family went a few times when I was a child, and I spent a summer in college working at the concession stand. When I learned that Cynthia Erivo would be performing there, I tried to get tickets, but they sold out quickly. As luck would have it, friends of ours were unable to attend and offered us their tickets! Cynthia Erivo was wonderful—so interactive with the audience, engaging and funny, and her voice is absolutely stunning. It was truly one of the best performances I have attended.

C had also been eager to go to a concert, so when two of her favorite artists, Hozier and Gigi Perez, announced a show in Virginia, she begged to go. Even though it fell on a school night, I said yes and bought lawn seats, imagining a perfect September evening. Instead, it was cold and rainy, but armed with ponchos and surrounded by thousands of equally soaked but cheerful fans, we made the best of it—and both artists were fantastic live. And to round out our performance streak, we kept a tradition going and saw Cirque du Soleil for the third September in a row.

Greetings to the Maryland Renn Faire!

We rounded out September with a visit to the Maryland Renaissance Faire with my sister and her family. I had long heard of the festival but had never been, and I thought it would be a great experience for C and me. Good thing we went with my sister—a seasoned pro who has been more than a dozen times. Now in its 49th year, the Faire is well-established. It’s set in a fictional 16th-century English village called Revel Grove and spread over 27 acres in Crownsville, Maryland. C and I were unprepared for its size and the sheer number of performances, activities, food options, and shops. We made it only half the day before we were worn out. Next time—and C definitely wants to go back—we’ll need a better game plan!

As we moved into October, things slowed down a bit. I’ve always enjoyed this month—my birthday falls in October, and I love the changing leaves in places with four seasons like Northern Virginia. After such a busy September, I didn’t have many firm plans lined up, and when the federal government shut down, it made the month feel even less predictable.

To celebrate my birthday, I took a day off work that lined up with a day C had off school, and I booked us tickets to the Maryland Zoo in Baltimore—plus a penguin encounter! C and I have seen penguins before, including at Boulder Beach in South Africa, but the chance to be up close to them (and maybe even touch one) felt like a special treat.

Montage of the Maryland Zoo, including the friendliest penguin Ambassador, Olive, and the wonderful zoo enclosure with rhinos, zebras, and ostriches

We arrived at the zoo about two hours before our penguin encounter start time, so we had ample time to check out the rest of the animal exhibits first. I was surprised by how great the Maryland Zoo is! I grew up outside of Washington, D.C., and had many visits to the National Zoo with my family and my school or Girl Scout troop. Yet we never once visited the Maryland Zoo. I did not even know it existed until I chanced upon an advertisement for the penguins. Open since 1876, it is the third-oldest zoo in the United States. I found the layout inviting for visitors with plenty of nature, and its enclosures large and well-designed for the animals. And they had an okapi, an endangered animal of the giraffe family that looks part giraffe and part zebra, and also happens to be one of my favorite animals. We then had a magical small-group experience with a group of penguins specifically selected as ambassadors for their species. They were largely uninterested in us, but a few brave souls got close enough to touch.

My sister as the terrifying Igor

We next attended another of my sister’s interactive theatrical performances by Naut Human Productions at Dodona Manor in Leesburg, Virginia. Following last October’s Halloween-themed Dracula, this year’s spooky offering was the Frankenstein Experience. Unlike in past years, when she has usually had a more glamorous role, this time she appeared as Igor—the first of Dr. Frankenstein’s attempts to bring a human back to life using rat DNA—and she was far more frightening. There were plenty of jump scares and screams throughout, and Igor was undoubtedly the star of the evening.

When the federal government’s funding lapsed on October 1, I was notified that my position was considered “non-excepted,” which meant I would be furloughed and unable to work. During a shutdown, most federal employees—whether “excepted” and still working or “non-excepted” and sent home—don’t receive pay until the government reopens, which can make things a bit uncertain. As a single parent with one income, the prospect of going without a paycheck made me grateful that I hadn’t planned much for October, and I knew I’d need to keep a closer eye on my budget. I spent the first week tackling long-overdue items on my to-do list, catching up with friends, and enjoying the still-pleasant weather on long walks.

Some of Hillwood Estates autumn beauty in the Cutting Garden

A friend of mine—who used to work in the federal government and knows how much I love gardens—sent me a notice that Hillwood Estate was offering free admission. So on a beautiful autumn day, I headed to the gardens at the former estate of Marjorie Merriweather Post. Post purchased Hillwood in the mid-1950s and transformed it into both a home and a showcase of her interests, including exquisite gardens and an impressive art collection. I wasn’t looking to tour the manor that day; I simply wanted to be outdoors. And since I went on my own, I could wander at my own pace without worrying about a teenager growing bored. Two of my favorite spots were the Japanese Garden and the Cutting Garden—the latter especially, with so many unique and colorful flowers in bloom.

Later in the month, C was working on the Bird Study merit badge for Scouts, and one of the requirements was to identify birds in the wild. I searched for good birding spots in Northern Virginia and came across Huntley Meadows Park, so we headed out on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. The park was stunning, and the boardwalk trail through the wetlands was spectacular—but we saw far fewer birds than we expected. Back at the visitor center, we asked the staff for advice, and they told us about a birding group that meets on Monday mornings at 8 a.m.

A stunning autumn vista in Fairfax County’s Huntley Meadows Park

Since I was still furloughed the next day and C happened to have (yet another )Arlington school holiday, we decided to return. It turned out to be a gorgeous autumn morning, and the birding group could not have been more welcoming. They were delighted to hear about C’s merit badge and helped us spot and identify birds, use our binoculars properly, and even try out their much more advanced ones. To my surprise, one of the birders was a retired Foreign Service Officer—and a former Ambassador—which made the outing an unexpected full-circle Foreign Service moment.

We wrapped up our autumn adventures with the Monster Mash 5K—our third mother-daughter race since July. Well, “mother-daughter” was a bit of a stretch this time, since C invited a friend and the two of them dashed off together, leaving me in their dust. And with that, our busy fall came to a close. Now we turn toward our third full winter in Washington, looking forward to the next adventures.

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Balkans Bound, Part Seven: The Final Days in Pristina and Gračanica

This is the seventh and final installment of my daughter’s and my trip to Kosovo, Albania, and Montenegro in August 2026.

The Newborn Monument in Pristina, unveiled in the capital on February 17, 2008, when Kosovo declared independence

We left Peja and headed east toward Kosovo’s capital, Pristina — trading the mountains that had framed so much of our trip for rolling hills. Pristina sits in a flat valley, and at one point along the highway encircling the city, we caught a sweeping view of the entire capital spread out below us. It felt almost strange to see such a wide, open landscape after so many days of winding mountain roads.

We checked into our hotel in central Pristina. I had originally booked our final two nights near the airport but changed plans so we could spend a day exploring the city more easily. Once we settled into our room, we headed out for lunch nearby and then began a self-guided walking tour. Our first stop was the Newborn Monument, a large block-letter sculpture that celebrates Kosovo’s declaration of independence from Serbia on February 17, 2008. The monument changes its colors and design each year on that date, symbolizing the country’s evolving identity. Across the street, we visited the Heroines Monument, which depicts an Albanian woman formed from 20,145 metal pins — each representing the contributions and sacrifices of Albanian women during the 1989-1999 Kosovo War. The Newborn Monument felt celebratory and hopeful, while the Heroines Monument carried a quieter, somber weight. Facing one another, the two together formed a powerful message about the devastation of war and the hope that follows in its wake.

Left: C sits in the Newborn Monument; Right: the Heroines Monument

From there, we continued our walk along Mother Teresa Boulevard, a broad, pedestrian-only avenue lined with shops, cafés, and people out enjoying the day. We passed a statue of Mother Teresa herself — an important figure in Kosovo, as she was ethnic Albanian and is said to have found her spiritual calling in the small village of Letnica, in southern Kosovo. We followed the boulevard until we reached the Kosovo Parliament building, then crossed the street to the Çarshi Mosque. Built in 1389 to commemorate the Ottoman victory in the Battle of Kosovo, it is the oldest surviving building in Pristina. Behind it stands the National Museum of Kosovo, housed in an Austro-Hungarian building from 1889, though unfortunately it was closed for renovation during our visit.

Sights of Pristina–Left: Statue of Mother Teresa in central Pristina; Center: the Brutalist/Futuristic beauty of the National Library of Kosovo; Right: the Çarshi Mosque, Pristina’s oldest building

We continued on to the campus of the University of Pristina to see the National Library, famous for its striking architecture — a brutalist design with a distinctive futuristic appearance. C, who has an interest in architecture and a surprising fondness for Brutalism (perhaps thanks to Washington, D.C.’s share of concrete buildings), had especially wanted to see it. Our final stop was the Cathedral of Saint Mother Teresa. Built between 2007 and 2017 and officially consecrated in 2017, it is the largest structure in Kosovo and the first cathedral built in the country since the 16th century.

In just a few hours of walking, I felt as though we had passed through centuries of Kosovo’s history — from Ottoman rule to war to hard-won independence. It was a beautiful day and a satisfying walk, but it carried a certain weight. While there isn’t an overwhelming amount to see in terms of traditional sightseeing, Pristina clearly has momentum. Construction cranes dotted the skyline, signs of an economic boom fueled in part by the Kosovar diaspora. The city felt youthful and hopeful. We spent the rest of the afternoon and evening resting up for our final day in the country.

Gračanica Monastery

On our last day, we packed up the car for one final sightseeing drive, heading to the town of Gračanica, just five miles from Pristina. Our goal was the 14th-century Serbian Orthodox Gračanica Monastery — the fourth and final of the UNESCO-designated Medieval Monuments in Kosovo that we would visit. Like the others, the monastery centers on a stand-alone church within a walled complex, its interior lined with offices and living quarters. Inside, the church walls are covered with magnificent frescoes depicting scenes from the Bible — vivid, detailed, and deeply expressive. It was beautiful, though also the busiest of the four UNESCO sites we’d seen, and the strictest about what visitors could and could not do.

Outside the monastery, we took a short walk around town. One of the first things we noticed — or rather, C did, with her knack for recognizing flags — was the presence of Serbian flags and the use of the Serbian language. It was a noticeable change from what we had seen elsewhere: in Prizren and Peja, Albanian flags and symbols were everywhere, while in Pristina, we had seen a modest number of Kosovar flags. Here, the Serbian presence was unmistakable. A statue of the legendary Serbian knight Miloš Obilić stands prominently in the town center, and nearby is the Missing Monument, a somber memorial honoring the Serbs who were kidnapped or went missing during and after the Kosovo War.

The Missing Monument in Gracanica

Even amid Kosovo’s visible economic growth and youthful optimism, reminders of the region’s divided past remain close at hand. I had thought I’d managed to keep politics at bay during our trip, but it was impossible to ignore the quiet signs everywhere — reminders of how deeply history, identity, and faith are still woven into daily life here, and how the past continues to shape the present.

For a change of pace — and to end our trip on a lighter note — we drove to the Bear Sanctuary Prishtina, a rescue center that provides care for brown bears once kept in captivity in Kosovo and Albania. The sanctuary is set on forested land by a lake, and the bears have large enclosures that give them room to roam and explore. It felt spacious and well-run, and as we followed the winding paths up and down the hillside, C and I got quite a workout. Watching the bears lounging and playing was a lovely way to close out our travels.

It was so fun go-karting on this track in the Pristina Mall!

I had one last surprise for C: for our final final activity of the vacation, we went to Prishtina Mall. At 1,233,140 square feet, it’s the largest shopping and entertainment center in southeastern Europe. We had lunch, did some window shopping, got gelato, and drove go-karts on a cool indoor track — yes, right inside the mall! It was the first time either of us had gone go-karting, and it was an absolute blast. Afterward, we drove to our hotel near the airport, returned the rental car, and spent our last night in Europe before the early morning flight that would begin our journey home.

Our two weeks in Kosovo, Albania, and Montenegro were everything I could have hoped for — full of adventure, discovery, and connection. We packed so much into those days, from mountain drives and monasteries to coastal towns and caves. More than anything, it was a memorable mother-daughter journey, one that I know neither of us will forget.