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Sweden Summer, Part Five: Getting to Goteborg and Riding Roller Coasters

The fifth installment of my daughter and my August 2026 visit to Sweden.

We left Falun early Saturday morning for Göteborg (roughly pronounced “YUHT-uh-bawry”), beginning what would be our longest travel day of the trip.

Early morning lake views from the train

My original plan had been simple: six hours by train, with only one quick transfer early in the journey. I had imagined it as the quintessential long train journey—time to settle in, visit the snack car, gaze out the window, walk through the train to stretch our legs, journal, and maybe nap. Yet when on our first night in Falun I went online to buy our tickets, I discovered that summer track work had changed our routing, turning our six hour journey into seven and half to as long as twelve.

I considered cutting Göteborg from the itinerary. One of the places I had hoped to visit there, Nya Älvsborg Fortress, was already off the table because the reduced late-summer ferry schedule did not fit our visit, so I spent a few hours looking at alternatives. But the track work affected other routes too, hotels were filling up, and nothing I found seemed worth changing the trip for. In the end, Göteborg stayed. We took the shortest option, leaving Falun just before 7:30 in the morning, and instead of one easy train change, we made three: train to bus to train to bus.

It was not the leisurely journey I had envisioned, as it meant watching the time and our connections more carefully, but it still gave Chloe another useful travel lesson—the ability to adapt when plans change. We still had time to relax along the way, and in the end the extra hour and a half cost us surprisingly little. We arrived at the same time as originally planned.

Once off the bus at Göteborg’s Central Station, it was only a hop, skip, and a jump to our hotel. The Hyatt Place Gothenburg Central is integrated into the station complex itself, which made for a very easy arrival after such a long travel day. We checked in, shed our bags, and rested for about an hour before heading back out to get to know the city where we would stay the next few days.

Fountain and flowers at Trädgårdsföreningen

We headed first to Trädgårdsföreningen, the Garden Society of Göteborg, one of Europe’s best-preserved 19th-century parks. At its center is the Palm House, a glass-and-cast-iron greenhouse built in 1878 and modeled on London’s Crystal Palace. The original Crystal Palace was later destroyed by fire in 1936, making Göteborg’s smaller interpretation an interesting survivor of that Victorian style.

We entered the Palm House and wandered inside a bit. Unfortunately, several of the rooms were closed due to renovation, and honestly, after Uppsala’s tropical greenhouse, complete with its poison dart frogs, the pretty Palm House could not compete.

What was unexpected was the nightclub immediately beside the park. At 5 PM it was already in full swing, with people dancing outside and loud, thumping music carrying straight into the gardens. I did not exactly hate the music (though C did), but it did strike me as odd. I had not expected a late afternoon stroll through a European park to come with a ear splitting soundtrack.

From the Garden Society, we continued through Kungsparken, passing a few pretty churches along the way before reaching Haga, one of Göteborg’s oldest neighborhoods. I had wanted to see the area for its cobblestone streets and historic character, but by the time we arrived, C was very much ready to head back to the hotel, and making this known, repeatedly.

We stayed only about ten minutes before turning around. The journey to Göteborg had gone smoothly after all, but it had still been a long day, and we had another walk ahead of us to get back. We took a different route along the canals, having gotten a nice taste of the historic and cultural heart of the city, and returned to the hotel for dinner and some much-needed downtime.

Late afternoon on the Stora Hamnkanalen or the Great Harbor Canal

The next morning, we headed out for one of Göteborg’s classic sightseeing experiences: a Paddan boat tour. The low, open boats travel through the city’s canals and old moat before heading out into the harbor, a little like the canal boats in Amsterdam. The tour lasted about 50 minutes, and we had good weather for it, even if I had managed to end up with a terrible seat.

The guide was informative and funny, and what I enjoyed most were the little bits of history I probably never would have learned otherwise. Göteborg was founded much later than Stockholm, after repeated Swedish attempts to establish a western port ran up against a much more powerful Denmark. An earlier city here was even burned by the Danes before Göteborg was formally founded in 1621. It was another reminder that the Scandinavian countries, which today can seem so closely connected, spent centuries as rivals.

And then there were the bananas. Göteborg was Sweden’s banana port for more than a century, and Swedes apparently developed quite an enthusiasm for a fruit that could not possibly grow anywhere nearby. The guide told us about the country’s prodigious banana consumption, songs about bananas, and how much people missed them when imports largely disappeared during World War II. Of all the history we heard during the tour, somehow the Swedish devotion to bananas was one of the things that stuck with me.

After the Paddan tour, we made our way back toward the train station and caught a tram to Liseberg, Göteborg’s historic amusement park. First opened in 1923, it is regularly ranked among the best in the world.

C and I love amusement parks! We have visited all six Disney parks around the world, along with a handful of other parks in the U.S. I have also visited amusement parks on my own travels in places including South Korea, Indonesia, and Brunei. But this would be C’s first non-Disney amusement park outside the U.S., and I was excited for us to both to try it out. After all the castles and cathedrals, museums and historic neighborhoods, Liseberg stood out as both historic and fun.

A stunning view of Goteborg’s old town from the Vallgraven, the old defensive moat, during our Padden boat tour

One of the things I liked most about Liseberg was how the park used the hillside. It is not a huge park, so it is easy to get around, but the rides are built into and along the slope, with stairs, escalators, and even an elevator helping visitors move between levels. That gave the park a more interesting layout than I expected and made some of the rides feel even more dramatic because of their position on the hill.

We started with Helix, one of the park’s signature roller coasters and often ranked among the best in Europe. The posted wait was only about 30 minutes, which felt like a gift for a major coaster. And it was worth it. Helix has multiple inversions and plenty of speed, and it was thrilling from start to finish. C and I both loved it, and it easily landed among my favorite roller coasters.

Another ride that surprised me was AeroSpin. Each rider sits in an individual plane styled like an old biplane, and a lever lets you control the wings enough to make the plane roll. C was working hard to get hers all the way upside down and came close. I took a different approach. The ride was already plenty exciting without my help.

AeroSpin climbs high above the park and spins around a central tower, but because it sits on the hillside, it feels even higher than it actually is. From the top, you get a sweeping 360-degree view over Liseberg and the surrounding city. Between the height, the spinning, and the possibility of flipping yourself upside down, it turned out to be far more thrilling than I had expected.

We ended up riding every single coaster in the park. Balder, the big wooden coaster, was fun, though it was not one of my favorites. Valkyria, Europe’s tallest and longest dive coaster, surprised me. I have avoided dive coasters thinking they were far too scary. I rode the TMNT Shellraiser coaster at Nickelodeon Universe, a dive coaster currently listed as the world’s steepest, and I hated it because it was so shaky. Valkyria though had the same sort of terrifying pause before the plunge, but the ride felt very smooth in comparison. Still, Helix won my heart as the best coaster at Liseberg and easily one of my favorites anywhere.

Lunch was another pleasant surprise. There was the usual amusement park food, but also Mexican and, rather unexpectedly, Hungarian lángos—a fried flatbread often topped with sour cream and cheese. C decided to try one and really liked it.

Liseberg– Left: an amazing view of the park from the AeroSpin; Right: some of the park’s cute storefronts

And of course, we had to try our luck at a few games. The prizes included enormous bars of chocolate, including Toblerone and Marabou. They were easily two feet long, and we wanted to win. But we were traveling light, and I had no idea how we would carry something that size for the rest of the trip. Unfortunately (fortunately?), luck was not with us, and we did not leave the park with an absurdly large candy bar.

All in all, Liseberg was a fantastic choice. For about $100 for the two of us, we spent the day riding every coaster in the park, ate well, rarely waited very long, and had a really fun day. I would easily put Liseberg near the top of the amusement parks I have visited, and I am so glad I worked it into our itinerary.

When we finally left, we skipped the tram and walked the roughly 30 minutes back to our hotel at the train station. It had been another beautiful day in Göteborg and another great day in Sweden. We had spent most of it outside in fantastic weather, doing something completely different from another museum or historic site and simply having fun together. Those are some of the travel days I treasure most—the ones when C and I get to share something we both love and just enjoy being together. Back at the hotel, we settled in for the evening and got ready for whatever the next day would bring.

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Sweden Summer, Part Four: Copper, Countryside, and Cycling in Dalarna

The fourth installment of my daughter and my August 2026 visit to Sweden.

A view of Falun town

We left Uppsala in the morning and took the train north to Gävle, where we changed trains for Falun. The journey took about two and a half hours altogether and was easy and comfortable. C napped for part of the trip while I enjoyed the scenery outside the window.

We arrived in Falun before lunchtime and walked the short distance from the train station to our hotel. Our room was already available, so we dropped off our bags, headed into town for a light lunch, and then set off for the place I was most excited to see in Falun: Falu Gruva, the Falun Mine.

It was a beautiful day, and the mine was about a 20-minute walk from the center of town. The Falun Mine, or Falu Gruva in Swedish, is a copper mine with a history stretching for nearly a thousand years. At its peak in the 17th century, Falun produced about 70 percent of the world’s copper. The wealth generated by the mine put Falun on the map and it helped establish Sweden as a major European power. Copper filled the coffers of the Swedish crown and helped finance its wars. Falun itself grew along with the mine, at one point becoming Sweden’s second-largest city.

This was exactly the kind of World Heritage Site I love to visit. I enjoy natural sites too, but I am particularly drawn to places where you can see history and culture come together. C had completed the Mining in Society merit badge at Scout camp earlier that summer, and I thought Falun was a perfect place to bring what she had learned to life. She had learned about the role mining can play in society; now she could see a real-world example for herself.

We arrived at Falu Gruva around half past one. It was another absolutely gorgeous day — warm, with a sky that seemed even bluer set against the rich red earth. We bought tickets for the underground tour, which would begin about an hour and a half later, giving us some time to explore beforehand.

A view across the Great Pit

We started with fika. C got a drink and a pastry, and I chose a chocolate and pistachio tart that looked particularly good. I accidentally dropped it before my first bite, and it landed with huge thud on my plate. Based on that, I expected it to be quite dense, but it was actually incredibly light and buttery — and may have been one of the best tarts I have ever had. I later learned that it was a mandelmussla, a traditional Swedish almond tart. And it was magical.

After our fika, we started through the Mine Museum, housed in the former administrative building. From the second floor, we had a tremendous view of the Great Pit, or Stora Stöten. Looking down into it, I was reminded of the huge ravine that ran between my residence and the U.S. Embassy when I lived in Guinea.

The Great Pit though is not natural. It was created when a huge section of the mine collapsed in 1687 after centuries of overmining and inadequate structural support within the mine. What was once a large hill known as the Great Copper Mountain folded in on itself creating a large crater. Remarkably, no one was killed in the collapse because the miners had been given the day off to celebrate Midsummer. But despite the scale of the collapse, mining at Falun continued for another three centuries, until the mine finally closed in 1992.

Then it was time for our underground tour. We put on the sweaters we had brought with us, along with bright orange rain capes and hard hats, and followed our guide into the mine. The temperature underground stays at about 43 degrees Fahrenheit year-round, a pretty dramatic change from the warm August sunshine we had just left behind.

Over the course of the tour, we descended about 400 steps, eventually reaching 220 feet below the surface. Along the way, our guide told us about the history of the mine, the changing mining practices over the centuries, and some of the stories and legends that had grown up around it.

Below ground at Falun Mine; on the left our group in our orange underground gear; on the right, a walkway in the dim light of the mine

At one point, our guide turned off the lights and her flashlight. The darkness was absolute. I could not see my hand in front of my face. It gave a very different meaning to the stories of miners whose lamps went out underground, or who wandered away and became lost in the mine. After we reached the deepest part of the tour, we came to a wooden staircase with a pool of strikingly bright red water at its base, the color coming from the copper.

The tour was fascinating, but by the end I was ready to leave the cold, damp, and darkness behind. I was also very happy to learn that we would not be retracing all those steps back to the surface. Instead, an elevator carried us back up, and we stepped outside into the warm afternoon sunshine.

We had about an hour left to explore the site, so we walked around some of the historic buildings near the mine. I wish we had had enough time to walk all the way around the Great Pit, but at nearly a mile around, we would have needed more time to really explore it. Instead, we returned to the Mine Museum to finish the part we had not seen before our tour and wrapped up just as the site was closing.

On our walk back into town, we passed through Elsborg, the old miners’ neighborhood that is also part of the Falun World Heritage Site. The neighborhood was established beginning in 1646 to provide housing for the mine workers, and many of the old wooden cottages remain. It was a lovely walk through narrow streets lined with small timber houses.

And, of course, the deep red of many of those houses has a connection to the mine too. Falu Rödfärg, the traditional red paint used on wooden houses and barns throughout Sweden, gets its distinctive color from the Falun Mine. It has been used for centuries and has become one of those colors that seems almost synonymous with Sweden. It was another example of what I had wanted C to see: the mine’s influence went well beyond the copper that came out of the ground. (I cannot say that she was paying attention though)

The traditional red wooden homes of Elsborg

After a very full day, we picked up some food from the supermarket and had a quiet dinner in our room before calling it a night.

The next morning, we woke to rain. After so many days of glorious sunshine, it was disappointing, particularly because our big plan for the day was to rent bicycles and ride to a nearby village. I had researched bicycle rentals before the trip and knew of two places in Falun, one in town and another back at the mine, so I thought we were all set.

We walked into the center of town to the bike shop, only to learn that they had no rental bikes available that day. I knew we had one more option back at the mine, but I was not particularly eager to make that walk right then, especially in the rain. So we changed plans for the moment and walked a few blocks to Dalarnas Museum.

Dalarna has a particularly strong connection to Swedish folk culture. Many of the traditions and handicrafts associated with the region have become symbols of Sweden itself. The museum was a chance to learn more about those traditions and about the history of the region we were visiting.

The museum has a wonderful collection of art, clothing, handicrafts, and other pieces of Dalarna culture. C was especially excited by the Dala horses. She has had one that she bought at IKEA years ago, so there was something fun about seeing them here in Dalarna, where they originated. We were also both really taken with the colorful kurbits folk art, with its elaborate flowers and scenes of everyday life depicted in a colorful, exaggerated but charming way. I was surprised by how much C enjoyed it too, taking photos as we went through. It was my favorite part of the museum.

Gems from the Dalarnas Museum: Left–Beautiful Kurbits folk art; Center–My favorite piece from the exhibit on the witch trials; Right–Some silly Dala horses

I was also taken with Mörksuggan or “The Dark Pig,” a creature from Dalarna folklore that was traditionally used to frighten children into behaving but is now considered something of a guardian. The museum also had a special exhibition called haxor, or witches, about the wave of witch trials that began in Dalarna in the 17th century and spread through Sweden. The exhibition was fascinating and included several pieces of art that really stayed with me.

After the museum, we made our way back out to the mine and the other bike rental location. This was our second — and last — option, so when we learned they had very few rental bikes available, I began to worry that our cycling plans might be over before they started. Fortunately, they had two bikes that could work for us. Mine was a little too big, but after riding it around for a bit, I decided I could manage it. (I did manage it, although I later fell over while trying to get off the bike at a stop.) By then, the rain had stopped and the day was looking much more promising. We adjusted the bikes, put on our helmets, and finally set off for Sundborn.

I had wanted to work some cycling into our trip from the beginning. C was working on her Cycling merit badge for Scouts, and a ride to Sundborn would meet one of her required 15-mile rides, something she had cleared with her counselor before the trip. The small village outside Falun, best known as the home of Swedish artist Carl Larsson, gave us a destination and a chance to see more of the Dalarna region while doing something together.

From the mine, we rode back through Elsborg and then alongside a lake before picking up bike paths that wound through residential neighborhoods. For a while, the path ran alongside a highway — easily the least scenic part of the ride — but eventually we left that behind for smaller country roads. From there, the scenery opened up into rolling green hills, farms, and traditional houses as we made our way toward Sundborn. We had chosen the longer route because it was flatter, and after a little over an hour of riding, we arrived in the village.

We locked up our bikes and headed first to the local pizzeria for lunch before exploring a little. Sundborn is a small village nestled between Lake Toftan and the Sundbornsån river. By this point, the morning rain was long gone and the sky had returned to that stunning azure blue we had enjoyed for so much of the trip. The blue sky, green countryside, red wooden houses, and reflections on the water made the village absolutely beautiful.

C and her rental bike in Sundborn

Sundborn is best known as the home of Carl Larsson, a famous Swedish watercolor painter who depicted his life at his cottage in Sundborn. We opted not to take the house tour, but walked around his pretty riverside garden and stopped for ice cream at the café next door.

While we were there, I watched what seemed like a quintessentially Swedish summer scene play out along the river. A man emerged from a neighboring house in his bathrobe, walked down to his dock, and slipped into the water for a swim. A little farther down, a woman did the same. Then three boys arrived on bicycles on the opposite bank, dropped their bikes, and got into the river. The water may have been chilly, but that certainly did not seem to deter anyone from an afternoon swim.

Across the water from Carl Larsson’s cottage, we visited a master miner’s estate dating from the 1500s that is also part of the Falun UNESCO World Heritage Site. We spent a little more time exploring Sundborn before retrieving our bikes and starting the ride back to Falun.

In total, we rode 22 miles over about two and a half hours. We made it back to the bike shop in time to return our bikes before closing and then walked back into town. It had been another very full day, so we picked up something simple for dinner and had a quiet evening at the hotel before getting ready to move on to the next stop on our trip.

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Sweden Summer, Part Three: A Splendid Day in Uppsala

The third installment of my daughter and my August 2026 visit to Sweden.

Uppsala from the Iron Bridge over the Fyris River

On the morning of our fourth day, we packed up our backpacks and said goodbye to Gamla Stan. After three nights there, we had grown comfortable. We knew which way to turn when we stepped outside, recognized the streets around us, and had settled into our little corner of Stockholm.

Naturally, that meant it was time to move on.

We walked to Stockholm Central to catch a train to Uppsala. Google Maps led me slightly astray near the station, and we ended up in the wrong place and missed the train I had planned for us to take. Fortunately, this was not much of a crisis. Uppsala is close to Stockholm, trains run frequently, and so I had not bought tickets in advance for this particular trip. We just course corrected, found the train station and departures, and caught the next train.

This was the first of several train journeys we would make as we traveled around Sweden, and it was an easy beginning. We settled in with our backpacks and had a quiet, comfortable, 40-minute ride north to Uppsala.

We arrived in Uppsala, and our accommodation was only about a five-minute walk from the train station. Once again, we got lucky. Even though we arrived around 10:00 in the morning, our room was already available, so we were able to drop our backpacks and settle in right away.

Uppsala Cathedral – the beautiful facade, frescos, stained glass, and the Vasa Chapel bathed in sunlight

This would be the smallest room of our trip, and it immediately reminded me of the sleeping compartment we had on the overnight train from Helsinki to Rovaniemi in Finland. The room was windowless, but it was perfectly sufficient for our needs. We had bunk beds, a small table that folded down from the wall, and folding chairs that hung on the wall when they were not in use. It was all very compact and very efficiently arranged. Very Scandinavian. We dropped our backpacks, freshened up a little, and headed back out to explore Uppsala.

From our accommodation, it was a quick walk into the center of town, where we crossed the Fyris River for the first time. The river runs right through central Uppsala, crossed by a series of small bridges, and it gives the city a particularly lovely feel. I would end up walking alongside it, or crossing back and forth over it, several times before the day was over.

Our first stop was Uppsala Cathedral. This was not just another pretty European church. Construction began in 1270 and continued until its completion and consecration in 1435. At nearly 119 meters high, it is the largest church in the Nordic countries, and Swedish kings and queens were crowned here from 1441 until 1719.

Inside the cathedral, what stood out most to me were the stained glass and the frescoes. I have come to find that I have a fondness for church frescoes. We saw several beautiful examples in the churches of Kosovo last year. They are beautiful, but I also love the way they tell stories visually. For centuries, they brought biblical stories to life, making them accessible to people who could not read or could not afford books.

That plaza in front of Uppsala University’s main building

The Vasa Chapel was particularly striking. Gustav Vasa and two of his queens are buried there, and the chapel is located at the eastern end of the cathedral, behind the main altar. When we visited, it was bathed in golden sunlight, which made the painted walls and ceiling and the tomb in the center even more beautiful.

From the cathedral, we walked over to Uppsala University. Founded in 1477, it is the oldest university in Sweden and the oldest in the Nordic countries. My daughter is 14 and just beginning high school, so college is still several years away, but she is beginning to think about where she might eventually want to go. Right now, the world is full of possibilities.

We wandered around the campus and stopped at Gustavianum, the oldest surviving building at Uppsala University. It is probably best known for its 17th-century Anatomical Theatre, although we did not go up to see it. What my daughter really wanted was the museum shop. She loves collecting T-shirts from places we have visited, and she was hoping to find one from Uppsala University. Success.

Walking around the university also got both of us thinking a little about the future. What if she actually went to university here someday? And, naturally, that led to what I would do. Maybe I could live in Uppsala too? It was fun to imagine.

Some of the beautiful flowers of the Uppsala Uni botanical garden, including the Anthony’s Poison Arrow Frog

After visiting the cathedral and university, it was time for lunch. Earlier, as we were walking through town, my daughter had announced, “I smell burgers. We have to have burgers for lunch.” So we found the interestingly named Bastard Burgers, a Swedish fast-food chain founded just ten years ago. While we were eating, I looked it up and found there was quite a bit more to like about it than just the burgers. The chain is New York-inspired, but very Swedish in its approach, with an emphasis on fresh ingredients, local sourcing, and sustainability. The burgers were some of the best I have ever had from a fast-food chain. C and I both gave it a thumbs up, and it was so tasty, we would visit Bastard Burgers two more times during our time in Sweden.

After lunch, we headed toward the botanical gardens. My original plan had been to visit the Linnaeus Garden and the house where Carl Linnaeus lived while he was a professor at Uppsala University. Linnaeus is one of Sweden’s most famous scientists and is best known for developing the system used to classify and name plants and animals. He became a professor at Uppsala University in 1741 and also took over its botanical garden.

Somehow, though, I managed to end up at a different botanical garden.

This was not entirely as random as it sounds. The Linnaeus Garden was Sweden’s first botanical garden, founded in 1655. By the late 1700s, it had become overcrowded and was also prone to flooding because of its location near the river. In 1787, King Gustav III donated part of the gardens of Uppsala Castle to the university for a new botanical garden. The plants were eventually transferred to the new garden, which opened in 1807.

So I had still found a Linnaeus-related botanical garden. Just not the one I had intended to visit.

The Baroque Gardens of the Uppsala Botanical Garden

We walked through the formal gardens toward the Linneanum, the large building at the far end. King Gustav III also provided money for its construction, and it opened in 1807 as part of the new botanical garden. I had been trying to get there before it closed, so there was a certain amount of determined walking involved.

Once inside, however, it felt strangely empty. With the exception of a succulent greenhouse that had little to make it a standout, there were no other exhibits in the halls and the other rooms were closed. This was quite frankly a let down. After some online sleuthing while we stood there, I discovered it was due to the season. During the summer, many of the plants kept inside had been moved outdoors. We had walked past them outside, and honestly, I had hardly noticed them.

This could not be all there was in a botanical garden with such history! I recalled a sign I had seen directing visitors to the garden’s Tropical Greenhouse across the street. Online information noted it was still open for about another hour and C and I decided to check it out.

As we headed over, I was reading more about the greenhouse and discovered that one of the rooms is home to a colony of poison dart frogs! I kept that little bit of information to myself for a while until we were inside. There I told C. No worries though, poison dart frogs in captivity have a different diet from those in the wild, they are no longer poisonous. So now we had a new goal: find one.

Uppsala Castle

We started searching the room, looking especially around the bases of trees and near the small streams and other damp areas where we thought a frog might be hiding. It took a little while, which made it feel like a scavenger hunt. Eventually, C spotted one near the water. We were both enthusiastic about our find and told other visitors where they could spot it too. C immediately posted that she had found a poison dart frog to her social media. It was an unexpected and very fun addition to our visit.

After leaving the greenhouse, we walked up to Uppsala Castle. The castle has played a prominent role in Swedish history since Gustav Vasa began construction in 1549, and Queen Christina famously abdicated the Swedish throne there in 1654. By the 1600s, it had also become the seat of the regional governor, and the County Governor still has an official residence there today.

Because the castle is still a functioning government residence, there was only so much of it we could see, but the hilltop location made the visit worthwhile. From there, we had lovely views over Uppsala and toward the cathedral, whose twin spires dominate the skyline.

Afterward, I took C back to the room because she wanted to rest for a while. Late afternoon was also a good time for her to catch up with friends back in the United States. I headed back out on my own, much as I had in Gamla Stan. I enjoy getting in some extra walking, and I can move at my own pace, stop for photos as often as I want, and linger over things that C has absolutely no interest in photographing.

I walked the length of the main street and then made my way back along the Fyris River. I stopped for some ice cream and sat outside by the water near one of the bridges. By then it was golden hour again, and Uppsala looked especially pretty in the late-afternoon light.

Another view across the Fyris River in Uppsala

The Fyris River runs right through the center of town, and Uppsala has grown around it in a way that makes the river feel like part of the city rather than something running beside it. There are mills and reminders of its more practical past, but today the bridges, paths, and buildings along the water make it a particularly lovely place to walk. There were so many beautiful spots that I took many photos.

Before heading back to the room, I stopped at a supermarket and picked up a few things for dinner. Our one day in Uppsala had been very full, but it felt satisfying. The next morning, we would pack up again and head on to our next destination.

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Sweden Summer, Part Two: Stockholm from Shipwrecks to SkyView

The second installment of my daughter and my August 2026 visit to Sweden.

Gamla Stan from the bridge to Skeppsholmen

C and I slept well and woke up early, so I felt my plan to beat jet lag was working. It was overcast and raining slightly as we set out. I had been watching the forecast carefully because we had two more days in Stockholm: one for museums and one with more time outdoors. The rainy day was clearly the day to visit the museums on Djurgården.

We set out through a light mist, planning to walk the roughly 30 minutes to Djurgården and take the ferry back. Google Maps led us from Gamla Stan onto Skeppsholmen, the neighboring island. The bridge was lovely, with a beautiful view back across the water toward Gamla Stan. Skeppsholmen itself was green and surprisingly hilly, with several lovely old buildings. We walked up a rise and down the other side, following the map toward Djurgården. Only when we reached the water did I realize that the route ahead was a ferry, not a continuation of our walk.

The ferry was approaching, so we got on. Unfortunately, it was headed back toward Gamla Stan. We stayed aboard and rode it back toward Djurgården, stopping a second time at Skeppsholmen along the way. The unexpected detour gave us a chance to see the islands from the water, and the approach to Djurgården was particularly nice. The ferry landed right in front of Gröna Lund, Sweden’s oldest amusement park, and from there we headed for the Vasa Museum.

Although we had woken up early, we had not left quite as early as I had planned, and I had not expected the Vasa Museum to attract such a crowd on a weekday in August. The line stretched up the rise toward another museum. Rather than join it immediately, we sat down for fika. C had hot chocolate and a snack, and I had tea and a cinnamon roll—a Swedish invention and one of Sweden’s great contributions to the world. It was fantastic, and the first of many I would enjoy on this trip. When we finished, the line had hardly changed, so we decided to visit the Wreck Museum first.

C outside the Vrak Museum

Vrak, or the Museum of Wrecks, is an award-winning interactive museum on the Djurgården waterfront (it was a finalist for the European Museum of the Year Award in 2024 and won Sweden’s Museum of the Year Award in 2026). It is housed in a World War II-era boat hangar. We took few photos inside because we were too busy with the exhibits: a VR dive that let us search an underwater wreck, an immersive film telling the Baltic Sea’s story, and holographic images of objects from the wreck of a 17th-century ship. We learned not only about famous Swedish wrecks, but also about how people search for them and salvage objects from them. It was quite cool, and we really enjoyed it.

After visiting Vrak, we returned to the Vasa Museum. The line was significantly shorter, and I am so glad we visited the museums in that order. Vrak may have won awards, but after seeing Vasa, nothing could compare. As soon as we walked in, there was the ship towering before us. It took my breath away. It was several stories high—an entire seventeenth-century warship standing inside a building—and its craftsmanship and carvings were gorgeous. I was enthralled.

Vasa was built at Stockholm’s navy yard between 1626 and 1628. It set sail on its maiden voyage on August 10, 1628, but after about 20 minutes began taking on water and sank. Only a little way into our visit did it occur to me that we were there on August 10—398 years to the day after Vasa set sail. That felt extraordinary, and I wondered whether the anniversary might have helped explain the size of the crowd that morning. The ship was raised in 1961, after 333 years underwater, and more than 98 percent of its original structure survives.

The museum is built around the ship and tells so much more of its story: the people who built and sailed it, life aboard, its brief maiden voyage and sinking, and its eventual discovery and salvage. We spent probably three hours there and left only because we were hungry. We could have stayed longer, and I think even C could have stayed a while more—though perhaps not quite as long as I would have. It is one of the most incredible museums I have ever visited.

Just some of the magnificence of the ship Vasa

Motivated by food, C and I left Djurgården behind. We had considered the ABBA Museum, which sounded fun, but the reviews I read suggested it was small and pricey. After seeing Vasa, I was good, and C was as well. We were tired after a good four hours of museuming. We walked back across the bridge to the mainland and had lunch at an Italian restaurant in the elegant Östermalm neighborhood. Afterwards, we meandered through the streets back to our hotel in Gamla Stan. We had had such a busy first day, followed by another busy day, that I did not want to pack anything else in. We needed time to rest and reflect on what we had done so far.

We woke early on our third day in Sweden to head to Stockholm City Hall for a tour of its tower. Completed in 1923, Stockholm City Hall sits on the northern shore of Riddarfjärden, a broad stretch of Lake Mälaren in central Stockholm. The building has hosted the annual Nobel Prize banquet since 1930.

Although it is called a tower tour, it is not guided. The tower is open to visitors only during the summer months, and the number of people admitted during each 40-minute block is limited. We were given 10 minutes to climb, 20 minutes at the top, and 10 minutes to descend. At 348 feet high, the tower offers a panoramic view over central Stockholm. It was a bright, gorgeous morning, and although it was windy at the top, we had a tremendous view across the water and several of the islands that make up Stockholm, including Gamla Stan.

Stockholm City Hall and the view from the tower toward Gamla Stan

Just a two-minute walk from City Hall was the departure point for our boat to Drottningholm Palace. The trip took about an hour, winding among the large islands and narrow waterways of Lake Mälaren. I was surprised to learn that we were traveling on a lake at all. It looked much more like a network of rivers than any lake I had seen before.

The boat was crowded, and all the seats on the upper deck were taken. Given how chilly it was on the water, however, I was quite happy for C and me to huddle on benches near the snack bar inside, stepping outside whenever I wanted a better look at the view. We also took advantage of the snack bar for a morning fika. I had my second cinnamon roll of the trip, and it was every bit as delicious as the first.

As we drew closer to Drottningholm, I went outside to watch our approach. Arriving at the palace by water is spectacular. Its sunny yellow façade appeared ahead of us against a startlingly clear blue sky, and even before we docked, I could see why the royal estate had been named a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Drottningholm is Sweden’s best-preserved royal palace from the 1600s and remains the home of the Swedish king and queen. Because it is still a functioning royal residence, only part of the palace is open to visitors, and, as at the Royal Palace in Gamla Stan, it did not take us particularly long to walk through the available rooms. I loved the building itself. Inside, however, I discovered that I apparently have a much higher tolerance for grand architecture than for gilded interiors. After a certain number of royal residences, one lavish room begins to blur into the next.

Once outside, I connected with Drottningholm in a way I had not inside. The gardens were still carefully shaped and unmistakably royal in scale, but they felt like a place to explore rather than a collection to admire from behind a rope. The palace and grounds were French-inspired and borrowed heavily from French Baroque design, making the connection to Versailles easy to see. Yet Drottningholm, though one of Sweden’s top tourist attractions, did not come with the crowds found at Versailles. The farther we wandered from the palace, the fewer visitors we encountered.

My favorite part of the grounds was the Chinese Pavilion and the quiet area surrounding it. I particularly liked the long path lined with chestnut trees and the views across the open spaces framed by long rows of trees. Tucked away a substantial walk from the main palace, the pavilion felt far enough removed to serve as the royal family’s getaway from the big house. It began as a birthday gift from King Adolf Fredrik to Queen Lovisa Ulrika in 1753—because what do you give a queen who already lives in a palace? A vacation mini-palace, apparently. European royalty at the time was a bit obsessed with all things Chinese, and that enthusiasm carried through not only the architecture but also the wallpaper, furnishings, and decorative details inside. Having spent quite a bit of my own life living in, working in, and traveling through China and elsewhere in East Asia, I could understand their interest.

The dining pavilion at Drottningholm’s Chinese Pavilion

We had lunch at the Palace Café and then, rather than returning by boat, took a bus and the subway to the Avicii Arena in southern Stockholm. We were there to ride SkyView, a one-of-a-kind attraction—the only one in the world—in which a clear, spherical gondola crawls up the outside of the Avicii Arena, the world’s largest spherical building.

We arrived at the SkyView ticket counter at 3:15 p.m. only to learn that a group of more than 100 people had booked several rides just before us. There are only two gondolas, each holding 12 people, and a complete ride, including boarding, takes about 25 minutes. The next available tickets were for 5:30 p.m. We had nothing else planned for the day, and the Avicii Arena is next to a shopping mall, so we bought the tickets and headed to the mall to look around.

There, we discovered Normal, a super-fun non-pharmacy drugstore. It was sort of like CVS in the United States, but with a cute, maze-like layout, colorful displays, and lots of delicious imported snacks and sweets. Exploring Normal and enjoying some more fika helped the time pass quickly.

Finally, it was our turn to board SkyView. We were supposed to watch an introductory video first, but someone forgot to show it to us. No matter. We went directly into the gondola, where only two other passengers joined us.

The gondola slowly crawled up the side of the arena until it reached the top, 130 meters, or about 425 feet, above sea level. It paused there for a few minutes so that we could take in the view. The immediate surroundings were more residential and commercial than picturesque, but beyond them Stockholm spread out below us, and we could see toward Gamla Stan and the historic center. It was another gorgeous, clear afternoon; on a cloudy day, I doubt the view would have been quite as spectacular. SkyView was one of those special activities to check off the list—something we could do nowhere else in the world.

Left: A gondola travels along the side of the Avicii Arena; Right: C looks out at Stockholm from inside a gondola at the top of the Avicii Arena

Afterwards, we returned to the subway and rode back to Gamla Stan. We picked up a few things from the supermarket to make dinner in our room. Once again, C remained at the hotel while I took one more late-afternoon spin through the gorgeous streets of Gamla Stan. Then I returned to the room so that we could both prepare for the next day, when we would leave Stockholm for our next destination.

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Sweden Summer, Part One: Planning and Arrival in Stockholm

Crossing from the island of Stadsholmen, where Gamla Stan is located, to the mainland; Weather on our first was fabulous.

Late last year, only a few months after our wonderful summer road trip through Kosovo, Albania, and Montenegro, I began thinking about where C and I might go the following summer. The Balkans had been C’s idea and, delighted by how well that trip had turned out, she was keen to see another part of Europe. Italy initially rose to the top of the list, but the thought of traveling there during the heat of August gave me pause. A few years earlier, after a DNA test estimated that C was around 10 percent Scandinavian, she had expressed an interest in learning more about Sweden and visiting someday. August also seemed one of the best times to go. And with that, we had our destination.

Once I settled on Sweden, I began imagining how we would travel through it. I love traveling by train and have fond memories of rail journeys in China, Australia, New Zealand, and across Europe, as well as our more recent cross-country trip from Chicago to Los Angeles. Sweden seemed like an ideal place to build an itinerary largely around train travel. We would ultimately take a little bit of everything, but this would not be another self-drive trip. To make it easier to board trains and walk between stations and hotels, C and I would also leave our suitcases at home and travel with backpacks.

Sweden has a reputation for being expensive, and when I backpacked through Europe in my twenties, I largely avoided Scandinavia and other places where my limited budget would not go very far. More than two decades later, I could finally make Sweden happen, but I still wanted to keep the costs under control. I booked our plane tickets using miles, chose relatively inexpensive accommodations, and used hotel points for about a third of our stays.

Using miles meant accepting a less-than-ideal itinerary: Dulles to Rome, Rome to Munich, and finally Munich to Stockholm. Two connections were not ideal, but since I was paying little more than the taxes, I went with it. Then the war with Iran began, oil prices rose, and I started hearing about shorter flights within Europe being cancelled. I worried that one of our European flights might disappear. I figured that once we were in Europe, we could always take a train—but Rome is a very long way from Stockholm, and getting there by rail would have taken days and unraveled much of our carefully planned itinerary.

Then, in May, the trip faced a far more personal threat when I developed a debilitating case of sciatica. For three days I could barely get out of bed, and for a time I struggled to walk even with a cane. This was not going to be a relaxing beach holiday; our plans depended upon my being able to carry a backpack, walk between train stations and hotels, and spend full days sightseeing. I became genuinely worried that I would not be physically capable of taking the trip at all.

By August, however, none of our flights had been cancelled and, although I had not fully recovered, I had recovered enough to go. I would ultimately do remarkably well in Sweden, but I did not know that when we arrived at Dulles. I was simply thrilled that after months of worrying about whether the trip would happen, C and I were finally on our way.

Storkyrkan or the Stockholm Cathedral bathed in late afternoon light of our first evening

Or so I thought.

Nine minutes before boarding, United apparently discovered that our flight did not have pilots. Storms had snarled air traffic that day, leaving our assigned crew stranded elsewhere. United announced a two-hour delay, but two and a half hours passed before we finally took off. We had only a three-hour layover in Rome. It did not look good.

Before takeoff, one of the pilots walked through each section of the plane to apologize. He told us that he thought he could make up nearly an hour during the flight. Everyone cheered—and he did it. We landed in Rome shortly after 3 PM, leaving us about an hour and a half before our next flight departed.

We followed the signs for transit, passed through immigration to enter the European Union, and then somehow found ourselves all the way outside the secure area. We had to go upstairs, pass through security again, and find our gate. By then, we were running. A good portion of the plane had already boarded when we arrived, but we made it.

Our flight from Munich to Stockholm also departed about 40 minutes late. Instead of arriving just before midnight, we landed closer to o-dark-thirty and did not reach our airport hotel until 1 AM. It had been a very long journey, but we were finally in Sweden.

Knowing that we would arrive late, I had planned for us to spend our first night at a hotel near the airport. We arrived even later than expected, but after a good night’s sleep, we were up early and ready to begin our first full day in Sweden. We returned to the airport and took a bus into central Stockholm. The train would have been faster, but shortly before the trip I learned that the bus cost roughly a third as much. Given that we were not in any particular hurry that morning, the bus won.

The grand west staircase in Stockholm’s Royal Palace

From Stockholm Central Station, we walked toward Gamla Stan, Stockholm’s historic old town. Stockholm began to take shape there in the 13th century, and the district still retains its medieval lanes and street pattern. Many of the buildings seen today, however, date from the 16th through the 18th centuries, with much of the architecture reflecting the Swedish Empire period.

I very much wanted us to stay in Gamla Stan. I loved the idea of being able to step outside and wander its old cobblestone streets early in the morning or later in the evening, after many of the tourist hordes had departed. I have stayed in the historic centers of several cities and find something extraordinary about briefly feeling as though those streets are also part of my neighborhood.

Our accommodations were simple: a small room with two twin beds and a shared bathroom, the only one we would have during the trip. It was C’s introduction to one of the “joys” of backpacking—accepting fewer amenities in exchange for a central location at a price that did not break the bank. We would be just steps from history, although, honestly, it is difficult not to be steps from history in Stockholm.

Even better, although we arrived well before the usual check-in time, our room was already ready. We dropped off our backpacks, turned around, and headed straight back out. Our first stop was the Royal Palace.

The Royal Palace was just a hop, skip, and a jump from our modest accommodations. The area outside the palace and neighboring cathedral was already full of people, and as we approached, C spotted three Scouts sitting at the base of a nearby statue. “Let’s go talk to them,” I said, at which point C promptly disappeared around the corner of a building while I went over to introduce myself. I learned that they were British Scouts on a Scouting holiday in Sweden and had spent the previous week on an island with some Swedish Scouts. It seemed like a pleasant but incidental encounter at the time. Later in our trip, however, it would make a significant difference.

The front facade of the Royal Palace during my golden hour walk of our first evening

Like much of Gamla Stan, the Royal Palace has medieval bones beneath its Baroque exterior. We opted for a self-guided tour through the 23 lavishly decorated state rooms open to visitors—a small portion of a palace with more than 600 rooms. I am always struck by the layout of old palaces, where one room opens directly into the next, whether a bedroom or dining room, rather than onto a hallway. The palace felt to me like an urban Versailles, while its location in the old city reminded me of Luxembourg Palace. C and I spent about an hour wandering through the rooms but opted not to visit the Treasury.

Just across from the palace stands Stockholm Cathedral, its warm, peach-colored Baroque exterior concealing a church whose history stretches back to the 13th century. It is the oldest church in Stockholm and served for centuries as the coronation church for Swedish monarchs. Among its treasures is the striking wooden sculpture of Saint George and the Dragon, dating from 1489. Of all the cathedrals I have dragged C to over the years, I had never seen her take such an interest in one. She really took her time looking around and seemed to enjoy it even more than the palace.

After leaving the cathedral, we crossed one of the bridges linking Gamla Stan to the rest of central Stockholm. I had promised C that we would visit the shopping area, although this was not exactly how I had envisioned spending our first day in Sweden. She particularly wanted to visit Brandy Melville. Never mind that there is a Brandy Melville in Georgetown that she visits regularly; this was the first and only Brandy Melville in Sweden, and she hoped to find some Sweden-specific merchandise. Unfortunately, the last of it had sold that very morning, only hours before we arrived. Still, she was happy to have gone. We continued along the shopping streets, stopped for a few nibbles, and then returned to our room for a short rest.

Later, we headed to the Nobel Prize Museum on Stortorget, Stockholm’s oldest square. The museum is housed in the former Stockholm Stock Exchange Building, constructed in the 1770s and now also home to the Swedish Academy, which selects the recipient of the Nobel Prize in Literature.

For visitors, the entire museum is on one floor, and that floor also includes the entrance, the information and ticket desk, a café, and the museum shop. That does not leave all that much space for exhibits. One of the museum’s more unusual features is that Nobel Prize recipients are asked to donate a personal item that reflects their journey. Some of their choices are certainly interesting. Among the objects we saw were a jar of peanut butter and a pair of nail clippers, both of which we found especially odd. Overall, C and I were amused, but not particularly engaged, and we stayed for less time than I had expected.

The stunning Stortorget, meaning “Great Square.”

Afterward, we had dinner at a restaurant on Stortorget. C was ready to return to our room, while I took advantage of the golden hour to walk the streets of Gamla Stan by myself and take photos after the crowds had thinned. My solo walk also gave me time to take stock of our day. After all my worries that the trip might not happen—or that I might not be physically able to manage it—we had made it. I had walked nearly 25,000 steps, and we had seen so much on our first day. Our summer trip to Sweden was off to a great start.

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A Norfolk Celebration

When my daughter C finished middle school, I wanted to do something special to celebrate this milestone. Instead of buying her another “thing,” I bought concert tickets for one of her favorite artists, Gigi Perez. We had seen Gigi Perez open for Hozier the previous September, but this time she was the main act.

Once I realized we would be making the trip to southeastern Virginia, it seemed a shame to drive down for only an evening. I had been to Norfolk a handful of times while I was in college in nearby Williamsburg, but only for concerts. I had never really taken the time to explore the city. So what began as a concert quickly became a two-day getaway. We stayed in a beautiful historic hotel, visited museums and gardens, unexpectedly found ourselves among tall ships from around the world, and celebrated the close of one chapter in C’s life before she embarked on the next.

We left Arlington on Wednesday afternoon, a few hours after C’s eighth-grade promotion ceremony. The drive took a little longer than I had hoped. Between Washington-area traffic and a few extra stops to stretch my legs, it was evening by the time we reached Norfolk.

Fortunately, we did not need to go anywhere else that night because our hotel was an attraction in its own right. The Glass Light Hotel & Gallery occupies a 13-story Classical Revival building dating to 1912. For 63 years, it was the tallest building in Norfolk, and many of its historic architectural details have been preserved.

The beautiful Glass Light Hotel & Gallery corner building; “Pops” gracing the hotel bar

The hotel also houses the Perry Glass Art Collection, with more than 65 works displayed throughout the property. Two of Dutch artist Peter Bremers’ whimsical rabbit sculptures, Bunny and Pops, greet guests in the lobby. I loved them.

Our first stop on Thursday morning was the Norfolk Botanical Garden. Botanical gardens have become a regular stop on many of our trips. I enjoy them, and over the years C has become a good sport about visiting them with me. I think she likes them more than she lets on.

The Norfolk Botanical Garden is the largest botanical garden in Virginia and is frequently ranked among the best in the United States. Unfortunately, the day was going to be a scorcher, with a heat advisory in effect and temperatures expected to climb into the upper 90s. Fortunately, we arrived just in time to catch the first complimentary narrated tram tour of the morning. We decided to get off at the Summer Butterfly House, ranked as the number one butterfly house in the United States.

Left: a Swallowtail butterfly; Center: Blooms in the Wildflower Meadow; Right: the Cecropia moth caterpillar

The Summer Butterfly House was easily the highlight of our visit to the gardens. Right at the entrance, volunteers were teaching visitors about the butterflies, moths, and caterpillars we would see inside. One butterfly repeatedly flitted around a particular tree, occasionally landing to lay her eggs. We saw monarch butterflies and caterpillars, spicebush swallowtail caterpillars that looked like little lizards, and a cecropia moth caterpillar. C and I spent about 45 minutes in the butterfly house before finally continuing our visit.

By the time we left the butterfly house, the temperature had climbed noticeably. We made our way from the gardens’ more educational section to the formal display gardens. C and I were both feeling the heat, and our phone batteries seemed to be draining almost as quickly as we were. We focused on a few highlights—the Canal Walk, the Renaissance Court, the Perennial Garden, and the Japanese Garden—and made the most of our time there. The gardens are beautiful, and we still spent about two hours exploring them, but I think they are probably best appreciated on a cooler day.

Recuperated, we then walked about 20 minutes to the amazing Chrysler Museum of Art. The museum opened in 1933 as the Norfolk Museum of Arts and Sciences in the same building it occupies today, overlooking an inlet of the Elizabeth River and the historic Ghent neighborhood. But the former Norfolk Museum of Arts and Sciences became the Chrysler Museum of Art after Walter P. Chrysler of Chrysler Motors donated the majority of his considerable art collection to the museum in 1971. Today it is a world-class museum that is also free!

There were many wonderful works of art in the Chrysler Museum of Art in Norfolk, but these were my favorites among the favorites.

The museum was so much more than I expected. We easily spent two hours wandering its galleries, admiring everything from ancient artifacts and sculpture to contemporary paintings. After our visit to the Museum of Modern Art in New York in March, C had jokingly decided that Jackson Pollock was her favorite artist and insisted on finding one of his works. Lo and behold, there it was: Number 23, 1951. We were both delighted by her unexpected discovery.

We made our way back to the hotel, picking up some food and snacks along the way. After relaxing in our room for a couple of hours, we headed the few blocks to the NorVa, the intimate venue where we would see Gigi Perez. Having recently injured my back, I was a bit wary of standing shoulder-to-shoulder with 1,500 people for the next couple of hours, but this was C’s eighth-grade graduation gift. I would live.

One of the great things about the NorVa is its intimate size. Even though we were not among the first in line for this first-come, first-served venue, we still found a decent spot and could see well enough. I found a place against a railing where I could lean and occasionally prop up my leg to give my back a break, while C could wander a little closer to the stage without ever leaving my sight.

The NorVa reminded me of many a concert I attended in Norfolk and Newport News in the 1990s. After seeing Gigi Perez with C the year before, I had become a fan myself. Her music has a way of drawing you in with its honesty and emotion. I managed to last nearly the whole concert before I started to feel like an injured middle-aged lady.

The next morning, C and I made our way over to Nauticus, a maritime museum and science center. Included with admission is a tour of the USS Wisconsin, a decommissioned Iowa-class battleship. As C had joined the Sea Scouts the year before, I thought it would be cool to visit a museum like this in a city that hosts the world’s largest naval station.

We started off with a visit to the USS Wisconsin. Moored beside the museum, its massive steel hull is an imposing sight. We chose to explore on our own rather than take a guided tour, but we spent time talking with several volunteers, all former Navy sailors, some of whom had even served aboard the Wisconsin. They were happy to answer questions about both the ship and their time in the Navy.

While I have been aboard a few naval ships over the years—including the USS Blue Ridge during a visit to Jakarta in 2010 while I worked in the Defense Attaché Office, the decommissioned USS Yorktown in Charleston, and the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower back in 1995, when my then-boyfriend appeared on Wheel of Fortune, which was filmed aboard the ship. Even with those experiences, it is not every day that a civilian gets the chance to explore one of these ships, and I still find them awe-inspiring.

After touring the USS Wisconsin, we spent some time exploring the exhibits inside Nauticus. The museum does an excellent job of combining informative displays with interactive exhibits about ships, the sea, and maritime life. We could easily have spent much longer there, but another attraction was calling to us.

C aboard the USS Wisconsin and Peru’s incredible BAP Union, South America’s largest sailing ship

We had unknowingly timed our visit to coincide with Sail250, an international maritime celebration held in conjunction with the United States’ semiquincentennial. More than 60 tall ships and naval vessels representing 20 countries had gathered in Norfolk, transforming the waterfront into a maritime parade route.

We made our way down to the waterfront in front of Nauticus and managed to snag a pretty great spot to watch the parade of ships. One after another, tall ships and naval vessels from around the world passed by. The Blue Angels also flew over twice while we watched. Afterwards, we wandered over to Town Point Park, where many of the visiting ships were open for tours. There were food vendors, live entertainment, exhibits, and activities throughout the waterfront, and the whole area had a joyful, festive atmosphere.

Eventually, we decided we had had enough excitement for one weekend and made the drive back to Arlington. It was a wonderful way to celebrate C’s eighth-grade promotion and an opportunity for the two of us to experience Norfolk together.

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In and Around DC: Activities Spring 2026

A dogwood, Virginia’s State Flower, in bloom in early Spring 2026.

Since arriving in Washington, D.C., C and I have tried to make the most of my posting here by exploring the city and the surrounding region whenever we can. Whether visiting museums, attending special events, or discovering places just beyond the Beltway, we have enjoyed experiencing all that the National Capital Region has to offer. While Spring 2026 brought more challenges than we expected, we still found opportunities to get out, explore, and make a few more memories together.

The first activity we tried this spring was Puppy Yoga. With Washington’s unpredictable weather in late March, it seemed like a good choice. As it turned out, we could not have asked for a more beautiful day, with warm temperatures and clear skies.

We took the Metro to Rosslyn and then walked across the Francis Scott Key Memorial Bridge, perhaps my favorite bridge into Washington. The bridge offers beautiful views of the Potomac River, and I especially enjoy seeing the towers of Georgetown University rising above the trees.

Each week, Puppy Yoga features a different breed. We lucked out with the puppies that day as the featured puppies were corgis, C’s favorite kind of dog. They were absolutely adorable. There was also one especially friendly Bernedoodle puppy that “attacked” both C and me with enthusiastic face licks. We had 45 minutes of yoga instruction, with puppies on the loose, followed by 30 minutes of puppy playtime. The time was very generous. We all got enough puppy time, and for those who wanted the yoga – like me – we had an excellent session. I found the whole thing therapeutic. We enjoyed it so much we returned for more puppy yoga six weeks later.

Getting our therapy done with adorable puppies and yoga; the puppies alternate between rambunctious and exhaustion

Two weekends later, we were greeted with another beautiful spring day. My plan was to take C to the Bluebell Festival at Riverbend Park, a beautiful Fairfax County park adjacent to Great Falls National Park. For just a few weeks each spring, Virginia bluebells blanket parts of the park in a carpet of delicate violet-blue wildflowers.

Unfortunately, it seemed everyone else in Northern Virginia had the same idea. By the time we arrived, the parking lots were full and park staff had stopped admitting additional visitors.

Rather than call it a day, C asked if we could go to Annapolis, Maryland, instead. Now that she is firmly in the Sea Scouts, she had expressed an interest in visiting America’s Sailing Capital and the U.S. Naval Academy, and I had been telling her for some time that I would take her. Annapolis was certainly not nearby, but with such a beautiful day, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to make the trip.

The Maryland State House, the country’s oldest state capitol in continuous legistative use seen from blooming tulips; C at the Annapolis City Dock

We strolled along the historic streets of downtown Annapolis, visited the campus of St. John’s College—the nation’s third-oldest college after Harvard University and my alma mater, William & Mary—and popped into the Museum of Historic Annapolis along the waterfront. Unfortunately, the United States Naval Academy was closed to all visitors due to security protocols, so C drowned her disappointment by picking up some USNA merchandise at a shop on Main Street.

A few hearty bluebells remained

With temperatures climbing into the mid-80s—almost unheard of in early April—we were not especially hungry. Instead, we each got an ice cream and sat by the city dock enjoying a little taste of summer in April while watching the boats and the people go by.

Two weeks later, while C was away on a Scout campout, I returned alone to Riverbend Park. The peak bloom for the Virginia bluebells had passed, though a few patches were still hanging on. The festival crowds were gone, and while there were still plenty of other hikers enjoying the beautiful spring morning, the trails felt wonderfully peaceful. I spent a couple of hours wandering through the woods, occasionally emerging along the banks of the Potomac before the trail disappeared back beneath the trees. It was a wonderful way to spend a spring morning and a welcome chance to slow down and enjoy being in nature.

In late April, I drove C to New York so she could participate in Sea Scout University, hosted by a New York-based Sea Scout ship at SUNY Maritime College. The college is located on the narrow peninsula of Throggs Neck in the Bronx and occupies part of historic Fort Schuyler.

Rather than make the long drive early Saturday morning, we left Virginia after work and school on Friday afternoon and spent the night at a hotel in Flushing, Queens. The following morning, I dropped C off at Sea Scout University, where she spent the day taking classes and meeting Sea Scouts from other ships, primarily from New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania. I had planned to spend the day sightseeing while she was in class, so I drove out to Oyster Bay on Long Island in hopes that the weather might improve. Unfortunately, the steady rain never let up, and my sightseeing plans were largely washed out.

Sea Scout University took place in the classrooms of the Maritime Industry Museum at Fort Schuyler on the campus of SUNY Maritime College; C had an opportunity to try the same navigation simulator as the college students

At 5:00 p.m., I picked C up from the college, and we began the drive back to Virginia. Despite missing out on some exploring of my own, I never mind a good road trip with my kiddo. And though brief, we had an opportunity to see more of New York outside of Manhattan.

Our next adventure came about through one of C’s Scouting commitments. In addition to being active in her own troop, she serves as the Den Chief for a Webelos den in a local Cub Scout pack. As part of that role, we joined several of the Cub Scouts and their families for an afternoon of kayaking on the historic Chesapeake and Ohio Canal National Historical Park at Pennyfield Lock.

Although showers had been in the forecast, they never materialized. Instead, we enjoyed two wonderful hours paddling along a particularly scenic stretch of the canal. Surrounded by lush greenery and the quiet waters of the C&O Canal, it was hard to believe we were only a short drive from downtown Washington. It was another perfect spring afternoon.

C paddles ahead of me on the C&O Canal at Pennyfield Lock

By May, however, the season took an unexpected turn. With our apartment move scheduled for the end of the month, just after Memorial Day, I had intentionally kept our calendar fairly light. C had a one-night biking campout with her Scout troop at Antietam one weekend and later traveled with her Sea Scout ship to Sea Scout Academy at Fort Monroe. My plan was to spend those weekends preparing for the move.

Then, on Mother’s Day, everything changed.

While standing in my kitchen on the morning of May 10, I was suddenly hit with searing, electric pain that shot from my lower back down my leg. I had not lifted anything or twisted awkwardly. I had simply been standing there. The pain was so intense that I froze in place for several minutes before I was finally able to limp to the sofa.

My recovery has been slow, and I have been much more limited in what I can do. After the move, we did manage one outing: a Washington Spirit match at the very end of May. I had purchased the tickets before my injury as a little treat to celebrate getting settled into our new home. For the half of the game I actually saw, it was an exciting match, and the Spirit won. Unfortunately, I spent the other half either in the stadium’s medical unit asking for pain medication or waiting in line to buy us hot dogs for dinner. It was not exactly the evening I had envisioned.

Although Spring 2026 did not unfold quite as I had envisioned, C and I still managed to get out and try a few new activities, discover a few new places, and, most importantly, spend quality time together. As summer begins, C is off enjoying her summer camps while I am taking things a little easier and focusing on my recovery. With a bit of luck—and a lot of physical therapy—I hope to be back on my feet and ready for our next big adventure.

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A Move of My Own

After nearly three and a half years in the same apartment, my daughter and I felt very much at home. Thirty-nine months may not sound like a long time, but for someone who has moved some thirty times in her life—and spent much of her adult life living overseas—it felt, if not permanent, at least quite comfortable. I expected we would remain there for at least another year before heading abroad again.

Then my landlord decided to sell. Try as I might, there would be no extension. We would have to move.

At first, I viewed it as a major inconvenience. Why move when I was perfectly happy where I was? We had lucked out finding this apartment after returning from Guinea – an amazing location right above a metro station, my daughter C’s bus stop just across the street, the building smack dab in the center of busy, happening Ballston. But after thirty-nine months in one place, part of me was actually itching for a change. I have spent much of my adult life moving. New places, new neighborhoods, new views out the window—they have a way of shaking up your routine and reminding you to see things a little differently. Our apartment had become a haven after Guinea; we have had many amazing experiences while living there. And yet, we had some hard times too. With C heading to high school and some transitions at work, maybe it was time for a new residence? Well, we had no choice.

Still, this move would be different.

I have moved so many times over the course of my life. Yet this spring, I learned there is a difference between moving and being moved.

That may sound strange coming from someone in the Foreign Service. For the past fifteen years, whenever I received orders for a new assignment, the U.S. government hired the movers. Then the movers packed our belongings, loaded the truck (or container), transported everything, and delivered it to our next home. I do not even have to find a place to live. The Embassy or Consulate provides the housing – like it or not, that is our home. It had been a long time since I had moved myself — and those were the days when a move only involved packing up what I could fit into my suitcases or a car.

I had certainly been moved many times.

I had just never really arranged a move myself.

As it turns out, there is a lot to learn.

First, I needed to find a new place. Arlington is one of the most expensive counties in the U.S. My rent was by no means cheap, but I had locked in a good rate for over three years. Still, as a single parent with one income, rental prices here still kind of blow my mind. But with C getting into a STEM school and wanting to stay close to friends, I had a smaller area to search in. After several months of searching and more than a few apartment tours, I found the right place for us. It was a relief to sign those papers.

I felt very proud of myself for hiring a small business operation to move my belongings. I found them one day at the loading dock, loading the belongings of someone moving out of my old building onto one of their trucks. The owner was on site, also moving, and I got his contact details and had him pop up to my apartment to get a lay of the land. He gave me cost and time estimates; I signed the contract and paid the deposit.

The night before the movers were to arrive, the owner texted me to ask if I was ready. Sure, I said, as ready as I will ever be. Spoiler alert: I was not ready.

OK. But then, honestly, I am never ready. I make lists of what things will go where – which items we use up or give away, what items go into our suitcases, or in the Unaccompanied Baggage (UAB), which will travel to our next Post by air, or the Household Effects (HHE), which will travel to our next Post by sea and/or land. I sort; I make piles. But it is always the morning of and the movers arrive and things start happening very quickly, and it becomes overwhelming.

This time was much the same. The three movers fanned out across the apartment and began wrapping things up. This time was a bit different as I actually had furniture. For the past 15 years, I have largely moved from furnished apartments where I am for State Department training to furnished homes overseas. I have not had much in the way of furniture, except for decorative pieces. Perhaps that is why I thought the movers were making such quick progress, as I watched large pieces get wrapped up and carted out? That is, if I were watching at all. I was in constant motion, still organizing things here and there. I usually pay more attention…

I was feeling pretty darn good about things. Look at me. I had found my own place to live. I had found my own movers. We were moving. Things seemed to be moving right about on time. I should have known better.

At three and a half hours in, I am starting to feel fatigued. This is usually when I want to lock myself in my bedroom and wish the movers away. The owner calls me into what was once my bedroom and tells me, “I think we have just about everything packed up. We will get a few more things and then drive the truck over to the new place and unload.” I look around my bedroom. It is not empty. There are several items on the floor, both closets are still full; I know my daughter’s bedroom has things strewn all over the floor; I know the movers have not been in the kitchen at all. I am very confused.

I mention this to the guy and he looks at me and says, “Oh, you wanted us to pack things for your too? Packing and moving are two different things.”

I was that years old when I learned that.

It was not the fault of the movers. I hired a small business that had probably never done a State Department pack-out. They are used to people moving locally or perhaps to a neighboring state, not another country. Their customers are usually well aware of the difference between packing and moving, so it never occurred to him to ask about it. And it was not my fault either. I have been moved by the government since January 2009. It never occurred to me that packing was not included.

At that point, we were where we were. The mover said he would take the items over to our new place, unload them, then he and his crew would grab a late lunch, buy packing materials, and meet us back at the old apartment. Unfortunately, that meant a move he had estimated would take three to four hours ended up taking ten. It cost me nearly twice as much as expected. But the movers were great—they rolled with it despite my mistake. I do not think everyone would have.

It was an exhausting day. Usually, when the State Department moves us, the pack-out from Location A takes two or three days. Nearly all of your belongings are then carted away, and you spend the last several weeks before your departure without most of your things. Sometime later—perhaps after months of training and finally arriving at Location B—your shipment is delivered. In my experience, that has been anywhere from three to eighteen months later. Here, I was moving only half a mile away, so all of my belongings were packed out of Apartment A and delivered to Apartment B on the very same day. I did not like it.

There were other challenges:

The electricity, which I thought would remain on until midnight, shut off in the middle of the day. There went my plan to do one final vacuum before handing over the apartment. It also meant the air conditioning stopped on an increasingly warm day, and suddenly I was paying much closer attention to everything sitting in the refrigerator. I went back at midnight to get the food.

At some point, the battery in my key fob died, making it a little extra challenging to load my car.

My sciatic nerve, which had already been making life interesting in the weeks before, reminded me that moving boxes and lifting things were not among its favorite activities.

When we finally arrived at the new apartment, the smoke alarm immediately decided to announce our arrival to the entire building.

And somewhere among what felt like a hundred boxes, the cat food disappeared. It eventually turned up – though weeks later. I had to order some online after my midnight foray to the gas station across the street revealed no cat food, only tuna, in a can, that needed a can opener, and I didn’t know where that was either.

When I went back the next day, I found three or four large boxes worth of my things still in the apartment! Lucky for me, I had asked for another day off from work and could keep bringing things over.

One of the stupendous sunsets from our former apartment. I will miss those sunsets — but our time there is done and it is time to make memories in our new place.

The day after the move, I returned to my old apartment to finish cleaning and meet my landlord one last time. It already felt different.

For thirty-nine months, I had known every corner of that apartment; I knew where the afternoon sun came through the windows, and exactly how to jiggle the front door when it stuck. I knew my neighbors and the front desk staff. Twenty-four hours later, it felt strangely unfamiliar. Not because anything had changed. I had. It had already become a place where I used to live.

Now, more than a month after the move, I am still settling in. The new apartment is only a few miles from the old one. I shop at many of the same stores, drive many of the same roads, and work in the same office. From the outside, very little has changed. And yet, home is more than geography. It turns out that feeling at home takes time, even when you have not gone very far.

Pictures find their places on the walls. The boxes gradually disappear. New routines quietly replace old ones. Eventually, this apartment will simply become home, just as the last one did. Until, someday, it is time to move again.

This move was hardly my longest. It did not involve passports, visas, shipping containers, or crossing oceans. It was only a few miles across Northern Virginia.

But it taught me something I had somehow missed after so many moves: There is a difference between moving and being moved.

This spring, for the first time, I experienced both.

by

Guatemala December 2005: Lost Memories of Antigua, Copan, and Tikal

This is the third and final installment of my trip to Guatemala in December 2005–January 2006. Because I never got around to typing up a travelogue of this last stretch, I have had to rely on my photos, a few brief diary entries, and my own Swiss-cheese memories from more than twenty years ago.

The Iglesia de La Merced in Antigua, Guatemala

After returning from the Tajumulco Volcano trek to Xela around 5 p.m., I took a room at Quetzaltrekkers, the guide company, simply because I had no energy to look elsewhere. I grabbed an early dinner and fell into a deep, heavy sleep.

I let myself sleep in the following day—well, until about 8 a.m. After being up before 5 a.m. the previous two days, this felt positively luxurious. I caught another chicken bus for the three-hour ride to Antigua, the former colonial capital of Guatemala and a UNESCO World Heritage Site, where I would ring in the New Year.

All I really did in Antigua was walk. I wandered the historic streets and soaked in the atmosphere. The city is an architectural wonder, full of 17th- and 18th-century Spanish Baroque buildings, many of them worn but still elegant. When my legs grew tired—which they did, especially so soon after the Tajumulco hike—I sat in the plazas and watched people, or grabbed street tacos and devoured them on park benches.

Given that my arrival coincided with New Year’s Eve, it is something of a miracle that I found a place to stay at all. It seemed that much of Guatemala, along with a large percentage of the tourists in the country, had converged on Antigua. Still, I lucked out with a simple place right in the center of the old city, with all the main sites within a stone’s throw.

The Arco de Santa Catalina in Antigua, Guatemala, for the 2005-2006 New Year’s festivities

I wish I remembered visiting all the beautiful sights captured in my photos, but unfortunately, I do not. What I do remember are streets crowded with happy visitors, a street performance near the Arco de Santa Catalina that had the crowd in stitches, watching horse-drawn carriages clip-clop by, and eating what may still be the best street taco of my life from a small vendor set up near Central Park in front of the Cathedral.

I didn’t make it to midnight. I rarely do. The long days of active sightseeing had absolutely caught up with me, and around 9 p.m. I dragged my very tired self back to my room and fell asleep. Not even the sound of firecrackers throughout the night managed to wake me.

The first day of 2006 found me once again wandering the streets of Antigua, which were noticeably quieter and less crowded than the day before. I visited the ruins of the Convento de Santa Clara, the Convento de la Recolección, and the Convento de las Capuchinas. As open-air ruins, they were accessible on the holiday, and I had them mostly to myself. With plans to move on the following day, I once again went to bed early.

On January 2, I was up very early to catch a 4 a.m. bus that would take me across the Honduran border to the town of Copán. The bus ride itself took about six hours, but this did not include the two and a half hours spent waiting at immigration. I do not remember what took so long, and perhaps I never really knew. More likely it was the usual combination of understaffing and bureaucratic red tape that anyone who traveled regularly back then would recognize.

I had come to Copán to visit Copán Ruinas, a UNESCO World Heritage Site and once-powerful Mayan city-state at the southern edge of the Mayan world. The site is known for its artistic sophistication, with intricately carved reliefs, stelae, and statuary. Once again, I had the place almost entirely to myself, which felt especially delicious after the crowds of Antigua and Xela. There were no pushy guides—no guides at all that I can recall—and while it might have been helpful to understand more of what I was seeing, I happily wandered the ruins alone for hours, accompanied only by peccaries and scarlet macaws.

I had originally planned to stay just one day in Copán, but after such a long journey, I decided to remain another night to rest. I signed up for a horseback-riding tour through the countryside to give myself something fairly gentle to do. I had the guide all to myself, and uncharacteristically, I stayed quiet, lost in my own thoughts as we followed the Copán River and rode into the hills above town.

We stopped briefly at Hacienda San Lucas for a drink and the view, then continued on foot into the forest to see Los Sapos—a group of large Mayan stone carvings of animals, most identified as sapos, or toads, associated with fertility rites. We also passed through a small village where I was a big hit with the local children before riding back into town.

Some of the incredible carvings to be found at Copan Ruinas

I spent the remainder of the day organizing onward transport and wandering up and down Copán’s hilly, cobblestoned streets.

The next morning, I was up early once again. I had another very long travel day ahead of me as I crossed back into Guatemala. The border crossing was mercifully faster this time, which was good, as we still had at least eight hours of driving ahead of us to reach Flores, in the far north of the country.

I don’t remember much of that journey, and perhaps that’s for the best. It was sunny and warm, everyone seemed in good spirits, and for reasons I still don’t understand, the driver never collected my fare. I only realized this after being dropped off in central Flores, with a pocketful of Honduran lempiras that were now completely useless.

Because we departed Copán at a more reasonable hour, I had more sleep, but I didn’t arrive in Flores until late afternoon. There was little to do but find a place to stay, eat, stock up on snacks, and make a plan for the following day.

I was convinced a croc would launch itself at me from the depths of Lake Yaxha

I visited the Yaxhá Archaeological Site, the third-largest Mayan site in Guatemala, about two hours from Flores by bus. Yaxhá receives far fewer visitors than nearby Tikal, and once again I found myself among only a handful of tourists. The site is less excavated, with many smaller temples still wrapped in jungle, vines, and tree roots—reminding me a little of Angkor Wat.

Yaxhá sits near a lake, and from the top of its tallest structure, Temple 216, there is a sweeping view across the rainforest canopy and out toward the horizon. I sat there for a long while, listening to howler monkeys below and thinking about history, culture, and nature.

Later, I wandered down to the lake and stepped onto a long pier. Only a few months earlier, the television show Survivor had been filmed there. I knew crocodiles lived in those waters, and although I didn’t see any, I felt distinctly uneasy standing at the edge. I asked another traveler to take my photo, put on my bravest face, and then quickly scampered back to terra firma.

The following morning, I boarded the 5 a.m. shuttle bus for another long ride—this time to Tikal. Once a thriving Mayan capital with a population of perhaps 100,000, Tikal is astonishing in scale. With more than 3,000 structures, it is one of the largest Mayan cities ever built. Temple IV, at roughly 230 feet, is the tallest standing Mayan structure.

Tikal is popular, and unlike Copán and Yaxhá, I had plenty of company. After several days of solitude, I didn’t mind. Tourists are allowed to climb many of the pyramids, and standing in the Great Plaza, surrounded by immense stone structures, one feels dwarfed by history. Sitting atop a pyramid and watching tiny figures move below, I felt strangely grand myself.

The Grand Plaza at Tikal

When the crowds became too loud, I wandered onto quieter paths toward smaller temples. I saw monkeys, macaws, and even a few coatimundis. At one point I realized I had been alone a little too long and began imagining a jaguar around the next bend. That was my cue to head back.

I spent hours exploring before catching the 4 p.m. shuttle back to Flores, arriving just in time for dinner and another early night of deep, exhausted sleep.

On my last day in Guatemala, I avoided long bus rides and flew from Flores to Guatemala City. With only part of the day left and thoroughly worn down from so many early mornings and long walks, I stayed close to town.

The flight was thankfully unremarkable. I spent one night in a gated guesthouse with bars on the windows. After two weeks of travel with little thought to security, the precautions were jarring. I stayed inside all evening. The next morning, I went to the airport early and flew back to the United States.

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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.