Category: A Tramp’s Travelog

I live in a van. I traipse around the country. Where & when? Weary traveler, read on…

The Gruffness of Manhood (Jan 21 2026)

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In which Our Hero has a ball 

Testicles should never be handled gruffly.

I met a man today who does exactly that.

A professional urologist, he receives testes on Wednesdays and Thursdays.

He begins with a long-winded explanation of two treatment options, each of which contradicts something he said previously. Then he gives vague instructions about how to sit on the bed, and panics when you do it wrong. 

Two days ago, I asked if I could see him in the morning. I would already be in the area at 9:30 a.m. I would rather not wait around until 5 p.m. The scheduler said I was lucky to get an appointment at all.

Fuck you, I thought. I’m paying for this. You’re a fertility clinic. You should have a urologist on staff. You’re not doing me a favor: this is your job. (This is my general experience with this clinic.)

Eventually, he slaps cold ultrasound goo on my balls and takes out the wand. He peers at the screen.

They look normal. No shit they do. He seems surprised. Has this man never seen a huevo before? 

And then, the best part: 

He cleans them.

There is something deeply satisfying about a gruff old man cleaning your testicles with visible irritation. No tenderness. No ceremony. Just the job, done thoroughly and against his will.

A small, immaculate fuck you.

I don’t respect doctors merely because they’re doctors. Many of them I respect less because they are. Authority that demands deference without earning it irritates me. 

So when a man who has done nothing but steadily lose my respect cleans my testicles—however gruffly—it brings me joy.

Speedy Spanish Stories (Jan 19 2026)

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Two timely tidbits

Today I am jet-lagged. One part because I flew in from California two days ago. And one part because Spain is on the wrong timezone. 

Madrid is farther west than London. But it is also an hour earlier. 

Spain is on the same timezone as Warsaw. 

That’s the same east-west distance as New York to Denver, which is two hours behind. 

This is bad. 

Sunrise is at 8:30 in the morning. 

It’s not just that Spaniards wake late and eat dinner late. (Though those are also true). Their time zone also shifts them. 

The unseen rules have a big impact. 

And how can you see the rules when it’s dark outside? 

—

A friend of mine visited Barcelona 26 years ago. 

On the ride from the airport, the taxi driver warned him to avoid the local Moroccans. 

“Why?” my friend asked. 

“They’ll take your things”, the driver replied. 

My friend’s mother became defensive. She’s Moroccan. 

Later, walking down La Rambla, she said, “I don’t know what was wrong with that taxi driver. Those two Morroccans are saying nice things about us”  

“What are they saying?”, my friend asked. 

“It’s a great compliment in Morocco. They’re saying we look rich.” 

Squeaking By (Jan 18 2026)

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In which Our Hero enjoys a capital day. 

Dipping churros into chocolate, I could feel the blood throbbing in my left knee.

After walking 26,986 steps (13.34 miles) on a mostly-still-broken foot, inside a surgical boot that was actively coming apart, it was time for new shoes.

Most people don’t put hundreds of miles on their surgical boots.

Most people don’t buy a second surgical boot so both feet will be even.

Most people don’t sprint through Dallas/Fort Worth Airport in surgical boots when the announcement says they have three minutes to board, even though their ticket insists they really have eighteen.

I am not most people.

We landed in Madrid at 5:45 a.m.
By 6:45 a.m., we were failing to locate our Uber and choosing the subway instead. 

Our exit train from Madrid left at 4:45 p.m.

Ten hours in Spain’s capital.

After eight of them, my feet were finished. The boot—kept out of an abundance of caution—was now increasing my risk. Three weeks ago, I’d been cleared to wear normal shoes. I hadn’t. I’d stuck with the boot.

Safety, it turns out, has an expiration date.

I spotted a discount shoe store.

Since I return to France on Friday, I only needed shoes that would last five days.

The clerk showed me a pair of decent-looking sneakers: twenty euros. I tried them on. He only had the left shoe in size 44 and the right shoe in 45. The clerk agrees to a discount, and apologizes he cannot give us a greater one. After all, what shoe store only sells mismatched shoes? 

Little does he know, my right foot is the broken one. Mismatched shoes is actually a plus! 

I ate a second ham croissant. It rivaled the ones I’ve had in France. (It wasn’t a croissant in the way they make them there. But it was delicious.)

We strolled through Madrid’s central plaza.
We passed photos of gored bullfighters and Jimmy Carter. 

I learned I could buy an apartment of the same cost and size as my future one in this square. I concluded I’d rather have mine.

Why do people prefer the artsy second city?

Melbourne over Sydney.

Barcelona over Madrid.

In both, I have a strong preference. In both, it’s the business hub.

I prefer places where real people are real. Where life isn’t a reflection or performance of itself. And in Madrid, the live music is more prevalent than in Barcelona.

Ten hours.
Too-big, mismatched shoes. 

Clown. 

[Get the title? Squeaking? Like clown shoes? How they squeak? 

Tough crowd.] 

Giblets (Jan 17 2026)

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In which Our Hero feels offal.

Just to the left of my navel, I learn a truth.
Not about facts or the world,
but about how a topic feels to me
I think this is what people mean when they say “follow your heart” or “speak from the heart”.
It troubled me for many years — still does — because that place is not my heart. It’s at least five inches below my heart, and two to the outside.

We also advise “trust your gut”. Is the place I found not my heart but my gut? Am I misusing each location for its maximally effective purpose? Follow your heart in love; trust your gut in business?

After casting about for a writing theme a few days ago, a friend suggested I write as the ideal version of me would.

Hemingway says write the most true sentence. Then the next true sentence.

The truth is, I feel scared. Not all of me, but a good 80%. I’m pushing and shoving toward the biggest financial decision of my life. I’ve capped my downside risk at an acceptable amount. I’ve run the numbers by family and friends more risk-averse than me. The answer is go.

Courage is not the absence of fear. It’s action while in the presence of fear. In this case, it’s encircling the fear with my flabby squeezers and hugging it while I jump the two of us jump into an abyss.
Most of the time, the bungee cord holds. Take a situation that would otherwise be frightening: if you add safety, it becomes thrilling.

The fear is not me. The fear is not anything. Both it and I are transient (that’s a pun).
I see why people turn to religion in times of stress.
God is what we call the experience of being healed. There’s something addictively reassuring – especially in our most fearful moments – in believing someone is looking out for you, sending positive outcomes your way.

Let us run then, you and I
As the sun surmounts the sky
The icy clovers frost with dew
Let us dive then: me and you.

I fear nothing, though fear is present.
Fear is my friend. I stand atop its shoulders.
Together, our future rolls out a carpet to greet us.

Mugged in a Crowd

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On a muggy New York summer afternoon, only One Man is fool enough to wear a sweater. He’s attractive in a grungy, Brooklyn sort of way as He leans against a lamppost, cool and calm despite the summer heat. I’m walking south only a few blocks from Times Square when He locks eyes with me. He springs to attention. His opening line: “Give me money, Gypsy.”

There are twenty people within arm’s reach, yet I’m suddenly alone. I’ve never before been called a gypsy, and while I don’t know its associations I suspect it’s intended aggressively. I mutter something noncommittal. His face looms closer to mine: “Give me money for the holocaust, Gypsy.” His sentence betrays a lack of historical understanding, yet I suspect this fact irrelevant to our circumstance.

When I had first spotted Him leaning against the lamppost, I had clocked the precisely-styled single braid dangling beside His head as attractive. Now, I see it more like a distraction on the end of a spear.

I say something that equates to “leave me alone”. The words I choose are imprecise and confused. I only slept 30 minutes last night. But my words, like His, communicate mainly in tone and posture.

“Give me five dollars,” He elaborates. “Give me five dollars for the holocaust!”

I tell him I don’t carry cash.

He’s angry I wasted His time. His right arm pulls back, then shoots forward: a punch. I instinctively pull back my right side, meeting His force with less resistance.

A few New Yorkers turn and comment. It’s not every day you see violence in vivo. Yet no one does anything. Why? Maybe because there’s nothing to do. We could call the police and wait for them to arrest This Fellow, but what would that accomplish? The best argument I can imagine is akin to “it’s your civic duty to get someone like this off the street”. But if that’s true, then why am I the only person I ever see picking up litter as they pass it in Central Park?

Growing up, angry kids told me on at least three separate occasions that one day someone was gonna punch me in the face. I’m now 30 years old and this prediction has not come true. Somehow I think this altercation doesn’t count.

Five minutes later, I arrive to my afternoon date. I tell her this story. She says I was mugged. I agree: it was at least an attempted mugging.

His punch left a bruise, but I’m more struck by my nonchalance. Still now, a day later, I don’t feel afraid. At no point – not even now – was I concerned for my safety. Maybe I deeply understood This Guy. Maybe I knew I’d be fine. Maybe I knew this to be the cost of engaging. Most New Yorkers avoid eye contact with strangers; I’ll meet the eyes of anyone equally bold.

A South Korean Status Symbol

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My first day in south Korea I spotted a man in full Yale regalia. I asked if he had gone to Yale. He said no. (Pic below; he asked that I not include his face. Rest assured: his hat also matched.)

My first week in south Korea I commenced a quest: to find and buy that man’s outfit. The quest took 12 hours and was very fun but did not arrive me at the desired outfit. (The store was sold out!) At least en route I purchased 4 mangoes.

My first month in South Korea I spotted more people wearing Yale regalia than wearing any other college. I counted. Here was the final score:

  • Yale: 16
  • All other colleges, summed: 23

I later learned that someone licensed the Yale brand and earned more than $7.6M in revenue from it in 2021. Fascinating. I’d love to do the same with other Ivies.

The data:

  • Yale: 16
  • Michigan (the state, not a university): 2
  • Millbury Basketball (a highschool): 1
  • Bailor: 1
  • Yonsei: 6.5
  • Cal: 1
  • Hongik: 4.5
  • Hong Kong University: 1
  • Unknown Local College: 1
  • Princeton: 1
  • Ewha Women’s University: 1
  • Cal State College: 1
  • Iowa (the state, not a university): 1
  • Polham Massachusetts (a city? Pelham?): 1
  • Korea University: 1
  • Stanford: 1
  • UCLA: 1
  • RSU (maybe Rogers State University? Unclear): 1

(I then performed the same count in Japan. The data there was: Yale, Michigan, Harvard, Harvard.)

The Joys of Travel

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or “How to Receive an Airbnb Refund after the Host Rejected Your Initial Request.” [Edited from the version sent to the Airbnb host.]

Hello [Name redacted] — 

I find your accommodations dissatisfying and inaccurate to their initial online description. Your description of the room states “We guarantee the best independent space at a very affordable price, optimized for solo travel and business travel.”

Specifically, here is a list of ways that the room is not accurately described: 

  1. The hallway immediately outside the room smells like smoke, as does the bathroom (I was literally coughing in the shower from it 10 minutes ago). Smoke gives me a headache and I never stay in smoking establishments. I was promised a non-smoking room, and you messaged me upon booking saying that smoking was prohibited here. This is an inaccurate representation of the space. 
  2. There are loud parties immediately outside the window til 2am on weekday nights. This room was described as “optimized for business travel”. That is clearly not true. 
  3. The temperature vacillates widely — from unbearably cold on night one to unbearably hot on night two. I would be reticent to find any business traveler who would find this fitting. 
  4. There are bugs, both in the shower and in the room. I snapped a picture of one in my room. I am happy to share it with you if you would like. This is just disgusting. 
  5. The pictures do not demonstrate that the toilet and shower are a single space. I am familiar with this setup from traveling through Asia, and would have been fine with it had I expected it but the pictures implied differently. (And at the last, similarly priced and structured space I stayed in, they were separate, which suggests it was reasonable for me to believe they would be separate.) Also, you should be aware that one of the showers seems to flood under the door to the hallway. This is not strictly related to my points here; I’m just letting you know because tenants’ normal use will likely damage the floor over time if you do not fix it. 
  6. While you claim this room is optimized for business travel, other tenants will bang on my door at 1pm if I am having a videocall at normal volume. I cannot imagine how someone could conduct business here if I’m not able to have a normal phonecall. 
  7. The room is a 4th floor walkup — entirely stairs with no elevator. That’s something you should disclose in the description before someone books. I do not believe it is true anywhere in the world that “optimized for business travel” means “you must carry your heavy bags up 3 flights of stairs”. 
  8. The mattress is painfully hard, making it difficult to sleep. (This one I could concede as potentially a matter of taste. But it really is like lying on plywood.) 

If one were to compare this space to another “independent space at a very affordable price” — i.e. the other sharehouse that I stayed in in Seoul immediately before arriving here, the prices are approximately the same and the rooms are similar in size but this one is unquestionably not better (see above points, including about bugs — ew.). As you guarantee this will be the best independent space, I would like to make use of that guarantee. 

Should you and I not be able to come to an agreement that refunds me 6 nights (from 5 May to 11 May), I will be requesting that Airbnb refund me the total amount of the room from 2 May to 11 May, as you specifically guarantee the room and it has not been as described. I’m happy to be reasonable here, but if you are unwilling to be reasonable I will escalate to their judgment and seek the full refund, which seems fair and fitting for the above reasons. 

As I have additional business I need to complete, I would appreciate your response within the hour — if I don’t hear from you, I will simply escalate to Airbnb to enable me to complete my work. 

Best,

Julian 

P.s. Your response to “What should I do in response to a loud party at 1:30am?” is that I should talk to the restaurant? Like literally get out of bed and walk the 3 flights downstairs to talk to the restaurant? That’s just ridiculous. 

Outcome: Yes, she did accept my alteration request and issue me a refund. And yes, I did have fun writing and fighting this.

Honesty in Comedy

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Yesterday I intentionally lied to you. I posted an AI-generated picture of a tattoo, claiming to have received this tattoo while drunk in Bali.

I have never received a tattoo, nor have I been drunk in Bali. I lied because it was April First, the only day out of the whole year when non-malicious lies are more than accepted: they’re celebrated.

I’m currently writing a personal-history one-man show that aims to be honest, to entertain, and to have impact. Honesty is tough when speaking to a diverse audience. New Yorkers will take your words at face value unless you indicate exaggeration via a clear tonal inflection. (Does this make New Yorker a tonal language? I say yes.) Brits and southerners prefer a deadpan that allows them to employ their own bullshit detector. One cannot satisfy everybody’s requirements for honesty while preserving the level of humor I desire. In my upcoming show, I will need to choose between being a comedian (entertainment) and being a journalist (honesty). I will need to have a defined stance, if only to maintain my ability to sleep well in the face of twitter criticism. John Oliver threads this needle by claiming comedy, which allows him to have the impact of a journalist without the industry’s behavioral constraints. Is this cheating? Absolutely. But it’s also an elegant way to win. So here’s how I define my stance:

These distinctions are absolute tosh. They’re like saying “a comedy ends with a marriage; a tragedy with death.” When was the last time a romcom ended with the marriage of all significant characters? Or a modern tragedy ended with a Hamlet-like bloodbath? We’ve been mixing genres over the last few years because they’ve always mixed. And April Fools is a holiday to remind us the ability to impact truth through lies. Is Amazon’s 2013 Cyber Monday claim that they’d have drone delivery in two years any more of an April Fools hoax than the 2019 April Fools joke of an Amazon delivery blimp? Many people even treated the April Fools one more seriously while ridiculing the the Cyber Monday one as a joke! Impact-wise, isn’t the main difference publication date, enabling Amazon to be the most-discussed retailer on one of the most profitable retail shopping days of 2013?

Approximately 50% of the people who received my tattoo message recognized it as an April Fools joke. The other 50% were hoodwinked. I debated over telling these hoodwinked people “April Fools!”. I’ve concluded I’m not going to. Because at some point most of them will realize that it was an April Fools joke. And doesn’t the fact that the joke lasted months or years make it even funnier?

And for those who never realize it, I’ll take solace in the fact that I’m not a journalist, nor a comedian: I’m an axolotl that regenerates its skin every few months, which is why the tattoo has already vanished. But I’m sure you already knew that.

An In-Depth Review

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Airbnb reviews only permit 1000 characters. So here’s my full review of a place I stayed in Cairns, Australia 🤪:

“I’ve been a poor university student for the last four years, but staying here is the first time I’ve felt like it.” —a fellow guest at Anita’s Airbnb

Internal tension is not, generally speaking, what one seeks in an Airbnb. Yet during my 6 days at Anita’s place in Cairns, I found myself not only experiencing a profound sense of dissatisfaction, but somehow enjoying that dissatisfaction and feeling grateful for its lessons.  

Anita’s place somehow provides slightly-above-spartan accommodations at slightly-above-discount prices, but in a hodgepodge of uncanny ways. I’ll give an example: The room boasts plenty of wall outlets — at my count 6 — which is very desirable in an Airbnb room. However, the majority of these outlets are placed above the head on one’s bed, and at no point has any person said “I’d like to plug in my devices right here, above my pillow, with no location to place the device while it’s charging.” The shower, too, isn’t quite wrong but seems like it was designed by someone who had heard what people like in a shower but never used one themselves, as it boasts beautiful tiling, ample hot water, and bountiful nozzle settings, but also dampens your towel because the only place to hang it is on the inside of the shower door. The outdoor dining table is a lovely place to chat with a fellow traveler on a warm summer evening, yet this delight is diminished by the requirement that you wave at the automatic light sensor every 30 seconds to turn it back on. 

If there’s a word to describe my stay at Anita’s in Cairns, that word would be it: “uncanny”. It’s uncanny that I would find the mattress perfectly comfortable, yet also awaken with a hip pain of a sort that I’ve never before experienced. It’s uncanny that I would have a long conversation with the host about making the internet work in my room, which it definitely didn’t beforehand and after which it somehow magically does. It’s uncanny that the Airbnb listing includes twenty-three (23) rules which one must follow during tenancy, and then posters and text messages upon arrival add an additional three (3), and yet existing in this space gives you the sense that breaking the majority of them would simply be ignored. As I was leaving, I snuck a glance inside Anita’s room, and was shocked to see it resembled a security office. If she has three screens of cameras, all presumably monitoring and recording, then why are the drying rack and kitchen trash can always overflowing? I suspect the only rule that Anita enforces strictly is the “absolutely no guests” policy, but somehow also get the niggling suspicion that her uncanniness would give me the thumbs-up on updating my Airbnb reservation from 1 guest to 2 as I’m walking home with a sweetheart in real time.

Anita’s Airbnb gives the impression of an earnest person really truly trying their best but tripping in random ways. Sure, she spams you with a bunch of tour and travel options immediately after you make your reservation, but after that initial volley it’s not like she’s pushy – or even brings them up again. Yes, she’ll make a bit of huff when you’re on your phone at 8:58pm and quiet hours start at 9pm, but it’s the sort of gentle and direct huff that makes you wonder whether you actually were being too loud for even pre-quiet hours. And then, when you’re quieter, it’s somehow totally fine that you talk until 10. The place is spartan yet functional, and isn’t functional what matters? If travel is about exploring a new place, and therefore yourself, isn’t it appropriate that you finally feel like a poor university student if that’s what you are? Still, it’s not particularly pleasant to feel like a poor university student, so I give Anita’s place three stars.