Tag: Travel

Homeful (Jan 29 2026)

JulianLeave a comment

In which Our Hero lands. 

Today… I bought a house! 

A home, to be precise. (It’s an apartment.) 

It’s in New York, a block from Central Park. 

It’s big enough for a family, and gets great light. I’d love to live with roomies 🙂 

Here’s what happened (all numbers are approximate). 

  • I arrived at 11:27 for a 12noon closing. 
  • From 11:30 to 11:53, my attorney walked me through the financials.
    • One fun exchange:
      • “This was more work than I expected,” he said. “Do you want to increase my fee?” 
      • “No,” I replied. 
      • “Fair enough.” 
    • And another:
      • “I know people,” he told me. “You’re smart. You went to Harvard.” 
      • “I went to Yale,” I replied. “Don’t insult me.” 
      • He laughed. 
  • At 11:53, the title company transfer agent arrived. 
  • From 11:53 to 12:10, I signed some necessities (her notary book, for instance). 
  • From 12:10 to 12:25, we waited. 
  • At 12:25, the vice president of the co op board arrived. He brought soup for lunch. 
  • From 12:25 to 12:35, the vice president and I signed a few documents. 
  • At 12:35, the attorney for the co op arrived. 
  • From 12:35 to 12:45, the attorney and the vice president and I signed a few papers. 
  • At 12:45, the president of the co op board arrived. 
  • From 12:45 to 1, the president signed a few papers. 
  • From 1:00 to 1:17, we waited. 
  • At 1:17, the lawyer for the bank arrived. 
  • From 1:17 to 1:50, I signed 50 documents totalling over 200 pages.
    • Many of the documents requested of me were inaccurate, either procedurally or factually. For example, the bank attorney wanted me to sign a document saying that my ID was correct as written. But he wanted me to sign the document *before* he wrote the details in. I said no: he should write it in, then I sign. And he WROTE IT IN WRONG. 
  • At 1:50, we faxed the information to the bank. 
  • From 1:50 to 2:10, we waited for confirmation. 
  • At 2:55, my attorney’s receptionist suggested I leave. “We’ll call you back if we need anything from you.” 
  • At 3:45, I received the confirmation. 

I now own a home. 

Well, technically, the bank owns the home, but they’re going to let me live in it while I pay them back! 

Going Places (Jan 28 2026) 

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In which Our Hero voyages through space and time

Theo works nights at the front desk of the only hotel in this small French town. He works days at the car dealership, cleaning cars. He also works days on his talent management company. He wants to build the ROC Nation of France. He is 23 years old and wants to retire by 40. He prefers the American work ethic to the French one. I tell him to make sure to increase his hourly wage, not merely his number of hours worked. 

—

“You sleep when you can.” 

The businessman in the neighboring airplane seat says he lives his life out of suitcases, in identical rooms in identical towns. He changes time zones frequently: today Munich, tomorrow Mumbai. After years of struggle, he gave up on circadian rhythms. He sleeps when he sleeps and works when awake. One day, maybe he’ll have a partner. I wonder how old he is. 

—

Ilian is 21 years old, on an airplane for the first time. He’s snapping pictures out the window as the plane lifts off, and sets his phone to record video when he’s sleeping. “Comme un gros oiseau”, he says. Today he goes to Iceland. Next year, to Switzerland. Also on his list: Japan. I tell him Japanese pork was my surprising highlight of the cuisine. He doesn’t eat pork. “You’re Jewish?” I ask. His eyes widen in what looks to me like repulsion. “Muslim,” he corrects. He shares with me a breadstick he brought for the trip. We exchange phone numbers. When I return to Paris, we’ll go to a museum. Maybe one day I’ll tell him I was raised Jewish. 

— 

Somehow I became 32. I don’t remember 31 from 30. I can’t parse 29 from 28. I suddenly understand why my father takes a moment to isolate what year an event happened. “It was nineteen … (pause) eighty … (pause again) seven,” he’ll say, and then be proud he pinned it down. 

Six years ago I didn’t want kids. Five years ago I didn’t want a life partner. Four years ago I started taking exogenous sex hormones. Three years ago I flew to Australia to escape heartbreak. Two years ago I met my now-partner. One year ago I still lived in a van. 

Tomorrow, I buy a home. 

And the day after? 

The Eyes Have It! (Jan 27 2026)

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In which… conehead? 

I awoke this morning at 5:30. By 7:30 I was on the train. At 8:15 I was on the subway. At 8:45 I arrived to my appointment. The appointment lasted from 9:00 to 9:17. By 9:30 I was back on the subway. By 10:00 I was back on the train. At 11:20 I was home.

What 17-minute meeting is worth nearly 4 hours of travel? Why did I awaken so early?

My mind often wakes me early when I have much to accomplish. And today’s was not about the life-changing home purchase I’ve been working on. Today’s was about my eyes.

They’re cones, you see. Becoming them, at least. My sister used to refer to me (affectionately?) as cone-eye.

And cones, as any optician will tell you, do not make ideal lenses.

After ten years of wanting and wishing and wandering, I’ve finally found a surgeon who should be able to get me the perfect vision I’ve always wanted (sans glasses).

I had an appointment with a member of his team 6 months ago, and then again today to confirm the measurements are stable. (I.e. my eyes have concluded their cone-becomingness.)

They have.

We have.

In 14 days I will consult with this surgeon.

One, or two, or perhaps six days later he will slice open my eye to add a new lens.

One week after that, he will repeat with the other eye.

Then,

we

shall

see

The Presents of Presence (Jan 25 2026)

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In which Our Hero, carried along… 

At 10:17am, my mother awoke. I had been awake since 7am: bought bread from the bakery, roasted duck in the oven. She awoke in part due to my ideal duck timing: the duck roasts for 30 minutes; she awoke 27 minutes in, the smell wafting under her door like that pie in the old cartoon. 

The fast train leaves Étampes for Paris at 11:26. Awakening at 10:17, you’d think we make it. I proposed this option without much commitment. We decided we’d eat duck, wait, and see. 

Then, two hours passed. 

We ate duck. We discussed the differing baguettes. We laughed about the train coming and then passing, us not on it. 

We failed to catch that train, then the next train. We grabbed the one after. 

If the point is the together, why matter which train? 52 minutes vs 34: the extra 18 is <le shrug>. 

Then, on the platform, we happened upon clowns. Two friends I’d been hoping to see, but the planning is hard. We rode together, riffing, laughing, le jeu. 

There’s a funny thing about living in the moment. You’re never disappointed or wanting. You may have desires, but you don’t want for anything. Perfectly satisfied and engaged. It’s the tension of wanting what you don’t have that makes the dissatisfaction of not having it. (I meditated today. I should meditate daily. It keeps me more momentized. It dims my mental chatter.) 

8 hours later, after walking around the Latin Quarter and Notre Dame, my mother and I headed home early. The fast train was delayed, so the trip took an hour. How nice it is to sit on a train station platform, hearing about your mother’s old friendships. Not something you’d think to do, but exceedingly nice when it happens.

Ease is what you make it (Jan 24 2026)

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In which intense and easy coexist 

At the start of today, I expected an easy day. Farmers market in the morning, then relaxing in this little medieval town, perhaps with a stroll around the lake.

But when I’m with my family, things happen!

My mother – who was up until 4am last night – walked for ten miles around Paris today. “Because today is so nice and tomorrow will be cold and rainy”. 

We sped through the annual scallop festival; sauntered winding streets in the outdoor flea market, strutted down the jardin des tuileries, and basked under the calmest place I’ve found in France (a particular library room near the Louvre).

We ate four of my favorite French foods: tomme de brebis, galette, a particular raclette wrap, and carbonara at the best Italian restaurant in Paris. (You may think carbonara is Italian. But if in France, doesn’t that make it French?)

Le jeu changed over time. From find caffeine to find food to find the most outrageous item being sold to people-watch to make the train. 

(We made the train home, despite it leaving in 20 minutes and Google telling us the walk would take 22 minutes.) 

If this were my everyday, I’d be exhausted.

Exhausted,

but happy.

😌

A Homecoming of Sorts (Jan 23 2026)

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In which? In Étampes! 

Back in Étampes, the land of the Clown School. My mother and I are visiting for ~5 days. 

My mother asked me what it’s like to be back.

My answer, in anecdotes:

  • At the airport, waiting for the bus, my mother and I talked about our travels to France: hers through Portugal, mine from Spain. Perhaps its the German genes we share, but both of us have trouble with those local cultures of queueing. 
  • When the corner baker popped up from behind the counter and saw me, her eyes widened and her cheeks shined. “I thought you were gone,” she said. I told her about my broken foot and leaving for the holiday. She told me, “Before you leave, you must tell me!”
  • My mother asked, “What should we get in our croissant?”. I replied, “Oh you silly Americans. We are going to the best croissant in the whole town. We will eat it as it is.” And we did. And it was good.
  • “I’m glad I’m wearing my boots, because this is muddy!” (I don’t own boots.) 
  • The two cheeses in the fridge, untouched for 1.5 months, had me wary. One ages for 24 months before it gets to me; the other spends its adolescence stewing in musty caves, which are selected because they harbor fungicidal mold. Perhaps it’s no surprise they’re both not only edible but delicious.
  • The outer crunch of the baguette; the smear of blue cheese; the dollup of black truffle pâté; the slice of iberian ham. If I lived here, this would be my every day. When I lived here, this was my every day.
  • Three — now four — times, my mother and I have said “It’s so great to be with you.”

Testicular biopsies really take it out of ya! (Jan 22 2026) 

JulianLeave a comment

In which Our Hero has a ball by losing part of one.*  

The second thing I told my partner after emerging from surgery: “That was fun. Can I get paid to do that?” (I guess it’s somewhat like the premise of the TV show Severance.)

I *really* like being unconscious. And awakening from anasthesia is exceedingly pleasant. 

This might not be everyone’s experience of surgery, but for mine: 

  • Before going in, I made a wager with my partner. She set the over-under line for duration at 26 minutes (from Julian leaves room to Julian re-enters room). I took the under.
    • As the doctors faffed around me in the operating room, the last thing I thought was “Eugh, I didn’t factor in this time”. 
    • Okay, the real last thing I thought was, “Huh, in the States the anesthesiologist tells you to count down as they knock you out. This guy is just waving “buh bye” at me.” 
  • After surgery, the first thing I did was tell a joke.
    • It’s my favorite bilingual Spanish joke. 
    • The doctors didn’t appreciate it. 
    • Perhaps I told it poorly. 
    • Perhaps they didn’t expect a bilingual joke from the clown who just woke up from surgery.
  • As I returned to the waiting room, I began to sing.
    • My partner tells me she knew I was returning because I’m the only person who would possibly sing in this context. 
  • Total duration: 44 minutes.
    • I even enjoyed losing the bet. 

I don’t know that there’s a job that pays like this for doing this. Medical experiments, perhaps, but I’m not sure I’d like to do those… 

Hmm. 

🤡
*(No, it’s not a reason for concern.)

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.