2025: Let’s Make It Happy
The thing about New Year’s is that they seem to come faster and faster each time. In the days and evenings leading up to the New Year, we pour so much energy into thinking about—well—the next year. My messages, whether through text or socials, brim with immense positivity for the upcoming year, filled with wishes of luck, success, and all those hopeful sentiments. But what about the year that just ended? What really happened in 2024? How did those thoughts and aspirations we shared in 2023 evolve?
Remember those same optimistic messages we sent wishing for a prosperous 2024?
Over the not-so-few years of this joyful life, I’ve received a handful of Christmas letters from friends and family. I truly relish reading them. Sometimes, they pile up, promising to be read later. Nowadays, they often arrive as digital notes or nicely formatted PDF files.
You know what I’m talking about, right? Those letters from friends you may not have seen or spoken to for the entire year, where they pen a heartfelt narrative summing up the past year. Often, it’s a chronicle of travels, events, and other happenings. They might include stories of health issues, milestones, and deeper musings. I feel these letters were more prevalent in the past—when people sent real, physical Christmas cards.
This year, I received only about a dozen physical Christmas cards and perhaps three actual Christmas letters— all digital. To those who sent them, you know who you are, and I thank you for taking the time to share the little narratives of your lives over the past year.
With several stacks of “to-dos” awaiting attention on my desk, I decided to deviate from the traditional “Christmas Letter.” Instead, I’m embracing the moment to pen a blog post. It will be lengthy—chatty, if you will—reminiscent of my prolific blogging days. Much of what I’ll share here might have been individual posts at one time, narrating as events unfolded. Instead, this will be a reflective look back at the year we’ve just “closed,” one that we celebrated anew at midnight on December 31st, 2023.
I am ever grateful for the curiosity of family and friends who ask such thoughtful questions—sometimes open-ended, other times specific.
“What have you been up to?”
“How’s your new book coming along?”
“Where have you traveled lately?”
Or even, “How are you feeling?
How’s the vertigo?”
I appreciate all of you dearly. This post will address those curiosities and more.
So, thank you in advance for indulging me and for your steadfast patience.
Now, settle in for a deep dive into the year that was rich, immersive, and steeped in the kind of storytelling that defines my journey. I’ll say it upfront—this is going to be long, really long. But for those who stick around, I promise it’ll be worth it. A journey through connections, reflections, and revelations, told in my way—the kind of storytelling that brings moments to life, weaving together the experiences, people, and places that made this year unforgettable.
Stepping into January: A Musical Journey Begins
Reflecting on the past year, I welcomed the New Year with cheers and dancing at the legendary Solana Beach music club, The Belly Up, featuring Thievery Corporation. For those unfamiliar, Thievery Corporation is a Washington, D.C.-based duo known for their eclectic sound, blending electronic, dub, bossa nova, reggae, and hip-hop. Their live shows offer captivating journeys, much like a revue, with a rotating cast of vocalists infusing vibrant energy and diversity into each performance. You might recognize their iconic track “Lebanese Blonde,” a sultry and mesmerizing tune that gained international acclaim after being featured in the cult classic film “Garden State.” The intimate atmosphere of Belly Up, along with its trendy crowd, heightened the night’s electric and deeply personal vibe—making it the perfect way to usher in 2024.
One daily joy of living in San Diego is my sunset bike rides along the coast. The sunsets are breathtaking, and in January, the brisk air and relaxed vibe provide a perfect backdrop with dozens of people walking, jogging, or biking, often accompanied by dogs on leashes, babies in strollers, and even skateboards. After my rides, I return home to cook and enjoy the evening with my Bengal cat, Dar—named after the capital of Tanzania, Dar es Salaam—though she’s an endearing, darlishious feline.
In the last week of January, I flew to Sun Valley, Idaho, to meet my brother Jonathan and my niece Emily for nearly a week of skiing. During my layover in San Francisco, I spotted Jonathan’s latest book, “Tired of Winning,” at the back of an airport bookstore. My inner marketer came to life as I repositioned it to the store’s front for better visibility—after all, my brother deserves the spotlight.
Skiing in Sun Valley for the first time was unforgettable. I demoed incredible Swiss-made Stokli skis and, for the first time, tried ski boots with a BOA system—a twist-and-turn knob for easy tightening and release—innovative technology migrating from snowboarding to skiing. The conditions, while moderate with a month since fresh snow, provided my best skiing days in years. Emily, Jonathan, our friend Scotty, and his son Scott all agreed—enough to plan a return in February 2025.
A trip to Sun Valley and Ketchum isn’t complete without dining at the legendary Pioneer Saloon, especially in the Trophy Room. We immersed ourselves in its rich history and rustic charm on our first night. Originally opened in the 1940s as the Commercial Club, it transitioned from a gambling casino to the Pioneer Saloon in 1953, capturing a slice of Ketchum’s history. The Trophy Room, adorned with vintage hunting artifacts and an impressive mule deer mount boasting a 43-point rack from 1927, provided the perfect setting for our meal. We returned later that week for cocktails and another hearty meal with Scotty and his son Scott, the ambiance of the Pioneer Saloon further deepening our connection to Idaho and Ketchum’s vibrant past.
The Belly Up Tavern — Solana Beach, California
The Third Mind and The Power of Musical Improvisation
No sooner had I landed back in San Diego than I found myself back at The Belly Up, this time for a performance by The Third Mind. This supergroup, led by Dave Alvin (of The Blasters fame), alongside musicians from Camper Van Beethoven, Counting Crows, and Better Than Ezra, is unlike anything else he’s done. The concept? No rehearsals. No set lists. Just improvisation and reinterpretation.
Their sound is a hypnotic mix of psychedelic rock and blues, channeling the spirit of the 1960s while remaining unpredictable and raw. They played Alice Coltrane covers, a wild reinterpretation of Fred Neil, and originals that seemed to morph in real-time.
Dave Alvin has always been a shape-shifter in music—jumping from punk-adjacent roots rock to blues to folk storytelling. But here, he was pushing into new territory. Watching it unfold live was a reminder that reinvention isn’t just possible—it’s necessary.
February 2024 — San Antonio to Marco Island
Wine, Small-World Encounters & Unexpected Adventures
San Antonio. A city I had yet to explore. I’ve been to Dallas, Fort Worth, and Austin, passed through Houston’s airport more times than I can count, but I had never set foot in San Antonio. That changed when a speakers’ bureau booked me for a morning keynote to a group of 150 sales professionals from a large financial firm. I figured I’d make the most of the trip—not just for the keynote but to finally walk San Antonio’s famous Riverwalk. And after that? A detour to Marco Island for a few days with Mom.
As always, I came prepared. I never show up empty-handed when visiting Mom, and that includes wine. Over the years, my brother Jonathan and I have curated a respectable selection in her home—our “satellite cellar,” if you will. This trip, I carefully packed four bottles to add to the collection. I’ve perfected my suitcase wine-packing strategy. Over the years, I’ve hauled bottles from all over the world—19 bottles after last year’s jaunt through Greece, Italy, Tunisia, Morocco, Spain, and Portugal. In 2019, I returned from my Black Sea adventure with 23. Not once in all my years of crisscrossing the globe had I ever lost a bottle to the cruel hands of baggage handling.
Until now.
Disaster in San Antonio
When my bag rolled off the carousel, I noticed it was wet. Not just damp—wet. That sinking feeling hit. Shit. One of the bottles had broken.
I rushed to the restroom, unzipped my suitcase, and there it was—the unmistakable scent of spilled wine, shards of glass everywhere. The worst part? My suit—the one I planned to wear for my keynote—was soaked. The only silver lining? It was a white wine. Had it been red, I’d have needed a priest for last rites.
With no hotel laundry option that could turn it around in time, I did what anyone in my position would do: I washed the suit in the shower. Then, I cranked up the hairdryer and went to work.
Somehow, I pulled it off. And the next morning, after delivering my keynote and basking in a round of applause, I was ready to explore San Antonio.
The Pearl & A Late-Night Detour
San Antonio’s Riverwalk is one of those places you hear about—a picture-perfect stretch of winding canals, Spanish-inspired architecture, and endless energy. But what I really wanted to see was The Pearl.
The Pearl District was once home to the Pearl Brewery, a cornerstone of San Antonio’s brewing history since the late 1800s. The brewery got its name from the bubbles in its beer—legend had it they resembled pearls. Today, it’s a vibrant hub of restaurants, boutiques, and culture, but the bones of its brewing past remain in the restored buildings and preserved industrial charm.
That night, I dined at Mon Chou Chou, a French brasserie tucked into the heart of The Pearl. Steak frites. Because sometimes, you don’t mess with a classic. Perfectly seared steak, crisp fries, a glass of Burgundy—it was the kind of meal that fit the district’s blend of history and modern reinvention.
Back at the hotel, I spotted a few familiar faces from the morning’s keynote gathering in the bar. I joined them for a drink, which led to introductions, more drinks, and eventually—an invite to a nightclub across the street. The bar closed, but they weren’t ready to call it a night. And, apparently, neither was I.
I had a 6 AM flight to Florida. I knew I was walking a fine line. But when you live by the philosophy that the best moments happen when things don’t go as planned, sometimes you just go with it.
And yes, I missed my flight. But I rebooked, caught a later one, and still made it to Marco Island in time for dinner with Mom.
The Bulgarian Serbian Connection
Small-World Serendipity at Arturo’s
Mom was excited to introduce me to Arturo’s Bistro, one of her favorite spots in Marco Island. She ordered the Porcini Mushroom & Goat Cheese Ravioli, while I went for Arturo’s original stuffed pork chop—a dish that made me momentarily reconsider every other pork chop I’ve ever had.
But the real story of the night wasn’t the food. It was Vlad, our server.
Tall, dark-haired, a neatly groomed beard and an easy smile—he had the air of someone who had traveled. When I asked where he was from, I was thrilled to learn he was from Serbia—a country I’d traversed on my motorcycle a few years back.
He was stunned.
“You’re the first person I’ve ever met here who has been to Serbia,” he said.
Like many of his coworkers, Vlad was in the U.S. on an H-2B visa, a program that brings seasonal workers to tourist-heavy areas like Marco Island. As we talked, I was reminded of why I love to travel—because every encounter, even one over dinner, can reveal an incredible connection.
It reminded me of another time, another restaurant in Marco Island.
While we savored our wine, I recounted a similar encounter at Sal e Pepe, where a Bulgarian server named Stanislav (Stan) became part of my journey. We exchanged contacts, and sure enough, the following year, I reunited with Stan in Plovdiv, Bulgaria for a memorable dinner at Pavaj, a cozy spot in the Kapana district. Over horse tenderloin, Balkan salads, and bottles of local Rubin wine, we swapped stories about his life in Marco Island and his love for Plovdiv, a city that had just been named European Capital of Culture.
A chance meeting that turned into an unforgettable moment—another thread in the vast and intricate fabric of connection.
And now, I was having a similar experience with Vlad.
As our conversation deepened, I asked if he was from Niš (pronounced neesh), Serbia’s third-largest city. He was floored.
“How do you know Niš?” he asked.
I pressed on. “Or is it more west—near Aleksandrovac?”
Now he was speechless. “That’s close… a small village nearby.”
Turns out, his cousin owns the vineyard I had visited years ago, a property with some of the oldest protected vines in Serbia. He pulled out his phone, showing me photos, explaining that his cousin told him the story of a journalist on a motorcycle visiting his heritage vineyard.
It was that vineyard. The same place I had stood, learning about the history of those vines.
A restaurant in Marco Island. A random server. A conversation that unraveled a connection neither of us saw coming.
Coincidence? Maybe. But I don’t believe in coincidences. Read about my trip to that vineyard here.
Sunday Rituals at Stan’s Idle Hour
No trip to Marco Island is complete without a Sunday at Stan’s Idle Hour in Goodland.
Stan’s is unapologetically Florida—a perfect storm of dive bar, street party, and biker hangout. A sea of Harleys lined up outside, bands cranking out classic rock on a Stan’s legendary stage, buckets of beer, MAGA hats and Trump flags mixing with tie-dye shirts and sunburnt snowbirds and retirees dancing with reckless abandon. The energy? Wild. The beer? Ice cold. The vibe? Part Daytona Bike Week, part small-town street fair, with a splash of “only-in-Florida” absurdity.
Mom and I have made Stan’s Idle Hour a ritual over the years, our own little tradition—soaking up the spectacle, people-watching, and raising a glass to another beautiful, chaotic Sunday in Florida. Last year I created this video of our 2023 Sunday visit to Stan’s.
Landing in San Diego, I had yet another one of those small-world, human-connection moments—though, at this point, I shouldn’t act like it’s unusual. I’ve come to believe that my energy, attitude, and openness draw these moments, memories, and magic to me. Sometimes they happen in restaurants in Marco Island, sometimes in the back seat of an Uber.
This time, my driver, Igor, was from Brazil. As our conversation progressed, we discovered shared passions—travel, motorcycles, and more. When we started talking about food, he asked if I liked Brazilian cuisine. Most people in the U.S. think Brazilian food begins and ends with grilled meats, thanks to the popularity of churrascarias like Fogo de Chão or Texas de Brazil. But when I mentioned feijoada, Igor lit up.
Excitedly, he told me his mother had just made a massive pot of feijoada the day before for a family gathering. Without hesitation, he called her and, in rapid-fire Portuguese, asked her to prepare a serving for me. As soon as he dropped me and my luggage off, he raced home—pausing his Uber shift—then returned with two containers filled with the rich, slow-cooked black bean and pork stew.
How and where does this happen? Hospitality, humanity, humility, and harmony—that’s Igor.
Like my chance connection with Vlad in Marco Island and my reunion with Stanislav in Bulgaria, Igor’s generosity was a reminder that recognizing what’s astounding in the people around you opens doors, fosters rapport, and builds deeper, more meaningful relationships. These moments aren’t just coincidences; they’re proof of what happens when you step into the world with openness and curiosity.
Igor and I promised to reconnect, to share more stories, more food, and more of the magic that makes the world feel small and full of wonder.
From Marco Island to Del Mar
The Rhythm of Serendipity and Soul
I love live music. Especially seeing amazingly talented musicians in small venues, like Thievery Corporation on New Year’s Eve at the Belly Up! Often, tickets for these gigs go on sale months in advance. I’ll get a notification from a venue or band I like, and without hesitation, I’ll grab tickets. I usually try to mark my calendar, but sometimes life gets in the way, and I’ll forget—until the date looms large and suddenly reminds me it’s coming. That’s exactly what happened the morning after I got back from Marco Island.
I had two tickets to see The Wood Brothers at The Sound in Del Mar. It wasn’t that I forgot buying them, just that I hadn’t planted the date firmly in my brain—or even in my calendar. Fortunately, my iPhone, always smarter than I’d like to admit, saved the day. While sipping my second cup of coffee, a notification popped up: The Wood Brothers at The Sound tonight!
Well, I hadn’t lined up a date or asked anyone to join me. On a whim, I reached out to one of my Pickleball buddies, Kenny. Even though it was last minute, he was game for dinner at Jake’s in Del Mar and then the show—even though he’d never heard of The Wood Brothers. “You’ll love them,” I told him. I’ve seen them three or four times before, usually at the Belly Up. But this time, they were playing at The Sound—a relatively new venue at the Del Mar Fairgrounds and horse racing facility.
The Sound is an impressive space. Seating around 1,900, with a great sound system and a setup that ensures a great view from almost anywhere. Pre-COVID, the space was home to Off-Track Betting for horse racing around the country. Since then, it has undergone a $17 million renovation project spanning 9,500 square feet with a capacity of 1,900. It opened its doors in early 2023, and the music booking is handled by Belly Up Entertainment. It has quickly become a sought-after spot for live music in San Diego. Notably, eight-time Grammy winner Ziggy Marley inaugurated the venue with a performance in February 2023. The venue hosts a range of artists, from indie darlings like The Flaming Lips to Grammy winners like Marley, and bands like Switchfoot, Andrew McMahon, and even comedy acts like Trevor Noah have taken the stage.
For all its modernity, though, it doesn’t quite have the gritty, intimate vibe of the Belly Up. It’s slick and polished but not as personal—it’s a bit too big. Then again, some acts are just too big for the Belly Up, which can handle a mostly standing-room-only crowd of about 600.
As for The Wood Brothers, I much prefer seeing them at The Belly Up, but if you haven’t, these guys are in a league of their own. If you’ve never heard them, they’re a genre-defying trio blending folk, rock, blues, and gospel into a sound that’s both timeless and fresh. Oliver Wood’s soulful vocals and raw guitar licks perfectly match his brother Chris’s jazz-influenced basslines and harmonies. Then there’s Jano Rix, the multi-instrumentalist who ties it all together, often playing his custom percussion instrument, the “shuitar”—an old guitar turned into a rhythm machine. They’re storytellers at heart, weaving humor, heartache, and hope into every song. Hearing them live is an experience—like you’re sitting in their living room while they pour their souls out for you.
That night, The Wood Brothers didn’t disappoint. Their set was a mix of favorites like Luckiest Man and Postcards from Hell, along with tracks from their newer albums. By the end of the night, Kenny was hooked, leaning over and saying, “You were right—I do like them.”
What a great way to close down February 2024.
March & April 2024
Skiing, Surgery, and a Little Bit of Willie
At my most recent bi-annual skin cancer screening, the results of a biopsy on a small spot above my upper lip came back as Basal Cell Carcinoma (BCC). It’s the most common and least aggressive form of skin cancer—rarely spreading to other parts of the body but capable of causing local damage if untreated. Dr. Joy assured me it wasn’t life-threatening, but she still recommended Mohs surgery to remove it. So, I scheduled surgery for early April.
But before that, I had one more ski trip planned.
Spring Skiing in Deer Valley
Later in the month, I flew to Salt Lake City for a nearly week-long ski trip in Deer Valley with friends Kenny and Cia. We stayed in a beautiful condo just a few hundred yards from the lifts, which made those early morning runs even easier. This was my first time skiing Deer Valley, and it quickly won me over.
Conditions? Perfect. Fresh powder, crisp air, and an environment that made it feel like skiing was an art form rather than a sport. As hardcore skiers, we all agreed—skiing a mountain that only allows skiers (no snowboards!) made for a smoother, more relaxed experience. The runs felt wide open, and the snow stayed in better shape throughout the day.
There were plenty of highlights, but one of my favorite discoveries was the food. Deer Valley isn’t just about the slopes; they’ve got their dining game dialed in. From gourmet ski lodge lunches to après-ski cocktails with a view, we indulged. And we all agreed—this trip was so good, we’d have to come back in 2025.
And as I reflected on the first three months of 2024—skiing in Sun Valley, giving keynotes in San Antonio, connecting with old friends and making new ones in Florida, returning home for another incredible concert—I had to laugh.
Who says I can’t sit still?
Scripps Big Horn Mohs Clinic
April Under the Knife: Mohs Surgery
Back in San Diego, it was time for my Mohs surgery. Now, even though I know plenty of people who’ve had Mohs surgery for similar carcinomas, I couldn’t help but feel a little apprehensive. The spot was just above my upper lip—dangerously close to my tender kissers. What if the surgeon slipped?
For those unfamiliar, Mohs surgery is a precise, step-by-step procedure where layers of cancerous skin are removed one at a time and examined under a microscope until all the cancer is gone. It’s known for being highly effective while preserving as much healthy skin as possible. But still, the idea of someone working so close to my face made me nervous.
The good news? It was quick, clean, and a success. Dr. Kelly at the world-renowned Mohs Surgery Center at Scripps Hospital in La Jolla did a fantastic job. A few weeks later, you could barely tell—though I was told to keep massaging the area to break down scar tissue. And that’s exactly what I did.
Of course, my doctor advised me to take a break from Pickleball while healing, but as soon as I got the green light, I was back on the courts. Between games, I continued hosting dinners and experimenting with new dishes in my “FORKS” kitchen.
Downtown San Diego
A Night with Willie Nelson at The Rady Shell
I couldn’t let another month slip by without more live music. So, I made my way to downtown San Diego to see 89-year-old legend Willie Nelson and his band.
It was my first time seeing a show at The Rady Shell at Jacobs Park, an outdoor venue that’s as much a work of art as a concert hall. Opened in 2021 as the permanent home for the San Diego Symphony, The Rady Shell boasts stunning views of the bay and the downtown skyline. Its sail-like design is not only visually striking but also an acoustic marvel, creating an immersive sound experience. The venue has quickly become San Diego’s premier spot for outdoor concerts, hosting everything from classical symphonies to rock legends like Willie.
Joining Willie on this tour was his son, Micah, who stepped into the spotlight a few times during the nearly two-hour set to sing a few of his own songs, including a crowd favorite, “Everything Is Bullshit.”
And of course, Willie delivered. Hearing him perform “Roll Me Up and Smoke Me When I Die / Still Not Dead” was a reminder that, despite his age, he’s still got it. Other classics like “You’re Always On My Mind” and “Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground” filled the cool San Diego night, the city lights flickering against the water as Willie and his band played on.
Sitting there, under the open sky, watching a living legend strum that Trigger-worn guitar, I knew this was one of those nights I’d carry with me.
May 2024—The Black Hills, South Dakota
A Mountain-Sized Legacy & Toasting Legends
Mom’s Annual Migration
My mom, now in her late 80s, spends her winters in Marco Island, Florida, and summers in the Black Hills of South Dakota—famous for Mount Rushmore, rugged parks, abundant wildlife, and the growing community of Rapid City. Between my brother Jonathan and me, we make sure her biannual migration between these two vastly different places is as smooth as possible.
Flying isn’t as easy for her these days. There are no direct flights from Fort Myers to Rapid City, which means layovers, gate changes, and tight connections—never ideal when you don’t move as fast as you used to. Thankfully, United Airlines helps us arrange assistance, ensuring she gets from gate to gate without stress.
In May, Jonathan took on escort duty, flying with Mom to Rapid City, while I arrived a day early to prepare the house. Picking me up at the airport was Mom’s longtime friend Paul Jensen—always so helpful and kind to Mom and us. Paul and I soon enough were off on our yearly ritual of getting her home ready for her arrival.
Settling In & Exploring the Black Hills
Whenever the three of us—Mom, Jonathan, and I—get together, good food and good wine are always on the agenda. There’s also shopping. Mom inevitably has a project in mind, whether in Marco Island or Rapid City, and this year’s mission? A new reading lamp (or two) for her bedroom. So we scoured Rapid City’s shops, hunting for the perfect one.
Of course, with all that great food and wine, we needed to get outside and move.
Hanson-Larsen Memorial Park, a beautiful expanse of hiking and biking trails overlooking Rapid City, was our choice for a quick hike. The park’s crown jewel is the huge white “M” planted on the hillside—a local landmark that stands as a tribute to the South Dakota School of Mines & Technology. It’s the kind of place where you can take in panoramic views of the city and surrounding Badlands, a reminder of how rugged and untamed this part of the country still feels.
Mom used to be more of a hiker, but she opted to stay behind with her new lamps while Jonathan and I tackled the trail.
A Legacy of Stone: The Borglum Obsession
Many years ago, Mom and her late husband—my stepfather, Howard—moved to South Dakota for what could only be described as a deep-dive passion project.
They were fascinated by the life and mindset of Gutzon Borglum, the controversial and larger-than-life sculptor behind Mount Rushmore. Their curiosity quickly turned into a full-scale investigation, one that led them down a seven-year rabbit hole of research, interviews, and archival digging.
They retraced Borglum’s steps, scoured his personal letters and papers, cataloged his art, and interviewed surviving members of his Mount Rushmore team. The result? Their definitive biography of Borglum:
“Six Wars at a Time: The Life and Times of Gutzon Borglum, Sculptor of Mount Rushmore.”
The book pulled back the curtain on Borglum’s complex personality, revealing the genius, the flaws, and the relentless ambition that drove him. He was, in many ways, a man at war with the world—battling politicians, finances, artistic challenges, and even himself.
Their research made them de facto experts on Borglum and Mount Rushmore. They were recruited to curate a museum dedicated to Borglum’s work, and for years, they ran personalized tours of the Black Hills, guiding visitors beyond Rushmore to places like Custer State Park, Deadwood, Sylvan Lake, and the Badlands.
Jonathan, of course, was along for the ride. He spent his formative years in Hill City, a small town just outside Rapid City and near Mount Rushmore. Eventually, he moved back to Connecticut for high school while Mom and Howard remained entrenched in their Borglum research and the culture of the Black Hills.
Crazy Horse: A Monument Still in the Making
Over time, Mom and Howard became close friends with another family carving history into the Black Hills—the Ziolkowskis.
Korczak Ziolkowski, another fiercely independent sculptor, took on a different, perhaps even more ambitious project than Borglum. After meeting Chief Henry Standing Bear, a Lakota leader, Korczak was asked to carve a mountain memorial honoring Native American heroes.
Standing Bear’s message was simple:
“My fellow chiefs and I would like the white man to know that the red man has great heroes, too.”
Korczak agreed.
He began carving Crazy Horse Memorial in 1947, just six years after Mount Rushmore was officially dedicated. But where Borglum’s project, backed by federal funds, took only 14 years to complete, Crazy Horse has remained a family-run, privately funded endeavor from the start—now stretching into its 78th year in 2025.
The sheer scale alone is staggering. When completed, Crazy Horse will stand at 563 feet tall and 641 feet long, making it the largest mountain carving in the world—nearly ten times the size of Mount Rushmore. To put it in perspective, the four presidents’ heads on Rushmore could fit inside just the face of Crazy Horse.
Even after nearly eight decades, the carving remains unfinished, but progress is undeniable. The face of Crazy Horse was completed in 1998, and work continues, slowly but steadily, on his outstretched arm and the horse’s head.
When we visited, we had lunch with Monique Ziolkowski, who, along with her sister Jadwiga, now shares the “CEO” title. Their entire family remains dedicated to their parents’ vision—to finish carving the mountain and establish a cultural and educational center for Native American heritage.
The highlight of our visit? Standing on Crazy Horse’s outstretched arm, gazing up into his enormous, carefully chiseled eyes. A moment that puts everything into perspective—the sheer size of the work, the commitment of the family, and the generations of history and culture that this monument will one day fully honor.
Crazy Horse Memorial — Black Hills of South Dakota
A Toast to the Dreamers: Jack Daniels in the Studio
Monique led Mom, Jonathan, and me into Korczak’s private studio, the space where he once designed, sketched, and dreamed. As we looked around, she reached for a bottle of Jack Daniels—a family tradition.
Korczak, after long days sculpting the mountain, would unwind with a glass of Jack.
To honor his legacy, the family keeps a bottle in his studio.
And just like that, we were part of the tradition.
Each of us—Monique, Jonathan, Mom, and I—took a pull from that bottle and toasted to Korczak.
And in that moment, I couldn’t help but think back—maybe 30 years earlier—to the days when Mom and Howard were first settling into the Black Hill—when Monique led me down to her father’s studio and handed me that bottle of Jack and together we toasted to him and the dream of carving another mountain in these Black Hills.
It certainly wasn’t the same bottle, but there will always be one here, waiting for the next toast.
A Final Toast to Howard
Before leaving Mom with her Rapid City circle of friends, we needed to honor another man who shaped our family’s journey.
Howard.
Born in 1929, the year of the Great Depression, he was a storyteller, a researcher, and a prolific writer with unsatiable curiosity.
Jonathan pulled a bottle from the cellar—a Madeira from 1929.
As the rich, nutty, and nearly hundred year old wine swirled in our glasses, we raised a final toast:
To Howard. To Mom. To another transition and to new memories here in these Black Hills.
Romania • Bulgaria • Cyprus
The Journey To Eastern Europe
I barely had time to unpack in San Diego before setting off on another adventure to Eastern Europe and the Mediterranean. Since first discovering the beauty of this region during my 2016 motorcycle journey, I’ve returned to Romania and Bulgaria several times. The friendships I’ve forged over the years have endured nearly five years and even through the pandemic. This time, my journey wouldn’t just take me back to Romania and Bulgaria—I’d also visit Cyprus, the island country in the Mediterranean, where my old friend from Athens, Panos Kyriazis, recently opened a second location of his famed Vintage Wine Bar & Bistro. Known for its incredible selection of wines by the glass, Vintage is a true gem for wine lovers. This trip was all about reconnecting—reconnecting with friends, with the culture and hospitality of these countries, and, of course, with exceptional wine. First stop: Romania, followed by Bulgaria and finally Cyprus.
Attending the Revino Bucharest Wine Show, produced and promoted by Alina Iancu, has long been on my list. Alina, a passionate ambassador for Romanian wine, has created incredible wine country maps and more through her website. We first met years ago in Bucharest and shared a memorable lunch with Oliver Bauer of Prince Știrbey Winery, enjoying great wine and conversation. The pandemic forced the cancellation of the wine show in 2020, but with its reopening, I was determined to attend. This time, due to timing and my motorcycle awaiting me in Lisbon, I flew to Romania and rented a car.
The Revino Bucharest Wine Show, founded by Alina Iancu, has been instrumental in promoting Romanian wines. After a hiatus due to the pandemic, the show reopened, providing a platform for wine enthusiasts and professionals to connect. At the fair, I reconnected with Alina and Oliver, who had a stand there, as well as with Aurelia Vișinescu of Domeniile Săhăteni. I also met Adina Vulcan, who had previously assisted me in connecting with Romanian winemakers, restaurants, and even a mechanic for my motorcycle during my last visit. It felt like returning home, meeting old friends and making new ones.
It was also at Revino that I met Scott and Kim Osmar, an American couple from Colorado who were exploring Romanian wine for the first time—not just out of curiosity but with a mission. They planned to start importing Romanian wine to the United States and had made this trip a scouting expedition to determine which wines to bring back. They weren’t traveling alone, either. Their son, a sommelier friend, and their girlfriends were along for the journey, turning it into both a business trip and a family adventure. Their enthusiasm was infectious, and I enjoyed seeing them immerse themselves in Romania’s wine scene with fresh eyes.
The idea of introducing Romanian wine to a broader American audience is an exciting one—Romania has so much to offer, yet its wines remain largely undiscovered outside of Europe. Scott and Kim were meeting winemakers, tasting through lineups, and strategizing how to best present these wines back home to sommeliers, retailers, and restaurant buyers. I admired their ambition, their willingness to dive headfirst into an unfamiliar market.
That said, I couldn’t help but feel they were stepping into a long, deep tunnel without fully knowing where it would lead. The realities of wine distribution in the U.S. are complex, competitive, and full of hurdles—especially when working with wines from a region that doesn’t yet have mainstream recognition. There’s no doubt they’re passionate and determined, and I truly hope they find a way to carve out a niche. If they can navigate the inevitable challenges, it could be something special. Romanian wines deserve more attention, and seeing bottles from producers like DAVINO and others in U.S. restaurants and wine shops would be a win for everyone.
Dragasani • Dealu Mare
To The Heart of Romanian Wine
After the fair, I traveled to Drăgășani, where I joined Oliver and his wife Raluca at their winery for a wonderful dinner and exceptional wines. I brought a bottle of Paul Lato Chardonnay, and Oliver shared some of his past vintages. He was impressed with the crafted Paul Lato Chardonnay, noting he hadn’t tasted a U.S. Chardonnay as good as that. Oliver’s passion extends beyond wine; he’s an avid collector of vintage hi-fi and stereo gear, with nearly 100 vintage turntables. Sharing music is another dimension of connection, and we enjoyed a remastered vinyl of Dire Straits’ Communiqué and some classic rock from Motörhead while watching the sunset over the new winery under construction across the road. As Oliver says, no matter where in the world you go, wineries all have the same problem: they need more room and space.
I was also hosted with immense hospitality at Avincis Winery, where the owners, Cristiana and Valeriu Stoica, not only run the modern winery but also live in the beautifully restored family manor. The estate is a blend of tradition and innovation. The winery itself is a striking example of contemporary architecture, with walls covered in Arnota limestone and a green roof that seamlessly integrates it into the landscape. The manor, restored in the early 2010s, reflects a classical Romanian style. (Okay, I admit I had to look this up—Brâncovenesc—but let’s just say it means elegant, with a hint of grandeur and history.) The Stoicas’ commitment to preserving their family legacy while embracing modernity is evident in every detail.
While at Avincis, I had the pleasure of meeting their new winemaker, Andrea Previtali, a young Italian who brings a fresh perspective to the winery. Andrea ended up in Drăgășani after a road trip from Italy with his girlfriend a few years ago. He liked it so much that he decided to stay and now leads the winemaking team passionately and enthusiastically. Andrea’s energy was contagious as he walked me through the vineyards and the winery, sharing his vision for Avincis wines. Together, we tasted a rare bottle of Cuvée Valerius, made from a newly developed grape called Alutus Primus, showcasing the innovative spirit of Romanian winemaking.
Next, I traveled to Dealu Mare, where I planned to reconnect with Dan Balaban of DAVINO Winery, one of the most esteemed wineries in Romania. As I wound my way through the rolling vineyards of Dealu Mare, the sun casting a golden glow over the neatly pruned vines, I found myself reflecting on something Dan had mentioned during our earlier conversation—he mentioned that there might be a group of U.S. wine importers joining me for the visit. I thought, hmmmm. Could it be Scott and Kim? It had to be. What were the chances that another group of American importers would be in Romania at the same time, visiting the same wineries?
Sure enough, when I arrived at DAVINO’s executive tasting room, there they were. We took our seats side by side and dove into the portfolio of DAVINO wines, an experience that felt as much like an education as it did a revelation. Dan’s meticulous approach to winemaking was on full display as we worked through flights of his Fetească Neagră, Sauvignon Blanc, and Bordeaux-style blends. It was fascinating to taste alongside Scott and Kim, seeing their reactions and hearing their thoughts, knowing that their goal was to bring these wines stateside. Their enthusiasm was contagious, and their vision was ambitious.
From there, we all traveled to SERVE Winery, founded by Count Guy Tyrel de Poix, a Corsican who fell in love with Romania’s terroir—and with a Romanian woman, Mihaela Tyrel de Poix. SERVE was the first private winery in post-communist Romania, established in 1994. Mihaela guided us through the winery, sharing her late husband’s groundbreaking contributions, such as introducing Romania’s first dry rosé in 1995, creating the first premium blend, Cuvée Charlotte, in 1998, and pioneering the combination of local and international grape varieties. Her dedication to continuing his legacy was inspiring.
As I watched Scott and Kim navigate this journey, I couldn’t help but admire their passion. They were stepping into a deep, layered world filled with opportunity and challenge. Importing wine is no small feat—it’s a maze of regulations, distribution hurdles, and market positioning. Yet, their enthusiasm was undeniable, and I was eager to see how they would bring Romania’s hidden gems to American tables.
Perhaps one of my most anticipated stops in Dealu Mare was Vinalia – Conacul din Ceptura, where I’d finally reconnect with its owner, Tibi. More than just a winery, Vinalia is a boutique guesthouse nestled in the heart of Dealu Mare, a place where wine, hospitality, and history blend effortlessly. When I first discovered this region back in 2019, I made plans to stay at Vinalia, taste its wines, and of course, visit Dan at Davino—just up the road.
That trip took me through Greece, Bulgaria, Romania, and then east to Moldova, Ukraine, Georgia, Azerbaijan, Armenia, and Turkey. Along the way, I had collected more than a case of wine—mostly gifts from generous winemakers or bottles I simply couldn’t leave behind. But traveling by motorcycle meant every ounce of extra weight was a liability. Wine, for all its virtues, is heavy, fragile, and not exactly designed for life strapped to the back of a bike.
During my visit to Vinalia, Tibi gave me a tour of the winery, including an area under construction where loyal customers would soon be able to store their wine collections on-site—a personal cellar within the winery and guesthouse. And that’s when it hit me: instead of hauling a dozen bottles across borders, why not leave some behind? I knew I’d be back—probably in a year—so why not lighten my load and give myself yet another reason to return?
Tibi agreed, and I left behind about eight bottles, including one of his legendary Vinalia Fetească Neagră.
Then, the world changed.
I didn’t make it back the next year. Nor the year after that. Or the year after that.
COVID happened.
But as I began planning this 2024 trip, I reached out to Tibi, half-jokingly:
“Any chance that box of wine is still there?”
When I arrived at Vinalia, the ever-smiling restaurant manager, Gabriel, appeared at my dinner table—with the box of wines in his hands.
Five years later.
Still there.
Still waiting for me.
Tibi wasn’t at the winery when I first arrived, but later in my trip, while I was tasting wine at SERVE, he showed up. We had a brief but warm reunion, catching up between sips and stories.
This trip, unlike my previous ones, didn’t involve strapping bottles to my motorcycle and carving through Romania’s backroads, but that didn’t diminish the sense of adventure. I may have missed the raw freedom of two wheels, but what I gained was something just as rewarding—reconnecting with old friends, breaking bread over remarkable wines, and uncovering new dimensions of the passions that drive the people I’ve met along the way. Whether it was vintage hi-fi gear, traditional winemaking, or simply the joy of sharing a meal, each of these moments stitched another thread into the fabric of this journey.
And that’s why Dealu Mare, Romania and this entire region keeps calling me back.
Sofia • Thracian Valley • Plovdiv
Crossing Into Bulgaria
Crossing into Bulgaria
The flight to Sofia was uneventful—barely an hour long. Just enough time to gaze out the window and let the anticipation build. It had been too long since my last visit, and Bulgaria—its food, wine, and culture—has a way of leaving a lasting impression.
After a few days in the capital, I planned to rent a car and head to Plovdiv, Bulgaria’s second city and the European Capital of Culture in 2019. But first, I had a reunion to look forward to.
The highlight of my time in Sofia was reconnecting with the spirited and legendary Giannis Tzovas, owner of Carnivale. I first met Giannis in 2019 when I rolled through Bulgaria on my motorcycle, exploring the country’s wine regions, its deep Thracian roots, and the unmistakable warmth of its people. That chance meeting at a wine bar in downtown Sofia has since turned into a lifelong friendship. Giannis, a force in Bulgaria’s culinary and wine scene, now balances running Carnivale with expanding his specialty coffee chain, Motherfathers Coffee. Wherever there’s great food, wine, or espresso, Giannis seems to be at the center of it.
My timing in Sofia couldn’t have been better—an international wine fair was in town, offering trade professionals and wine lovers a chance to explore global selections. After spending the morning wandering Sofia’s legendary Women’s Market—where the scent of fresh herbs mingled with roasted nuts and honey-drizzled pastries—I met Giannis at Paradise Center, one of Sofia’s largest shopping and event spaces.
The event, Discover.Vino, produced by the Bulgarian wine magazine DiVino, showcased wines from around the world—except Bulgaria. While DiVino is known for its deep focus on Bulgarian wine, including its prestigious Top 50 Wines of Bulgaria list, this fair was an opportunity to taste and compare international selections.
Giannis and I meandered through the tasting booths, sampling everything from classic Champagnes to structured German Rieslings, deep Spanish Tempranillos, and even a collection of U.S. wines supported by the USDA.
No visit to Sofia would be complete without a meal at Carnivale. That night, over plates of slow-roasted meats, vibrant salads, and rich Bulgarian cheeses, I was introduced to new friends, including Peter, the sommelier at COOKÓ Kitchen:Drinks, a stylish, modern restaurant housed inside the boutique Junó Hotel Sofia.
Peter, knowing I was heading to Plovdiv, pulled out a bottle that perfectly set the stage for my next stop: Dragomir Pitos Reserve 2013—a blend of Rubin, Bulgaria’s signature deep-hued red grape, alongside Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot. As we sipped, we talked wine, travel, and the stories that bind them together.
After dinner, Peter led Giannis and me down to COOKÓ’s wine cellar—a stunning room lined with racks of rare and exquisite wines. Dim lighting cast a warm glow, creating the kind of intimate, almost reverent atmosphere that only the best wine cellars have. Comfortable chairs and well-placed tables invited lingering conversation, and we did just that—sipping the last of the Pitos, letting the richness of the wine and the moment settle in.
Both Giannis and Peter knew I’d be visiting Dragomir Winery in Plovdiv, where I had plans to meet co-owner and winemaker Natalija Gadzheva. Tasting her wines in Sofia before heading to Plovdiv felt like a preview of the conversations and discoveries to come.
Into the Thracian Valley
The next morning, under brooding skies that hinted at rain, I picked up my rental car and made my way toward Plovdiv. But first, I had another reunion planned—this time with Pavlin Ivanhov, a familiar face from my last visit.
Pavlin, the mastermind behind Sofia Wine Walks, has spent years crafting experiences that connect travelers with Bulgaria’s rich winemaking culture. On my last trip, he took me through Sofia’s best wine bars, introducing me to small-batch producers and rare Bulgarian varietals. Now, he had taken on a new challenge: managing Villa Velis, a boutique winery in the Thracian Valley, just outside Plovdiv.
The moment I pulled into the winery parking lot, Pavlin waved me over and ushered me into his car. “We’re going for a drive,” he said with a grin.
Minutes later, we were bumping down a dirt road, passing through vineyards that hold some of the oldest vines in Bulgaria. Here, history runs deep—ancient Thracian roots mingling with new plantings, ensuring that Bulgaria’s winemaking legacy not only endures but evolves.
Villa Velis, part of the Velis Vineyards project, is a Bulgarian-German collaboration initiated in 2010 by Velichka Tseke and Michael Zehe. While their Bulgarian vines flourish in the Thracian Valley’s rich soils, their German vineyards—cultivating Riesling, Chardonnay, and Pinot Noir—produce wines in the renowned Flörsheim-Dalsheim region. Remarkably, some of Bulgaria’s fruit is even shipped to Germany for processing, blending centuries-old techniques with cutting-edge winemaking technology.
In the winery’s cozy tasting room, Pavlin walked me through a lineup of Villa Velis wines, his enthusiasm unmistakable. Their second label, Heaven’s Door, is an ambitious collection featuring an aromatic yet structured Syrah, along with Roter Riesling—an ancient, nearly forgotten grape that Velis Vineyards is working to preserve.
As we worked through the tasting, I couldn’t help but admire the balance between tradition and innovation in these wines. There’s a distinct energy here—a sense that Bulgaria’s wine industry is not just holding onto its past but actively shaping its future.
After a long tasting and even longer goodbyes, I climbed back into my rental car, the road to Plovdiv unfolding ahead of me.
Two nights in the city wouldn’t be enough, but I already knew this—Bulgaria has a way of keeping me coming back.
The Return to Dragomir & Pavaj
One of my top priorities in Plovdiv was reconnecting with Natalija Gadzheva, the heart and soul behind Dragomir Winery. When I first visited years ago, Dragomir was operating out of a modest urban facility—a true garagistewinery. It was an intimate, hands-on operation where every inch of space was maximized, every barrel stacked with purpose. Back then, Natalija and her husband, Konstantin Stoev, spoke of bigger dreams—of a winery that could match their ambitions, of a space where they could not only make wine but share it in a setting that did justice to their craft.
I remember back in 2019, the smile on Natalija’s face and the pride running through her veins when she unrolled the blueprints—the architectural plans for what would become their new winery.
A few years later, they had built that dream. And now, I was back to see it and live it.
Set just outside the city, the new Dragomir Winery Estate is a study in balance—modern yet warm, functional yet inviting. The moment I arrived, I could see how much thought had gone into every detail. The sleek architecture blended seamlessly with the surrounding landscape, and inside, the gleaming stainless steel tanks, stacked French oak barrels, and an expansive tasting room signaled a new chapter for Dragomir.
Natalija greeted me with a warm hug and a knowing smile—the kind that said she had a few surprises in store.
We walked the length of the winery, pausing at the towering fermentation tanks before stepping into the barrel room, where the scent of aging wine—oak, spice, ripe fruit—wrapped around us like a familiar embrace. Finally, we settled into the tasting room, a space designed for lingering, where each bottle opened tells a story of patience and precision. The table settings were perfectly placed, each featuring a cork from a Dragomir wine as decoration—a small, thoughtful touch that reflected the care poured into every detail here.
We started with the Dragomir Sarva, a refined Rubin, Bulgaria’s deep-hued, high-acid native grape. Natalija poured with the confidence of a winemaker who knows exactly what she’s offering—something unique, something that speaks of its place. Rubin is Bulgaria—no question. Then came the Dragomir Special Selection, a seductive blend of Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Rubin, its structure bold yet elegant, its layers unfolding with every swirl of my glass.
Dragomir has always been a winery that pushes boundaries. Their approach to barrel aging and blending, vineyard management, and grape sourcing isn’t just about making good wine—it’s about redefining what Bulgarian wine can be on a global stage.
As we tasted through their lineup, I couldn’t help but reflect on how far they’d come since I had last visited five years ago. The new winery wasn’t just a step forward—it was the embodiment of years of passion, persistence, and a relentless belief in the potential of Bulgarian wine.
Sitting there, sipping wine and sharing stories, I had the same realization I always do in places like this: the best wineries aren’t just about the wine. They’re about the people who pour themselves into every bottle, every detail, every decision—every story.
Dragomir had entered a new era. And I was honored to be back and experience it.
A Toast at Pavaj
My final stop in Plovdiv was one I had been looking forward to for years—dinner at Pavaj, a restaurant in the heart of Kapana, the city’s creative quarter.
Kapana, meaning “The Trap,” is a vibrant maze of narrow cobblestone streets, colorful murals, eclectic cafes, and buzzing bars. It’s the kind of place where you could get lost for hours and not mind one bit. Once an artisan hub during the Ottoman era, it has been revitalized into a cultural hotspot—hosting art festivals, live music, and some of the best food in Bulgaria.
As I walked into Pavaj, I caught the eye of Raycho, the owner, who had last served me here years ago. He hesitated for a moment, then his face lit up.
“Welcome home,” he said.
I smiled, taking in the familiar warmth of the space. “It’s good to be back.”
Since my last visit, Pavaj had expanded—taking over neighboring spaces and even opening a natural wine bar. Over a series of incredible dishes, I let Raycho and his team surprise me. Sparkling wine flowed, followed by a string of Bulgarian reds, including a special orange wine—an extended maceration white made exclusively for Pavaj by Petar Georgiev, the rock-star winemaker behind Rossidi and Georgiev/Milkov.
The night stretched on, full of laughter, conversation, and one last toast—to Bulgaria, to friendships that never fade, and to the road always leading back to the people and places that make this journey unforgettable.
The Island Nation — Divided
Next Stop: Cyprus
From Bulgaria, I flew into Paphos International Airport on the island nation of Cyprus. Paphos, located on Cyprus’s southwestern coast, is nestled near the Akamas Peninsula and the Troodos Mountains. The setting is dramatic—a blend of Mediterranean coastal beauty and rugged mountain vistas. I chose to fly into Paphos because it serves as a gateway to Cyprus’s wine region, with picturesque villages like Kathikas and wineries producing unique local varieties like Xynisteri and Maratheftiko. The city itself, though small, boasts a UNESCO-listed archaeological site, stunning beaches, and a laid-back charm that makes it feel worlds away from the tourist-heavy spots in Europe.
But before I could even check into my hotel, Cyprus had a surprise in store for me.
I picked up my rental car, loaded my bags, and pulled onto the road—and suddenly, everything felt backward.
It wasn’t just that the steering wheel was on the right side of the car—I was driving on the left side of the road. My instincts, fine-tuned from years of driving throughout Europe and beyond, rebelled. My muscle memory kept pulling me toward the right lane, and every turn, every intersection, felt like a puzzle I had to solve in real-time. The first few minutes were an exercise in conscious correction. Left turn? Hug the curb. Right turn? Cross over—without overcorrecting. And the roundabouts? Let’s just say it’s a miracle I didn’t cause a traffic incident in my first 20 minutes on the road.
It caught me off guard because, well—this is Greece, right? At least, that’s how it feels on this side of Cyprus. Greek language. Greek food. Greek Orthodox churches. And yet, here I was, driving on the wrong—or rather, the British—side of the road.
The British colonial past lingers in Cyprus in subtle and not-so-subtle ways, and driving laws are just one of them. But more on that when I get to Nicosia—where Cyprus’s complicated history really comes into focus.
For now, I just needed to make it to my hotel.
A (Not-So-Great) Welcome to Paphos
As I slowly navigated through downtown Paphos, still getting accustomed to this mirrored world of driving, I approached a small side street near my hotel. That’s when it happened—my first Cyprus misstep.
I was creeping forward, cautiously making my way into a turn, when—thud.
I tapped the back of a truck.
Not just any truck, but a 25-year-old jalopy, peeling paint, countless dents, a broken headlight, and missing wheel moldings. My tiny rental car barely left a mark among its many battle scars, but my own front-right fender? That wasn’t so lucky. The wheel well cover had loosened, and there was an unmistakable dent.
Perfect—day one, and I’d already crashed my car.
The stunned construction worker unloading materials fetched the truck’s owner, who, to my surprise, was remarkably calm at first. “No problem,” he said, gesturing for me to park at my hotel. I thought, Great! He’s going to let it slide.
But no—he had other plans.
He wanted my insurance information. I explained that my coverage was through American Express and that it didn’t work like that. To proceed, we’d need a police report and proper repair estimates.
He sent photos to a friend who owned a repair shop, but the friend refused to issue a written estimate—something about local regulations and taxes. Instead, he verbally quoted me €400.
I countered, pointing out that his truck was illegally parked and that we’d have to involve the police. After five hours of back-and-forth, we settled on €100—money I’m fairly certain wouldn’t go toward fixing that truck.
Ultimately, we shook hands, shared a glass of wine, and turned the “accident” into an unlikely friendship. He even invited me to dine at his new restaurant the next time I’m in Cyprus. Did I overpay? Probably. But in the grand scheme of things, parting as friends rather than adversaries felt like the better deal.
After finally checking into my hotel, I reattached the wheel well cover and set off along the coast toward my first Cyprus winery.
The Trodos Mountains
A Deep Dive into Cyprus Wine
Just outside of Paphos, Vasilikon Winery—established in 1993—is one of Cyprus’s pioneering local wineries. Navigating narrow, twisty roads, I found the estate perched just outside the village of Kathikas. The setting was idyllic, the kind of place that makes you instinctively reach for your camera.
At Vasilikon, I tasted through several wines made from indigenous Cypriot grapes, including a variety I hadn’t encountered before: Vasilissa—translated as Queen. It’s no wonder that since 2010, the wines at Vasilikon have been crafted by Aphrodite Constanti, Cyprus’s first female oenologist. She had her dog in tow and was done working for the day, but I mentioned Panos had sent me here, she took a break and personally guided me through a few of the wines, pouring Xynisteri, Maratheftiko, and even Cabernet Sauvignon, each reflecting the island’s unique terroir.
After a seafood dinner and a good night’s sleep, the next morning I headed deep into the Troodos Mountains in search of two of Cyprus’s most renowned wineries: Tsiakkas and Vlassides.
Tsiakkas Winery: Where History and Wine Collide
Nestled high on steep mountain slopes, surrounded by pine forests towering over 1,500 meters, Tsiakkas Winery is a true gem. Here, I met Orestis Tsiakkas, son of the founders Kostas and Marina Tsiakkas.
Orestis led me through a tour of the vineyards and explained the region’s unique terroir—poor, sandy, and volcanic soils formed by tectonic shifts and volcanic activity millions of years ago when the Troodos Mountains were thrust from beneath the sea. The land was so challenging that early viticulturists had to construct stone terraces, some dating back 400 years, to prevent soil erosion and manage water runoff. These terraces had been hidden beneath dense forests until a massive fire fifteen years ago revealed their existence.
Back at the winery, Orestis poured Yiannoudi, an indigenous Cypriot variety crafted from phylloxera-free, ungrafted vines nearly a century old. Cyprus remains one of the few wine regions in the world untouched by the phylloxera epidemic that devastated vineyards across Europe.
Captivated by the dramatic vineyards, I decided to send up my drone to capture their breathtaking beauty. For about 15 minutes, I maneuvered it through the valley, tracing the stone terraces and the towering mountains. Feeling inspired, I attempted an epic pull-away shot—but in my eagerness, I misjudged my altitude.
The drone collided with a pine tree just behind the winery.
Orestis and I scrambled into action, climbing the terraces, scaling ancient stone walls, and crossing an old rusted iron tower—once part of an ancient cable system used to transport grapes and goods from the mountains to Limassol over a century ago. The search felt futile, and my mind drifted to the drone I’d lost in Berat, Albania, last year when it plunged into a river.
Just as I was about to give up, a flash of white caught my eye near the roadside, tangled in a craggy bush. Against all odds, there it was—my drone!
Relief quickly turned bittersweet when a closer inspection revealed the gimbal and camera had separated. The drone itself was intact, but the heart of its operation—the camera—was destroyed. It was grounded for the rest of this trip.
Sophocles Vlassides: Redefining Cypriot Wine
Later, I met Sophocles Vlassides after driving past the village of Kilani, nestled in the hills of Cyprus’s wine country. The road leading there was as dramatic as the setting—narrow, winding, and seemingly endless, twisting through valleys and olive groves before opening to reveal a sleek, modern winery seamlessly fused into the landscape.
Sophocles, who studied winemaking at the prestigious UC Davis—a renowned school in my home state of California—could have chosen any number of top wineries to work for worldwide. Instead, he returned home with a clear mission: to elevate Cyprus’s wines and prove their place on the global stage.
We settled in for a tasting, starting with Xynisteri, the indigenous white grape that defines Cypriot terroir. His version was crisp, mineral-driven, and bursting with acidity—a reflection of both the island’s limestone-rich soils and Sophocles’ meticulous approach. Then came Alates, a name derived from a local dialect, influenced by centuries of French, English, Greek, Turkish, Arabic, and Italian history. The wine itself was just as layered—complex, vibrant, and unmistakably Cypriot.
And then, there was Commandaria—the world’s oldest PDO wine still in production. This fortified dessert wine, made from sun-dried grapes, carries a history that dates back to the Crusaders and the Knights Templar. Its deep, rich caramelized notes reminded me why I love exploring these lesser-known wine regions. It’s the connection between, the story, where I can drift into the past and explore the present and wonder about the future — all starting with conversation and good glass of wine in your hand.
Even more, the experience was enhanced by the winery itself. The building was designed by Cypriot architect Eraclis Papachristou, representing both tradition and innovation. The sleek structure blends into the hillside. Inside, I found state-of-the-art facilities and an uncanny attention to aesthetics and function— perhaps it all mirrors Sophocles’ vision and passion for Cypriot wine.
Before I left for a night in Limassol, I asked Sophocles for a few dinner suggestions—somewhere I might find his wines alongside those of his neighbors. Though my time at both wineries was brief, it gave me pause. I found myself wondering why these wines—and these personalities—don’t have a louder voice on the world wine stage. Then again, maybe that’s okay.
Discovery, after all, is what drives me. The thrill of the unknown, the pull of the unexpected—that’s what keeps me moving, keeps me reaching. Uncovering wines like these, meeting the people behind them, feeling like you’ve stumbled upon something rare and extraordinary—it’s like getting in on a grand secret, a treasure waiting to be found.’
Limassol, Cyprus
Sunsets, Street Cats & A Garden of Wine
I planned just five days and four nights on this island nation, but with Greek Cyprus relatively compact and driving distances short, I could easily explore its top cities and attractions. My itinerary included the bustling port city of Limassol, the divided capital of Nicosia, and Larnaca, my departure point—known for its historic old town, twisting alleyways, and vibrant nightlife.
Naturally, I’d also cross into the Turkish side of Cyprus—North Nicosia, or Lefkoşa in Turkish—the capital of the self-declared Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC), recognized only by Turkey. It lies just beyond the United Nations Buffer Zone, dividing not just the city but the entire island into Greek Cypriot and Turkish Cypriot sectors.
But for now, Limassol.
With a few hours of daylight left after arriving, I wandered down to the waterfront, weaving through narrow streets, letting the city reveal itself as the sun dipped toward the horizon.
And then—I saw them.
Cats. Everywhere.
As a cat lover—and self-proclaimed cat whisperer—I couldn’t resist the families of felines threading through the alleys and lounging in doorways. Some were timid, watching from the shadows with cautious curiosity, while others boldly rolled onto their backs as I approached, practically demanding a belly rub. Kittens darted between my feet, bursting with playful energy, while older, wise-eyed cats stared with quiet knowing, their gleaming eyes carrying stories I’d never know—some with a hint of melancholy that made me wish I could scoop them up and take them home.
A fantasy, I know. So instead, I reached for my camera, eager to capture their innocence, their mystery, and the way they owned these streets with effortless grace.
Later, I learned that Cyprus has a deep, almost mythical connection with its cats—one that stretches back centuries. This isn’t just a modern quirk. Legend has it that in the 4th century CE, Saint Helena, mother of Emperor Constantine, brought cats to Cyprus to combat the overwhelming snake population near the monasteries. The tradition stuck.
Today, the legacy of Saint Helena’s felines lives on, with locals feeding and caring for Cyprus’s street cats—not just as strays, but as guardians of the island’s cultural fabric.
It reminded me of the Athens cats, roaming the Acropolis and its surrounding neighborhoods. Back then, I chalked it up to a Greek thing—but here in Cyprus, the cats don’t just roam the streets.
They rule them.
As much a part of the landscape as the sea, the mountains, and the history itself.
An Evening at Dionysus Mansion: Wine, Stories & Serendipity
Heeding recommendations from my new winemaker friends, and as a solo traveler who never truly dines alone, I always make it a point to interact with servers, chefs, and sometimes even strangers at nearby tables.
It’s in these casual, serendipitous moments that connections are made, stories are shared, and meals become something more than just food—they become an experience.
This time, I had an inside tip—a name to ask for: Pavlos, at Dionysus Mansion.
When I arrived, I stepped into what felt like an oasis—a lush garden bathed in warm, golden light, with cascading greenery and flickering lanterns overhead. The scent of fresh herbs, slow-roasting lamb, and ocean air mingled in the breeze.
I must have **stood out—**a solo diner wandering into this hidden gem—because before I could even scan the room, a server approached with an easy smile and a knowing glance.
“You must be looking for Pavlos,” he said, before I even had to ask.
Moments later, Pavlos himself appeared, wiping his hands on a towel, grinning like we were old friends.
“Ah, so you’re the one! Welcome. Sit—let’s make sure you eat well tonight.”
And just like that, I wasn’t just a guest.
I was part of the evening.
Between courses of grilled octopus, slow-braised lamb, and Cypriot halloumi, Pavlos would swing by my table, checking in, pouring wine, sharing stories.
I let him lead the way on the wine.
First, a crisp, mineral-driven Xynisteri, its citrus and salinity the perfect opener. Then, a silky Maratheftiko, deep and textured, followed by a **rich, layered blend—**one I wish I could remember. Lost in conversation, I forgot to take a picture of the bottle.
And as it always happens on nights like this, I was rewarded.
A connection made. A new discovery. A meal that was more than just dinner—it was an experience.
A Divided City: Crossing into North Nicosia
The next morning, I made an early start for Nicosia, where I’d finally meet Panos, the man responsible for my detour to Cyprus. That evening, I’d wine and dine with him and his staff, but first—I had a different kind of exploration in mind: crossing the United Nations Buffer Zone into Northern Cyprus.
Grabbing a Turkish coffee before heading through customs and immigration, a local Cypriot gently corrected me.
“Here, we call it Greek coffee.”
It’s the same rich, unfiltered brew, prepared in a briki over low heat—but the name itself reveals the tensions still simmering between Greece and Turkey. This island is full of quiet, loaded reminders like that.
Passport in hand, I approached the crossing point. My camera bag was scanned, my passport inspected, and as I stepped through the gate, I felt it—a subtle shift in atmosphere.
Suddenly, I was in North Nicosia.
The contrast was immediate. Gone were the polished streets and cosmopolitan cafés of the Greek Cypriot side. Instead, I found myself surrounded by Turkish flags, signs in Turkish script, and a cityscape with a more rugged, lived-in charm.
Vendors sold spices, baklava, and trinkets in small open-air stalls, while the call to prayer echoed faintly in the distance. The vibe was different, yet layered—a reminder that this divided city tells many stories—some written in stone, others in blood.
I wandered deeper into the quieter streets, past curious travelers and locals going about their day—some browsing outdoor markets, others hauling bags of concrete into half-renovated buildings. Then, I stumbled upon a massive warehouse filled with artisans, craftsmen, and creative boutiques.
With its high ceilings and tall windows, the century-old industrial building felt like a treasure trove for my camera—a feast of colors, textures, and faces.
And then—I got lost.
For nearly thirty minutes, I wandered the winding streets, searching for the border, the buffer zone—that invisible yet very real line that divides this city, this island, this history.
Eventually, I found it.
And with just a few steps, I was back in Cyprus.
A different world, yet only a breath away.
The Story of a Divided Island
Cyprus wasn’t always like this.
Its history is long and layered, but you don’t have to go back to antiquity to understand why the island remains divided today. You only need to drift back to the late 1800s.
Once part of the Ottoman Empire, Cyprus was leased to the British in 1878 under the Cyprus Convention—an agreement in which Britain took administrative control in exchange for supporting the Ottomans against Russian expansion.
By 1914, Britain formally annexed Cyprus, and after decades of colonial rule, tensions between the island’s Greek and Turkish communities escalated.
Cyprus gained independence in 1960, but peace was fragile at best.
Then, in 1974, a Greek-backed coup attempting union with Greece triggered a Turkish military intervention, effectively splitting the island in two.
The United Nations Buffer Zone, or the “Green Line,” was drawn, cementing the divide.
Now, Nicosia stands as Europe’s only divided capital.
Standing there—lost in the maze of winding streets—it truly hit me.
Nicosia isn’t a place where history sits in books or museums.
It’s carved into the stones that make its walls, frame its markets, cobble its streets—
and mark the lines on the faces of its people.
From Athens to Nicosia: Vintage Wine Bar & Bistro
An Evening at Vintage with Panos
Later that evening, I made my way to Vintage Wine Bar & Bistro in Nicosia, the latest venture from my longtime friend, Panos.
For years, Vintage Athens had been my home away from home whenever I passed through Greece—which was often, since my motorcycle “lived” there from 2016 until 2023. That changed when Michael sold the building where I’d safely stashed my bike for years.
Even after retrieving it and eventually returning to Greece, something had shifted. My visits to Vintage Athens still felt familiar—my friend and sommelier Efe always greeted me with a warm smile and an endless well of knowledge about Greek wines. But without Panos, something was missing.
He had made the decision to spend summers and fall in Nicosia, running his new Vintage location in Cyprus’s capital. For years, I’d planned to visit, but a couple of aborted attempts delayed my journey.
Now, finally, I was here.
The moment I stepped into Vintage Nicosia, I felt it—that same familiar energy.
The hostess paused, tilting her head for a moment before her face lit up with recognition.
“Wait, I know you! You’ve been to Vintage in Athens, right?”
Sure enough, one of the servers from Vintage Athens had joined the team in Nicosia. That feeling of stepping into a foreign place yet somehow being at home washed over me.
They led me upstairs to the rooftop terrace, where the balmy evening air carried the hum of conversation and the occasional clinking of glasses.
Before I could even lift my camera, a glass of sparkling wine was already in my hand.
Soon enough, Panos appeared, grinning as he slid into the seat across from me.
We talked about Cyprus, the wine scene here, life, and the ever-changing landscape of the industry. As we swapped stories, the wines kept coming, each bottle revealing another layer of Cyprus—and even a side trip back to Greece through the selections Panos curated for the evening.
The kitchen, knowing their audience, made sure my plate was never empty—each dish thoughtfully paired and beautifully presented.
The night stretched on.
The last customers trickled out. The Vintage crew wrapped up another evening.
But the conversations continued.
We shared an after-dinner drink, snapped photos filled with wide smiles, and basked in the energy of a well-lived night.
A Proper Nightcap
The Road to Larnaca
The next morning, I hopped in my rental car and headed south, making a quick stop in Ayia Napa on my way to Larnaca, where I’d spend my final night before flying back to California.
Ayia Napa didn’t leave much of an impression. Maybe it was the off-season, maybe the cool weather, or maybe it was just too commercial for my taste. It felt like a beach town waiting for summer crowds to give it life. I grabbed a coffee, a glass of wine, and didn’t linger long.
But Larnaca? That had something else.
The old town had twisting alleyways and a more intimate feel than Limassol—a mix of familiar, lived-in charm and a bit of an edge. After a week of wineries, tastings, and endless pours, I was ready for a break from wine.
So, I did what I do best—I wandered.
And that’s when I found myself at Savino Rock Bar.
A proper, no-frills rock bar, with its neon glow spilling onto the cobbled streets and the kind of playlist that makes you stay for “just one more.” A beer felt like the right call, a palate reset, a change of pace.
The bartender slid over a cold one, and I let the evening unfold.
A couple of locals chatted at the bar, a few travelers swayed to the rhythm of classic rock and blues, and the walls—plastered with stickers, band posters, and years of good times—whispered that this place had stories to tell.
And the night wasn’t over yet.
Savino had live music later at their second location just across the courtyard. The promise of real, raw, live rock ‘n’ roll was enough to keep me in town just a little longer.
But first, dinner.
I strolled along the seafront promenade, eventually landing at The Enigma Restobar, a place that—despite its name—was warm, inviting, and buzzing just enough to feel alive without being overwhelming.
After dinner, I made my way back to Savino Rock Bar’s live music venue.
The band was tight, the energy electric, and the lead singer? A force. She had that commanding stage presence, the kind that pulls you in, makes you forget about the clock, and convinces you to order another round.
I stayed for two sets, letting the night stretch just a little longer.
Maybe I pushed it.
I stumbled back to my hotel sometime after 2 AM, knowing full well that I had a 6 AM flight, a dented rental car, and no real idea what would happen when I dropped it off at the Hertz lot.
But that? That was tomorrow’s problem.
For now, it was just me, a rock bar in Larnaca, and the echoes of a damn good night.
The Final Goodbye to Cyprus
When I pulled into the Hertz kiosk at Larnaca Airport, it sat there like a tiny island in a sea of rental cars—a small, cramped space barely big enough for two people, a computer, a stack of files, and a tiny closet stuffed with who-knows-what.
It wasn’t dark. It was empty.
No attendant, no last-minute check-in, no one to take a look at the “not-so-pristine” rental car I was returning. Just a drop box bolted to the kiosk, daring me to commit.
I hesitated. Would they call me later? Would they even notice the dent?
I still needed official paperwork for my credit card claim, but there was no one to ask.
With no one around, I had no choice but to drop the keys into the slot. Clunk.
That was it.
With no other choice, I snapped a few last photos of the car—for evidentiary purposes, of course—shook my head, slung my camera bag over my shoulder, and dragged my carry-on from the car.
Walking toward the terminal, I thought about the past five days—the wines, the people, the unexpected friendships, the divided city, the music, the rock bars, the late-night conversations, the cats, the chaos of the roads, and the accidental mishaps that somehow turned into stories worth telling.
Goodbye, Cyprus.
And goodbye to my new friends.
June 2024 — Back In California
Pickleball Shenanigans & A Soundtrack for the Summer
The legendary, unique, and master storyteller musician, Al Stewart.
Back in California, I jumped straight back into the groove with my Pickleball crew. I’m completely hooked on this sport, but even more so on the tight-knit community we’ve built—both on and off the courts. We kicked off the month with a Memorial Day pool party at Melissa’s, then Jeanette and I took Janet out for a birthday dinner at Market Restaurant in Del Mar, one of my favorite spots in North County San Diego. Great food, great wine, and great friends—the perfect way to ease back into life stateside.
But June wouldn’t stay quiet for long.
One of the highlights of the month was my friend Al Stewart coming to town for a performance at The Belly Up in Solana Beach. For over 20 years, whenever Al plays here or in Orange County, we get together for dinner—sometimes before the show, sometimes after. This time, we did both.
The night before his show, I took Al to Tommy V’s in La Jolla. I brought a couple killer bottles of wine, and as always share them with the staff—this time with a young sommelier named Aaron—who took great care of us. As we were leaving, Aaron walked us to the hostess stand, chatting like a good host would, wrapping up the evening with a warm send-off. And then, for some reason—something I’ve never done in all my years of dinners with Al—I turned to Aaron and said, “You know, this guy’s a big deal.”
I immediately wondered if Al would grimace or roll his eyes—he’s not the type to bask in his own legend. But we’re old friends, and I let it roll.
“He’s headlining at the Belly Up tomorrow night,” I added.
Aaron, curious, asked, “Cool, what’s your name?”
Al, in his usual dry, understated way, simply said, “Al Stewart.”
Before I could even jump in to explain, Aaron’s eyes widened. “Wow! Year of the Cat!”
Al and I exchanged a look, both surprised that a 26-year-old instantly recognized a song that had dominated the airwaves decades well before he was born.
Without missing a beat, Al offered him a ticket to the show, and we exchanged numbers.
The next night, just before the show, Aaron texts me, and I lead him backstage, where he hands Al a bottle of Kosta Browne Chardonnay—one of California’s most coveted wines. In the packed green room, we toasted with champagne and Kosta Browne, surrounded by musicians, crew, and friends, before Al and his guitarist, Dave Nachmanoff, took the stage to a sold-out crowd.
Aaron and I found seats on the side of the stage, and what shocked me even more than his knowing Year of the Cat was that this young sommelier knew nearly every song—word for word.
Summer Nights & State Fair Lights
Later that week, I switched gears—from rock legend to country pop—when I hit the San Diego County Fair at Del Mar Fairgrounds.
I’d never heard of Little Big Town, but judging by the standing-room-only crowd, I was in for a show. And sure enough, as soon as they launched into “Boondocks,” I recognized the song and fell right into the groove, swaying along with the crowd, the lights of the Ferris wheel spinning behind us, the smell of deep-fried everything filling the night air.
It was a perfect fair night—greasy food, live music, and that electric energy of summer just hitting its stride.
Restoring the Classics
I closed out June with some vintage vehicle maintenance, finally tackling a persistent problem with my 1971 Pontiac GTO convertible.
For months, I thought the slowly deflating tire was the culprit—only to discover it wasn’t the tire at all. The rim was the issue. Every time I pulled the car out of the garage, the rear driver’s side tire was nearly flat.
After multiple troubleshooting sessions with the guys at Discount Tire, we determined the rim was either bent or suffering from a bad weld. Fixing it wasn’t worth the effort—I needed a replacement.
Easier said than done.
Back in the 1970s, Pontiac used a wide range of mag-like rims on the GTO, Firebird, Grand Prix, and even the Bonneville. The challenge? Finding the exact match—the right depth, right valve position, and, ideally, one that hadn’t been sitting in a junkyard for the last 40 years.
I finally tracked one down, but it looked like the seller had left it in his backyard in Philadelphia for decades.
A few weeks prior, I had it sandblasted down to the metal, then used wheel templates and a couple of cans of spray paint to restore it to its original factory look. Once it was ready, I took it back to Discount Tire, had the tire mounted, and finally—no more leaks.
But my GTO wasn’t the only classic that needed attention.
My 1972 Honda CB175 motorcycle, a piece of family history passed down from my dad over 20 years ago, had developed its own set of issues—gunked-up carburetors and a leaky gas tank.
Thankfully, I found Adriano, a legendary mobile motorcycle mechanic from Dridox Motorcycle Repair. He worked his magic, and before I knew it, the bike was running better than ever.
I don’t take these machines out nearly as much as I should. I must.
They’re not just vehicles—they’re stories, memories, and pieces of the wild and wonderful tapestry of my life—and the lives of so many of my friends who’ve ridden shotgun, crowded into the back seat, and cruised everywhere from my high school stomping grounds in Connecticut to the infamous Pacific Coast Highway with the top down. This car and that bike could tell some stories. And if this month reminded me of anything, it’s that some things—whether it’s music, wine, friendships, or a ’71 GTO with a new rim—only get better with time.
And with that, the whirlwind of June came to a close. It was a month of motion, music, and memories, from Pickleball to rock legends, fairground anthems to fixing up classics.
July 2024 — San Diego to Hollywood
It’s Not About Finding Time—It’s About Making Time
July was about time—the most precious gift we can give and receive. In a world where schedules pull us in every direction, where “busy” is a badge of honor, and where months can slip by unnoticed, I’ve long believed that the real magic of life isn’t about finding time—it’s about making time. Time to connect, to be present, to share a meal, a glass of wine, a story.
This month was all about that—about making time for the people who matter, whether I’ve known them for decades or just a year or two. About connection, togetherness, and that feeling—one of my mantras in life—that even though time has passed, somehow, time also stood still.
The month kicked off with a Fourth of July celebration at Raelene’s—the founder of Mountain Connect, a grassroots group that brings together community, adventure, and friendship, not just in the winter months but all year long. It was a perfect summer potluck-meets-birthday bash, the kind of gathering where you show up with a dish, leave with a dozen new friends, and walk away reminded of just how good life can be. At Rae’s request, I climbed up onto her kitchen counter—yes, balancing somewhat precariously—to capture the best shot of the crowd, their faces glowing with that mix of summer light, laughter, and maybe just a little too much sangria.
The following week, I joined my Pickleball muse Jeanette and her husband Quicksilver (yes, his real name—his parents were hippies, and it suits him) for an evening that blurred the lines between fine dining and family dinner. Along with their kids, Jake and Emma, and our friends Melissa and Sean, we gathered around a table where Quicksilver worked his culinary magic, plating a Michelin-worthy meal. The wine lineup was a world tour in itself—each bottle, a passport to another place, another time. Conversations drifted from the absurd to the profound, punctuated by the clink of glasses and the easy rhythm of people who just enjoy being in each other’s company.
Then came a night of live music at Sycuan’s Live & Up Close Theatre, where Niko Moon took the stage and kept the energy high—I’d never heard of Niko, but was happy to be invited by a new friend. Later in the month, an evening that was as much a family reunion as it was a sister’s birthday party, thanks to Curt and Martha’s visit from Paso Robles.
Now, Kristin, Curt’s sister, lives in my town, but my real connection is with Curt and Martha. They made the long trek down from Paso to celebrate Kristin’s birthday and spend time with their parents, who still live in the childhood home where he and Kristin grew up in La Jolla. I’ve always felt like something of an adopted brother to these two. We cook together, taste wine, trade stories, and dive deep into ideas—business, travel, life. With them, it’s never just small talk; it’s a continuous conversation that stretches over years, miles, and bottles of wine. Their visits always feel like a homecoming of sorts, a reminder of just how lucky I am to have friendships that run this deep.
And then came the kind of reunion that reminded me why making time is everything.
I’ve known Q-Man for 35 years. The last time we saw each other was before COVID, but our friendship stretches back across continents and decades. We first met in our twenties at an open-air café on Kuta Beach, Bali, where a singer-songwriter strummed folk songs from the sixties and seventies. It was over a cover of a classic Dylan tune—of course—that we first struck up a conversation, the music weaving its way into what would become a lifelong friendship.
So it felt only fitting that, after nearly four years apart, we’d reunite in San Diego over Dylan once again—this time at the Outlaw Music Festival, where Bob Dylan, John Mellencamp, and Willie Nelson shared the bill. I’d just seen Willie in April at the Rady Shell, but for Q-Man, this was his first time. And really, is there a better introduction to Willie Nelson than on a summer night under the stars, alongside old friends, with a glass of Roussanne in hand and the weight of time dissolving into music?
Whenever we get together, we pick up right where we left off—because that’s what real friendships do. Whether it’s a chance meeting in a beach café on the other side of the world or another of many reunions in California over the years, some connections are timeless. And in the end, it wasn’t just about seeing Dylan or Willie or Mellencamp—it was about remembering that time isn’t something to chase or hold onto.
It’s something to make.
September 2024 — Moments That Matter—San Diego, Washington, & Portugal
Celebrating Love, Honoring Legacy, and Rekindling Connections Across Continents.
Love Fest: A Backyard Shangri-La of Music, Dance & Connection
September kicked off in the best way possible—two days of music, connection, camaraderie, and great food and drink at Love Fest—Janet’s annual backyard celebration of, well… love. Nearly 200 people filtered in and out over the weekend, gathering under festooned lights, dancing barefoot in the grass, and soaking in the energy of what felt like Encinitas’ very own mini-Woodstock.
Janet’s Shangri-La is more than a backyard—it’s an extension of her spirit, a whimsical world she’s built with “found object” furniture, vintage knickknacks, and her signature touch—handmade hearts attached to sticks so anyone taking a selfie could literally hold onto the love.
The music lineup? Pure magic. The Travel Agents opened the show with a jam-heavy set of Grateful Dead and Traffic covers, getting the whole crowd singing and swaying. Then Quicksilver & The Seaside Ramblers took the stage, unleashing a rockabilly spirit that had everyone moving. His Chuck Berry’s “Little Queenie” cover was a highlight—a groove so infectious it pulled even the most reluctant dancers into the mix.
I took on my usual role—photographer, documentarian, and full-throttle reveler. Camera in hand, I weaved through the crowd, jumping on stage for those up-close, intimate musician shots—capturing sweat, smiles, and that raw expression only live music brings out. But it wasn’t all behind the lens—I danced my way through the night, caught up in the infectious energy, snapping photos mid-movement, the perfect blend of observer and participant.
Even as the last notes faded into the night, reality knocked. A neighbor complaint brought the sheriff to the door, and while the officer didn’t kill the vibe—hell, he even smiled for my camera—the city later sent Janet a citation. Now, she’s at a crossroads. Does Love Fest live on? Or will one lone neighbor’s complaint shut it down? Janet isn’t one to back down, but she also values harmony—she’s weighing her options, hoping to bring the community together rather than divide it.
One thing is certain: for those who were there, Love Fest ‘24 was unforgettable.
A Night of Honor & History in Washington, D.C.
With my niece Anna and sis-in-law Maria
Another milestone in September was one I wouldn’t miss for the world—celebrating my brother Jonathan Karl receiving the prestigious Urbino Press Award.
I had known for a while that there would be events in both Washington, D.C., and Urbino, Italy, but dates were still being finalized. Then, just over a month ago, a formal invitation arrived from Mariangela Zappia, the Italian Ambassador to the United States, requesting my presence at the U.S. ceremony. That sealed it. There was no question—I had to be there.
I hopped a flight to Washington, D.C., and reunited with family—Mom flew in from the Black Hills, Jim and his son Aiden made the trip from Florida, his in-laws, the Catalanos drove down from Jersey, and many of Jonathan’s closest friends gathered as well. The night itself was a blend of diplomatic elegance and personal pride. The Italian Ambassador’s residence felt like stepping into a Renaissance villa, adorned with Old World charm—soaring ceilings, intricate moldings, chandeliers casting a soft glow over the room, and artwork spanning multiple eras decorating the walls.
A stately dining room—pillars framing the space, a domed foyer leading into it—set the scene for the ceremony. As we took our seats, they played a video montage of Jonathan’s greatest hits—iconic moments from his days at CNN, covering Congress, the State Department, and now years reporting from the White House. Watching his career unfold on the screen, surrounded by family, brought home just how much he’s achieved and how deserving he was of this honor.
The Urbino Press Award, established in 2006, celebrates American journalists whose work embodies excellence in reporting and a deep commitment to international affairs, echoing the legacy of Renaissance humanism from the historic city of Urbino, Italy. Past recipients include Bob Woodward, Thomas Friedman, Helene Cooper, and Martha Raddatz, among other luminaries.
Later this year, Jonathan will travel to Urbino to receive the second half of the award—the ceremonial “Duke’s Robe” in a setting steeped in history, where the intellectual and artistic traditions of the Renaissance still resonate. I can’t wait to be there, camera in hand, documenting the celebration in a part of Italy I’ve yet to explore.
It’s been a long time since our entire family was together like this, and I was reminded once again how much these moments matter. Flights, schedules, miles traveled—none of it compares to being present for the people you love.
Back to Portugal—Reuniting with Old Friends, Exploring New Horizons
Back to Portugal—Reuniting with Old Friends, Exploring New Horizons
For the past seven years, my routine has been set—come fall, I head to Europe, reuniting with my motorcycle, Doc, and setting off on another two-wheeled adventure. But before I could leave, there was one thing weighing on me.
Leaving San Diego is never easy. Not just because it’s arguably one of the most beautiful places on the planet, with the best weather in the world—but because it’s home. And home isn’t just a place. It’s Dar.
She’s more than a cat. She’s my little shadow, my companion, the one constant in my life. And every year, before I take off, I face the same challenge: finding someone who will be there. Not just a cat sitter—Ari can handle the short getaways. But two months? Dar needs more than food and water. She needs company. She needs love. And I won’t go if I can’t give that to her.
This year, the clock was running out. My usual options weren’t lining up, and I was facing a real dilemma. Then, out of nowhere—Emily.
My niece, who lives in Manhattan with her sister, and my other niece, Anna, thought it would be an adventure to come to San Diego for a stretch. She couldn’t take the full two months, but she could start it off. She’d bring in some of her friends from New York—one at a time—and I’d convince my friend Ellie to cover the rest. The two of them would pass like ships in the night. Emily flying back to New York City, and Ellie making her way from Tampa. Not perfect, but good enough. At least Dar will be in good hands. Ellie is used to this drill. She’s helped me out for the past several when I set out on my annual motorcycle adventure.
Emily arrived a few days early, giving us time to wander my neighborhood, explore North County, and get her settled into my world. I gave her the tour, pointed out my favorite haunts, and—most importantly—introduced her to life with Dar.
She’ll be back.
And with that, my bags were packed, my cat was in good hands, and I was finally ready to return to Portugal.
But this time, I wouldn’t be riding solo.
Instead of another season of solo adventure, my longtime friend Robb, a fellow rider and automotive racing driver, was joining me. The plan was to meet in early October, but his commitments to a rally event in Canada meant shifting the schedule. I knew that could push us into the rainy season, but I also knew that riding together would be worth the wait.
Robb and I have logged miles and memories across the world, but this would be the first time we’d have an extended ride, just the two of us. A new dynamic, a new rhythm—same love for the road.
A Connection That Became Family
When I left Doc in Lisbon at the end of 2023, I didn’t yet know João—but I knew Jordan and Omar, two friends whose circle of connections would eventually lead me to him.
I had asked Jordan to keep an ear out for anyone who might be able to store my bike long-term. Word spread, and soon Fred—Jordan and Omar’s personal trainer, better known as “White Wolf” on Instagram—came forward with a solution. Fred was good friends with João, and before I knew it, I was meeting João, his wife Rita, his father Carlos, and their baby daughter Kika—a warm and generous family who offered to not just store my bike, but to look after it as if it were their own.
At first, it was simply a practical arrangement—a safe and convenient place for Doc to rest between journeys. But when I returned this fall, it became clear that this was more than just a storage solution—João and his family had become my Portuguese family.
Not only had he housed my bike, but he had gone above and beyond, ensuring it was in top shape for my return. He coordinated with a mechanic to address a few long-overdue issues—new wheel bearings, an oil change, fresh sprockets, a battery replacement, and reversing the makeshift cable fix I’d rigged in Tunisia last year when my battery failed and I was forced to install a reversed-terminal unit—the only one I could find.
And then there was the pass-through exhaust.
For the past couple of years, my exhaust had lost all of its packing. The baffles and disks that once controlled pressure and sound had long since disintegrated or been blown out, leaving nothing but an empty pipe. What had once been a controlled roar was now an unfiltered, guttural blast echoing through every village, mountain pass, and city street I rode through. There was nothing inside. It just passed through.
Last year, riding with Johnny A, he often insisted on riding ahead of me because the roar was unbearable from behind. He’d shoot me a look whenever I throttled up, shaking his head and yelling something over the noise that I could never quite hear—probably something along the lines of “Get that thing fixed already!”
So, while the bike was in João’s hands, I asked for one more fix: silencing the beast.
October 2024 – Madeira
A Wild Island Escape, A Legacy in a Glass
With the bike dialed in and a few great dinners shared with Jordan and Omar, I booked a flight to Madeira—a remote volcanic island in the Atlantic, about 300 miles off the African coast of Morocco. Though part of Portugal, Madeira feels like its own world—wild, dramatic, and shaped by the wind, the waves, and time itself. Of course, it’s also famous for the fortified wine that bears its name—a wine as layered and complex as the island’s history and landscapes.
For four days, I let Madeira pull me in—wandering its winding roads, tracing its craggy coastline, climbing to its mist-shrouded peaks. But as much as the island itself was a marvel, I came for something else too—its wine.
At D’Oliveiras, one of the island’s most storied wine lodges, I stepped into history. Founded in 1850 by João Pereira D’Oliveira, today the company remains in family hands, led by Luis Pereira D’Oliveira, a fifth-generation descendant. His nephew, Filipe D’Oliveira, son of the late Aníbal D’Oliveira, oversees winemaking, ensuring that the tradition continues with the same reverence and dedication that has defined their wines for over a century.
As I stood in the atmospheric lodge, surrounded by the intoxicating scent of aging wine and wooden casks darkened by time, I shared with the staff my own history with D’Oliveiras Madeira. I recounted the many nights my brother and I shared glasses of 1929 Boal with our late stepfather—celebrating his birth year. And on my recent visit to the Black Hills with my mom Audrey, Jonathan and I raised three glasses of 1929 D’Oliveiras Madeira to honor Howard and his memory.
Luis, intrigued by my connection to their wines, offered me a tasting experience beyond the standard selections. And then Filipe arrived, eager to share even more of the family’s treasures—Madeiras that had been resting, developing, waiting. Among them, a taste of history itself—an 1899 vintage.
Think about that.
A wine made before airplanes, before radio, before the modern age as we know it. And here I was, over a century later, tasting its evolution—still alive, still vibrant, still whispering of the wild vineyards of Madeira, of time sealed in a barrel and then, a century later, released into a glass.
The depth, the layers, the intensity of flavor—each sip seductively whispering of its past, a reflection of time itself. This is the magic of Madeira. These wines are not simply aged; they evolve, shaped by the years, like nothing else I’ve ever experienced.
Hey, but in Madeira, one must go beyond the glass. In so many ways, the island itself captivated me. From east to west and north to south, I navigated its winding roads, traced its rugged coastline, hiked its plateau, and climbed its mist-cloaked peaks. But the moment that truly stayed with me was standing atop Pico do Arieiro at sunrise.
At 1,818 meters (5,965 feet), it’s Madeira’s third-highest peak. As the sun rose, I stood above a sea of clouds, the jagged mountain peaks bathed in golden light. The sky shifted from deep indigo to fiery amber, and for a brief, breathtaking moment, it felt like I was witnessing the world awaken from above.
Of course, no visit to Madeira is complete without a ride on its most famous—and arguably most unusual—form of transport: the Monte toboggan sleds.
I took the gondola up to Monte Palace, a historic estate perched high above Funchal, Madeira’s capital. The palace itself, with its winding gardens, koi-filled ponds, and cascading waterfalls, felt like a world unto itself. The grounds are a masterful blend of Portuguese, Japanese, and tropical influences—stone archways framing bursts of vivid flora, hidden pathways leading to tranquil courtyards, and even a flamboyance of flamingos strutting near an emerald-green lagoon. After wandering through the estate, admiring its eclectic art collection and sampling a pineapple-passionfruit drink served inside an actual pineapple, I faced a choice—how to get back down.
I could have taken the gondola or hiked the steep streets back into town. Instead, I opted for the most iconic experience Madeira has to offer—hurtling down the mountain in a wicker sled, steered by two dapper gentlemen in crisp white uniforms and straw hats.
Gripping the edges of their wicker toboggan, this couple speeds down the steep streets of Monte, guided by two dapper carreiros in their signature white uniforms and straw hats. Once a mode of transport for aristocrats heading downtown, today it’s a thrill ride like no other—Madeira’s time-honored tradition of blending elegance with adrenaline.
This tradition, known as the Carreiros do Monte, dates back to the 19th century when residents of Monte—particularly well-to-do guests staying at the palace—needed a fast and convenient way to reach downtown Funchal. In those days, dressed in their Sunday best, they would climb into the sleds and glide down the winding streets at the hands of skilled drivers, who used their rubber-soled shoes as brakes. Today, it’s mostly a tourist attraction, but that doesn’t make it any less exhilarating—barreling down the slick, narrow streets, the city unfolding below in a blur of pastel rooftops and blue ocean.
Funchal itself was an artistic surprise. Wandering its twisting streets, I stumbled upon an array of beautifully executed street art—not the raw, anarchic graffiti of Athens, Madrid, or Naples, nor the expressive murals of Palermo, but something distinctly Madeiran. These works felt curated, intentional, seamlessly integrated into the character of the old town, adding yet another layer to the island’s unique cultural fabric.
From storied wines to thrilling descents, from the raw beauty of its craggy coastlines to the artistic pulse of its capital, Madeira is a place that defies expectation. It’s both lost in time and vividly alive, rugged yet refined, steeped in history but brimming with creativity.
This journey through Madeira—shaped by the generosity of the D’Oliveira family, the exhilaration of old-world traditions, and the awe-inspiring landscapes—became an indelible chapter in my travels. Here, history, memory, and connection converged in the most extraordinary way, reminding me, once again, why I chase these moments. Because sometimes, the places that seem the most remote are the ones that bring you closest to something truly timeless.
October 2024 – Return to Lisbon
Reconnecting Over Food, Wine, and a Shared Passion
Back in Lisbon, I finally met Sofia Reino—a longtime friend I had never actually met in person. Years ago, when I was deep into the FORKS project, Sofia volunteered as a recipe tester, helping refine and confirm the authenticity of some of the global dishes I was collecting for the book. Through that process, I got to know her deep passion for food, her Portuguese roots, and her unwavering belief in sustainability and connection to the land.
After spending years in Minneapolis-St. Paul, she eventually returned to Portugal to follow her parents’ dream—launching TerrAzoia, a project that blended eco-tourism, organic farming, and permaculture principles in a stunning coastal setting. With Casa das Hortas, a beautifully restored rural house, and 1.7 hectares of organic farmland, she built a retreat where guests could immerse themselves in biointensive agriculture, walk sensory pathways, and experience the land in a way that modern life so often disconnects us from.
But then, COVID happened.
Like so many great ideas and heartfelt projects, TerrAzoia thrived—but was short-lived. The pandemic changed everything. And while the physical place may no longer exist, her passion for food, sustainability, and living with intention remains stronger than ever.
When we finally sat down for dinner in Lisbon, it felt like catching up with an old friend—because, in a way, we already were. We talked about Portuguese cuisine, travel, and adventure, swapping stories about the roads that brought us here and where they might take us next. And, of course, we raised a glass to finally meeting after all these years.
A Road Trip to Alentejo
Before I left Lisbon, Omar and his wife Ursula invited me to join them on a road trip south to Alentejo, to the village of Alvito—a place where vineyards, olive groves, and fruit orchards roll out like a golden-green tapestry under the Portuguese sun.
Alvito is home to the Castelo de Alvito, a remarkable 15th-century fortress-meets-palace that weaves together Islamic, Gothic, and Manueline styles—a reflection of Portugal’s rich and layered history. Originally built as a residence for the Barons of Alvito, the castle now serves as a Pousada, a luxury historic hotel with 20 rooms, a swimming pool, and a fine-dining restaurant.
This would be the base camp for Omar’s upcoming wine and music festival—a project he had been tirelessly working on for months. The trip was more than just an escape to the countryside; it was a strategic mission. Omar had meetings lined up with city officials, venue coordinators, and logistical planners. And while he was handling the business side of things, I was there to soak it all in—to walk the grounds, feel the space, and capture the essence of a place that would soon be buzzing with music, laughter, and the clinking of wine glasses.
A festival born from a love of wine, music, and connection—a vision that, much like everything else in my journey, felt like one more thread whose warp and woof create the great, wild tapestry of this life. Its texture is shaped by the experiences we weave into it, its threads connecting and binding us across tables, across borders—from the past to the present—and into a future we have yet to know. Because in the end, there are no coincidences—only connections waiting to be discovered, to surprise us, to spark magic, serendipity, and maybe even love.
October 2024: Lisbon, Marvão & The Road Ahead
From Hidden Wells & Flaming Crepes to Rain-Slicked Roads & Medieval Strongholds
After a wonderful evening reconnecting with Sofia and Frank, I had one more must-see destination in Lisbon before shifting my focus entirely to the road ahead. I had long wanted to visit Quinta da Regaleira, one of the city’s most enigmatic and visually stunning landmarks. Built in the early 20th century, its dramatic Neo-Gothic architecture—complete with turrets, gargoyles, and intricate stone carvings—gives the impression of something centuries older, something straight out of a fairytale. But its real intrigue lies beneath the surface.
Carved into the hillside, hidden among the gardens, is one of Regaleira’s most famous features: the Initiation Well—a deep, spiraling subterranean staircase that descends in a perfect, mystical helix. More than just an architectural marvel, this well was never intended for water—it’s believed to have been used for Masonic or alchemical ceremonies, representing a descent into the unknown and a symbolic rebirth. Walking its winding steps, the dim light filtering down from above, it was easy to feel transported—lost in a place where myth, history, and esoteric symbolism converged.
Beyond the well, the estate sprawled across lush grounds filled with grottoes, underground tunnels, hidden pathways, and elaborate gardens dotted with fountains and pools. It was the kind of place where you could spend hours wandering, getting lost in its layered design, its secrets slowly revealing themselves. But time was short.
The plan was set—after my visit to Regaleira, I’d meet Robb back at our hotel, get him outfitted with a helmet and riding gear, and finalize the last few details before we hit the road. That night, before our departure, we had dinner plans with Jordan, who was eager to introduce us to one of Lisbon’s most storied establishments: Gambrinus.
If Café de São Bento represented classic Lisbon charm, Gambrinus was on another level. It was an institution of old-world grandeur that had been serving politicians, writers, artists, and dignitaries since the early 20th century. Stepping inside felt like entering a time capsule, where dark wood paneling, red leather booths, and uniformed waiters whisked you back to an era of refined dining, where service was art, and meals were meant to linger over.
Jordan had managed to secure a hard-to-get reservation, and as we settled in, we were joined by an unexpected but welcome addition—Sune Sorensen, a business colleague of Robb’s who had recently relocated to Lisbon. I had last dined with Sune and Robb in 2023, just after our maritime adventure to Key West. Another connection, another reunion in an unexpected corner of the world.
The meal was a true feast, paired with an exceptional 2015 Casa de Santar Reserva from the Dão DOC—a beautifully structured red with depth and elegance, its dark fruit, spice, and earthiness a perfect match for the evening’s rich flavors. But the highlight? The Crepes Suzette.
A flaming spectacle of old-school tableside service, this was a proper throwback to the golden age of dining. The waiter, poised and meticulous, prepared the dish on a rolling cart right beside us. A flick of the wrist, a splash of Grand Marnier, and the whole thing ignited—a dramatic burst of blue-orange flame lighting up the dark wood surroundings. Fire, citrus, butter, sugar, and pure indulgence in one dish. The service at Gambrinus is old-style in the best possible way—attentive, precise, and executed with an elegance rarely seen in modern dining. A dinner here was, without question, one of the highlights of our Portugal visit.
The Morning of Departure—And the Ducati’s Uncooperative Luggage
The next morning, we geared up. Robb’s Ducati Multistrada V4 was prepped and luggage secured—at least, as much as it could be on that barely adequate stock luggage system. I looked out from my hotel window, taking in the sky. Heavy gray clouds loomed, rain peppered the streets, and pedestrians scurried under umbrellas. Two weeks of dry weather, and the moment we suit up—it rains.
I’m used to rain. That doesn’t mean I like it. In fact, I hate it. I’ve ridden through plenty of it in my 100,000+ miles on Doc, but I couldn’t help but wonder how Robb would handle it. He’d been planning this journey for months. Was he ready for his first day on wet roads?
There was no point in waiting. We had to commit.
We had just a few more things to load onto Robb’s Ducati. Bad idea. Opening the hard plastic luggage revealed the true design flaw. We struggled for forty minutes, wrestling with the barely functional latches, trying to cram in gear that should have fit easily. The damn thing wouldn’t close. I ended up repacking some of Robb’s stuff into my own panniers, just to make it easier. Barely.
Note to self: Ducati luggage sucks.
Finally, we were ready.
My planned scenic, twisting backroad route would have to wait—wet roads and tight corners weren’t worth the risk, especially on a rental bike. Instead, we blasted out of Lisbon on the highway, hoping for clearer skies ahead as we made our way toward Marvão.
Marvão, perched high atop the Serra de São Mamede, is one of Portugal’s most beautifully preserved medieval towns. Its 9th-century Moorish origins still echo through its stone walls, narrow cobbled streets, and the mighty fortress that dominates the skyline. At nearly 900 meters (3,000 feet) above sea level, it has long been a strategic stronghold, offering panoramic views stretching deep into Spain.
After hours of rain-slicked roads, we finally climbed the winding route up to Marvão’s fortress. The rain had subsided, but now I had a new challenge—navigating the slippery, uneven cobblestones with a heavy, fully loaded bike. The town’s labyrinthine alleys, barely wide enough for a small car, forced me into tight, calculated maneuvers, each turn requiring extra caution to avoid a slow-motion tip-over. And parking? Nearly impossible. After a few failed attempts, I managed to wedge my bike into a spot, exhaling as I peeled off my wet gloves.
We wandered through the fortress, rewarded with breathtaking views—a rolling sea of mist-covered hills fading into the horizon. It was a fitting first stop—a place where history lingers in the air, where warriors and wanderers alike have taken refuge for centuries. And after battling the rain all morning, we figured we’d earned a warm meal and some good Portuguese wine before hitting the road again the following day.
October 2024 – Duoro River Valley, Porto & Into Spain
Riding Through the Douro, Into Porto, and Across Galicia—Rain, Wine, Roads & Revelation
October 2024 – Discovering The Camino & The Gloomy Ribeira Sacra
Santiago de Compostela – The Pilgrim’s Reward
We bid the coast goodbye, leaving behind the damp, deserted streets of Sanxenxo and Portonovo. The ride inland to Santiago de Compostela was mercifully short—and, for once, dry. After days of dodging rain, it felt like a small victory.
Our hotel had underground parking, a welcome relief after too many nights of scrambling for safe spots for the bikes. From there, it was just a five-minute walk into the old town, the heart of Santiago, where centuries of pilgrimage, faith, and tradition had converged into a city unlike any other.
Everywhere Robb and I walked, we saw the scallop shell—set into sidewalks, on building walls, worn on necklaces. The symbol was everywhere. At first, we weren’t sure of its significance, but a local, seeing us pausing in curiosity, took the time to explain.
“This is the sign of the Camino de Santiago,” he said, tapping a shell embedded in the street. “Some say it represents the many different paths that all lead to Santiago, like the ridges of the shell itself. Others say pilgrims once used them as cups, drinking water from the streams. But really, it’s a symbol of faith, of journey, of transformation.”
It made sense. Faith, journey, transformation. That was Santiago.
And why Santiago? Because this was the final destination of the Camino de Santiago, the place where all the ancient roads and modern trails converged.
Pilgrims from around the world walk, bike, or ride horseback across Spain and beyond, making their way to this city for reasons as personal as they are varied—spiritual calling, self-discovery, or simply the challenge of the road. But it all leads here.
And it all leads to one place: the Catedral de Santiago de Compostela—the monumental Romanesque-Gothic-Baroque cathedral that dominates the city’s skyline. Inside, beneath the grand altar, lie the remains of St. James, the Apostle—the very reason this pilgrimage exists at all.
According to legend, after years of spreading the Gospel, St. James traveled to the Iberian Peninsula, returning to Jerusalem only to be beheaded by King Herod Agrippa, making him the first of Jesus’ apostles to be martyred. His followers, refusing to let him be forgotten, transported his body back to Spain. Centuries later, in the 9th century, a hermit named Pelayo claimed to have seen a shower of stars leading to a long-lost tomb in Galicia. When the remains inside were declared to be those of St. James, a grand cathedral was built in his honor, and the Camino de Santiago was born.
Today, there are many routes—the Camino Francés, the Camino del Norte, the Camino Portugués—each cutting across mountains, fields, and ancient Roman roads. But no matter where a pilgrim starts, they all end here.
Wanting the best view of the city, we hiked to Parque da Alameda, where we could take in the entire cathedral from above. The scale of it was breathtaking—an architectural masterpiece shaped by over a thousand years of devotion. We wandered inside, stepping into its vast, echoing halls, tracing the details of its soaring nave, ornate choir stalls, and stained-glass windows filtering centuries of prayers into colored light.
In the adjoining museum, we traced Santiago’s story through paintings and tapestries—works by El Greco, Goya, and Velázquez, their brushstrokes preserving the history of a city that has, for centuries, welcomed weary travelers.
And then, as if on cue, I heard bagpipes.
At first, I thought I was imagining it. But the unmistakable sound floated through the old town, haunting and raw. Bagpipes? In Spain? It seemed out of place—until I remembered Galicia’s Celtic roots. Unlike the flamenco rhythms of the south, this part of Spain shares an unexpected cultural link with Ireland and Scotland—its music, its traditions, even its windswept, rugged coastline.
As we lingered in the Praza do Obradoiro, taking in the movement of pilgrims arriving, collapsing onto the stone ground in exhaustion or triumph, Robb’s eye caught a familiar sight—a group holding a Puerto Rican flag, a symbol of the place he now calls home.
Without hesitation, he walked over to the Puerto Rican pilgrims, drawn by a sense of recognition of shared experience. Moments later, they were deep in conversation—stories exchanged, laughter in the air, Robb’s natural curiosity and warmth on full display. For them, the Camino had ended. For us, the road stretched ahead. But at that moment, there was no difference—just travelers meeting at the same waypoint, finding common ground in the unlikeliest of places.
New connections. Shared journeys. Smiles all around.
And while we weren’t walking the Camino, we saw it, and felt it.
Wanting a true taste of Galicia, we wandered through Mercado de Abastos, Santiago’s sprawling market. Vibrant produce, fresh seafood, hanging chorizo, wheels of local cheese—it was a feast for the senses, the kind of place where locals and chefs come for the freshest ingredients.
Before leaving, Robb and I embraced a bit of Galician tradition—we each bought a classic cap, something between a newsboy hat and an Irish flat cap. The chill in the air made them practical, but more than that, they felt like a small, tangible way of marking our own time in Santiago.
That night, we finally—finally—had a meal worthy of Spain.
After the underwhelming disaster of our last meal in Sanxenxo, where the only thing memorable was how forgettable it was, this was redemption. Anaco, a tiny, Michelin Bib Gourmand-recommended spot, had only 16 seats, and Robb and I were lucky enough to get two of them—at the Chef’s Counter.
Chef Víctor Lobejón and his sous chef worked just feet away from us, crafting each dish with precision. It was the kind of intimate dining that makes you feel like you’re inside the process—watching the ingredients transform, the plates come together, the quiet mastery of a chef at work.
The food? Incredible.
The kind of meal that stays with you, not just for the flavors, but for the experience itself.
Leaving Santiago, I couldn’t help but contrast the feeling with our last stop on the coast. There, we had arrived hungry and left disappointed. Here, we had arrived as outsiders but left feeling connected—to the city, to its story, to the journey that had led so many before us to its doors.
Our time in Galicia was ending. Leon, Madrid, and beyond awaited.
The next morning, we suited up—this time, I didn’t gamble and put on my rain gear from the start. We made our way to Monforte de Lemos, contending with more drizzle, then heavier rain. Our original plan was to follow the Sil River through the breathtaking Ribeira Sacra, a region where centuries-old vineyards cling to near-vertical cliffs, defying gravity and time. But as the rain pounded down, the narrow, twisting roads became a slick, treacherous gamble. Pushing through at a crawl wouldn’t have been worth it. With regret, we altered our route, knowing we’d miss the boat ride through the river canyon, an experience I had been looking forward to.
However, as we neared Monforte, a striking silhouette emerged on the horizon—a fortress-like structure perched high on a hill. Our GPS confirmed it—this was our stop for the night. The Parador de Monforte de Lemos, a historic monastery-turned-hotel, would be our sanctuary from the relentless rain.
This Parador, part of Spain’s network of state-run hotels housed in castles, monasteries, and palaces, is set within the 17th-century Monastery of San Vicente do Pino, which itself stands atop remnants of a medieval fortress. These Paradores are more than just hotels; they’re living history—places that have seen centuries of conquests, religious devotion, and architectural evolution.
As we stepped inside, the heavy stone walls offered a welcome embrace from the cold. The warmth of the monastic cloister, now an elegant lobby, and the quiet grandeur of the vaulted ceilings made for a striking contrast to the storm outside.
That evening, we dined in the Parador’s restaurant, where we finally had the chance to thaw out, letting rich Galician flavors and a bottle of Mencía red wine do the work. The ride had been long and wet, but sitting there, warm and dry, inside the walls of a place that had stood for centuries, I felt it again—that sense of traveling through time, where the road we ride today is just another layer atop the many who have passed before.
October 2024 – Tracing The Camino in Reverse
León – A Cathedral, Tapas, and an Unexpected Wine Discovery
León – A Cathedral, Tapas, and an Unexpected Wine Discovery
We pressed on toward León, yet another significant stop along the Camino de Santiago. By now, we were attuned to the rhythm of this ancient pilgrimage route, but each city had its own energy. León buzzed with a lively mix of history and modern life, its old town a maze of cobbled streets, medieval walls, and lively plazas. At its heart stood the León Cathedral, a Gothic masterpiece that seemed to scrape the sky with its towering spires. Built in the 13th century, it’s known for its stunning stained glass windows, some of the most remarkable in all of Europe, bathing the interior in kaleidoscopic light.
As we admired the intricate details of the cathedral’s façade, a Spanish family approached me. They were pilgrims, on their way to Santiago, pausing in León to take in the city before completing their journey. They asked me to take a photo—three generations together, including an elderly woman in a wheelchair, beaming in front of the grand cathedral. It was one of those small moments that reminded me what travel is about: connections, stories, shared experiences.
After exploring the cathedral’s interior—its towering nave, ancient choir stalls, and breathtaking stained glass—we stepped back outside into the lively streets. A massive soccer match was about to begin, and the entire city seemed to be in a celebratory mood. Kids in jerseys dashed through plazas, while older fans, scarves draped around their necks, gathered in bars, drinks in hand, ready for kickoff.
But while the rest of León was gearing up for a night of fútbol, Robb and I faced a different kind of challenge—finding food.
In Spain, most restaurants close in the afternoon and don’t reopen until 8 or 9 pm. And while the tapas scene in León is legendary, at that moment, it felt like every door was shut to us. Hunger creeping in, we wandered, doubling back through streets we’d already walked, searching for any place that might serve us an early meal.
Finally, we found one of the few places willing to break tradition. We grabbed a table and dug into classic León tapas—razor clams, scallops, and morcilla de León, Spain’s take on blood sausage, made from cow’s blood, rice, and spices—the difference? It’s spreadable, perfect for pan de cristal, the delicate, airy Spanish bread with a crisp crust that soaks up every last bit of flavor. Rich, savory, and deeply satisfying. Paired with a bold, earthy Bierzo red, it was exactly what we needed.
After dinner, Robb had calls to make, but I wasn’t ready to turn in. León’s old town, with its medieval walls and narrow alleys, still hummed with energy, and I wanted to soak it in.
I wandered aimlessly, my camera in hand, admiring the street art—unexpected splashes of color and creativity woven into the city’s historic fabric. Eventually, I stumbled upon a small wine bar, Vinoteca La Parrala, its warm glow inviting. Inside, I met a group of locals, and before long, we were deep into conversation and tasting through the owner’s collection.
The highlight? A rare Prieto Picudo, an old-vine red called La Retorcida, meaning “The Twisted One.” Fitting, as Prieto Picudo vines are known for their low, gnarly growth and stubborn resistance to cultivation. The wine was intense, dark-fruited, with a wild, rustic edge, a perfect expression of the region. Paired with delicate slices of jamón ibérico, it was the kind of impromptu discovery that makes wandering off alone so worthwhile.
Later, as I made my way back to the hotel, the night sky had finally cleared. A few stars flickered above León’s rooftops—a rare sight after so many days of rain. Would we get lucky tomorrow? Madrid awaited.
October 2024: From León to Madrid
A Shift in Gears, A Change in Perspective
Leaving León, we suited up in rain gear once again, though this time with some hope—finally, as we neared Madrid, the forecast promised drier weather. A small victory. Madrid was waiting, and with it, friends, history, and a shift in pace.
But Madrid would also mark a turning point. Stay tuned to this story.
With logistics settled, Madrid became about reconnecting with old friends.
We weren’t sure if the timing would work, but we had hoped to meet up with Bill Young, his wife Adria, and her Cuban-born parents. They weren’t in Spain just for sightseeing. They were on a mission—exploring the country as part of a potential move, taking advantage of a new Spanish law granting citizenship to the descendants of those exiled under Franco’s dictatorship. For Adria’s parents, this was more than a vacation—this was about history, legacy, and homecoming.
Bill, on the other hand, was a familiar face in our adventures. I first met him ten years ago when Robb started competing in WRC—the World Rally Championship. Unlike commercialized motorsports in the U.S., WRC is brutal—gravel, asphalt, snow, mud—high-performance rally cars tearing through extreme conditions at insane speeds. Bill was the guy who made it all work.
A master mechanic, fabricator, and problem solver, he wasn’t just part of Robb’s rally crew—he was the glue that held it all together. When Robb was out of town, Bill was the one maintaining his cars in Florida, making sure everything was dialed in. If you needed something fixed, Bill was the guy.
Madrid also gave Robb the chance to reconnect with Carlos Mercado, a Puerto Rican artist making waves in the city’s art scene. But Carlos wasn’t just about his own work—his gallery had become a hub for emerging artists, giving them a platform to be seen, a space to create.
So we brought everyone together—Bill, Adria, her parents, Carlos, and a few others—for a wild fusion of flavors at a Peruvian-Japanese restaurant in the heart of Madrid.
The conversation flowed over bright citrus, deep umami, bursts of heat—much like the city itself, an intersection of cultures, influences, and energy.
Madrid’s Masterpieces – The Prado and Beyond
The next day, we shifted gears from modern art and multicultural dining to one of Spain’s greatest artistic treasures—the Prado.
Even if you don’t know art, you know the Prado. It’s one of the greatest museums in the world, home to Velázquez, Goya, Titian, Rubens, and Caravaggio. And while Robb appreciates art, he’s not one to get lost in its history. He gravitates toward contemporary works—art that breathes in the present rather than dwelling on the pain and weight of the past.
Religious-driven art, with its heavy-handed depictions of suffering, sacrifice, and divine judgment, can be a lot to take in. And the Prado? It has no shortage of that. Even so, he endured another museum visit for me. We strapped on audio guides and wandered its vast halls.
Las Meninas by Velázquez pulled me in—its play with perspective, the way the artist painted himself into the scene, and the depth of mystery in each figure. Then there was Goya—the haunting Black Paintings—the Black Room—dark, nightmarish visions pulled from the depths of his mind.
From art to opulence, at Bill and Adria’s insistence, we couldn’t leave Madrid before visiting the Palacio Real, Spain’s royal palace.
This place? Over-the-top indulgence. Gold everywhere, elaborate frescoes, tapestries thicker than carpets—it was designed to impress, to showcase power in the most extravagant way possible.
But for me? It was the ultimate place to people-watch.
Tourists gawked at chandeliers. Art lovers studied ceiling murals. Kids yawned as their parents whispered about the Bourbon dynasty. Robb was always a room ahead of me, while I got caught up watching faces light up, jaws drop, and the quiet realization that, yes, monarchy really does live like this.
The Ducati Becomes an Audi
But colorful and historical Madrid would also mark a turning point.
By the time we arrived in Madrid, I could feel it—and see it. Robb was running on fumes. And it wasn’t just the ride.
Back home, his wife, Tara, was mourning the loss of her father. She was in Dubai, grieving, and Robb felt the weight of not being there. He considered cutting the trip short, flying back. But with only days before she’d leave for the U.S., it didn’t make sense.
What did make sense was compromise.
Motorcycle travel comes with risk—especially in unfamiliar terrain, in worsening weather, on roads slick with autumn rain. Already in mourning, Tara would worry endlessly if Robb continued riding through treacherous conditions.
And so, he made the call.
It was time to ditch the Ducati. He traded the Multistrada for an Audi SUV—a climate-controlled, leather-clad cocoon that would shield him from the relentless wind and rain.
But I had a decision—and a transition—to make. Robb laid it out for me.
“I can follow you, and you can ride the bike to Barcelona. Or, you store the bike here in Madrid, and we continue the adventure—and the conversation—in the comfort of the Audi.”
I looked at the sky. The cold rains weren’t letting up anytime soon.
I had been wrestling with the question for weeks—where would I leave Doc after my 2024 adventure with Robb and until my return next fall? Our plan had always been to finish the ride in Barcelona, but I needed to find a safe home for my bike.
After countless searches, I struggled to find a safe place near Barcelona. But here in Madrid, I finally found my answer: IMT BIKE, a company catering to world travelers like me, offering long-term motorcycle storage, rentals, and guided tours of the Iberian Peninsula.
Scott Moreno and his team at IMT BIKE were a godsend. I handed over the keys knowing Doc was in good hands, waiting for my return.
I won’t lie—it was disappointing. The rawness of the ride, the connection to the road, the shared endurance of the journey—it all changed.
But as the days passed and the cold rains persisted, I realized the appeal.
Cruising through the desolate landscapes of eastern Spain, knowing we’d soon be heading toward the Pyrenees, it would only get colder and maybe snow.
I glanced over at Robb in the Audi’s climate-controlled comfort—heated seats and all. We launched CarPlay, shared playlists, and chatted freely as we cruised down the road.
Sure, the adventurer in me craved the challenge, the discomfort, the full sensory overload of riding.
But another part of me relished this new mode of travel—being warm, dry, and sharing conversation instead of yelling over engine noise.
In the end, we got both.
The rhythm was different, but the adventure remained.
And with that, we tossed the helmets aside, buckled the seat belts, and set our sights on Toledo.
October 2024: Toledo—Art & History
Candles, Choirs, and Carved Confessions
Making the migration from motorcycle to SUV, all of a sudden we had more space for our things. And we took advantage of that and after an hour of organizing and checking out, we made tracks toward Toledo.
We arrived early afternoon and pulled up in front of the Parador de Toledo, a former 14th-century convent turned luxury hotel perched high on the hillside across the Tagus River. Its position offered panoramic views of the city’s dense tangle of rooftops, spires, and walls. Once settled, we decided to head into the city for a self-guided wander.
Parking in Toledo’s old town is notoriously tricky, so we grabbed a taxi and were dropped just off Zocodover Square. We walked the narrow streets past local cafés and bakeries, stopping for coffee near a bronze statue of Miguel de Cervantes. Our guide would later tell us that although Cervantes was born in Alcalá de Henares, Toledo had long embraced him as a literary icon. The author of *Don Quixote* is immortalized throughout Spain, and here in Toledo, his likeness stands in tribute to a man whose satire reshaped Spanish literature.
From there, we climbed to the top floor of the Alcázar’s library, which offered a commanding view of the city and its natural moat—the Tagus River—snaking below. It gave us perspective, both topographical and historical, on how Toledo’s geography shaped its strength, culture, and defenses for centuries.
Back at the Parador, we dined that night in the hotel restaurant, unwinding and mapping out our plan for the following day.
The next morning, we met our guide, Almudena, at Zocodover Square. A lifelong resident of Toledo, she pointed up to a second-floor apartment above one of the narrow alleys. “That’s where I grew up,” she said, a proud glint in her eye. From there, she led us through the tangled lanes, narrating centuries of layered history at every turn.
Almudena led us into arguably the city’s most impressive site, the Toledo Cathedral—one of the grandest in Spain. Inside, it was cavernous and dark in the best possible way—light filtering in through centuries-old stained glass, the air thick with incense and silence.
The cathedral’s choir was a marvel in itself—intricately carved stalls depicting the seven deadly sins in medieval detail, each figure grotesque and mesmerizing. One carving showed a man peeking through a curtain to leer at a bathing woman—part satire, part cautionary tale. And then there was the Monstrance of Arfe—towering, golden, impossibly ornate—locked behind glass except for its annual appearance during Corpus Christi processions. Over ten feet tall, built to dazzle and humble. It worked.
We stood before The Burial of the Count of Orgaz, El Greco’s masterpiece, a swirl of elongated figures and celestial drama. In these elongated forms and luminous colors, I could see the culmination of an extraordinary journey—Doménikos Theotokópoulos, ‘the Greek,’ who left his native Crete to study under Titian in Venice before moving to Rome. When his unconventional style clashed with Italian Renaissance standards, he journeyed to Spain in 1577, initially seeking royal patronage in Madrid that never materialized.
Instead, El Greco found his true artistic home here in Toledo—a wealthy, culturally diverse city far enough from the royal court to embrace his vision. The religious authorities and noble patrons of Toledo appreciated what others had rejected, allowing his distinctive style of dramatic light, spiritual intensity, and those signature elongated figures to flourish. What had been considered flaws in Rome became his signature in Toledo.
In a nearby wing of the cathedral, we found another masterpiece: The Disrobing of Christ, also by El Greco. Christ, cloaked in vibrant red, stands serene amid chaos, his figure illuminated with divine calm while soldiers and bystanders press around him. It’s one of El Greco’s most revered works, and in person, “It radiates both energy and anguish with a sense of warmth that would draw in anyone—ultimately revealing the artistic freedom he found in this ancient city after years of struggle elsewhere.
After soaking in all that beauty, Almudena insisted we make a quick stop before lunch. She ushered us into a tiny pastry shop tucked off a side street. “You can’t leave Toledo without trying its most famous treat,” she said.
Marzipan.
Toledo’s marzipan isn’t just a sweet—it’s a symbol of the city’s long, intertwined history of Christian, Jewish, and Muslim cultures. Legend has it that marzipan was first made here by nuns during a famine in the 13th century, using only what they had—almonds and sugar. That simple invention became tradition, and Toledo took ownership. Today, it’s protected by Denomination of Origin status, meaning it can only be made here with local ingredients and in traditional ways.
We each sampled a piece—dense, smooth, just sweet enough. One bite and you understood why this centuries-old confection still holds a place of pride.
By then, we’d earned a proper lunch. Between the stair climbs, the cathedral floors, and weaving through stone archways and alleyways, our legs felt it—and so did our appetites.
Toledo demands a lot from your feet.
It’s a city layered with history, stacked on itself, winding and compressed—there’s little room to expand. No surprise, then, that centuries ago the capital was moved to Madrid, a city with space to grow.
Earlier, Robb had flagged a well-regarded natural and vegan spot called Street & Soul, and Almudena called ahead to make us a reservation. “This place has a loyal following,” she said with a smile. Tucked into a quiet corner of the city, just across the courtyard from Teatro de Rojas, it offered fresh, vibrant dishes that left Robb grinning—happy to find healthy food in a town known more for stews and roasts than spirulina and sesame.
Fueled and curious, and at the insistence of Almundena, we wandered into the Roberto Polo Collection—Centro de Arte Moderno y Contemporáneo de Castilla-La Mancha. Created from the private collection of the Cuban-American art collector and philanthropist Roberto Polo, the museum was a surprise—a bold mix of 20th- and 21st-century works displayed in a restored Mudejar-style building. Some of the pieces felt like a sly wink at the art world itself—provocative, surreal, even absurd—but always compelling. Robb and I found ourselves surprisingly engaged, laughing at times, moved at others.
From there, just around the corner, we stood at the Mirador del Valle—one of Toledo’s most famous viewpoints—and gazed across the Tagus once again. The city rose from the river like a fortress, steeped in centuries of glory, bloodshed, and brilliance.
That evening, after a rest back at the Parador, we returned to the city for dinner. We’d booked a table at La Clandestina, a cozy, tucked-away restaurant nestled beneath the shadow of the cathedral. The scallops were seared to perfection, and the wine—recommended by our server—was so good we lingered longer than planned, savoring each bite and sip.
The rhythm of the journey had shifted. No more wet gloves or fogged-up visors—just the hum of the Audi, music cued, and a new stretch of road ahead. And next up? San Sebastián.
October 2024: Basque Country, Spain
San Sebastián – Donostia: Pintxos, Rain, and the Road Ahead
As we left Toledo, Robb stopped to take it in one more time—the city perched above the river, glowing with memory.
Stopping for one last gaze over the Tagus River and Toledo’s medieval skyline, Robb and I eased into the comfort of the Audi, leaving the rain-slicked streets behind. CarPlay queued up our road trip playlist, and we rolled toward San Sebastián, a city often hailed as Spain’s culinary capital—if not the world’s. With more Michelin stars per capita than anywhere outside Kyoto, Japan, San Sebastián’s reputation preceded it.
The rain pounded the roof as we pulled up to the Hotel de Londres y de Inglaterra, a Belle Époque landmark that’s watched over La Concha Beach since 1902. When we discovered all the guest umbrellas were taken, Robb and I shared one, huddling together as we walked along the Bay of Biscay, watching waves crash against the breakwater while discussing the city’s resilience. After the devastating fire of 1813 when Anglo-Portuguese forces destroyed nearly everything except a handful of streets, the city rebuilt itself into the architectural gem we see today.
The rain intensified, forcing us to seek cover on one of those hop-on, hop-off tour buses—an admittedly touristy move, but an effective way to get the lay of the land. The old city nestles against the mouth of the Urumea River, where narrow cobblestone streets wind through history. This is Basque Country—practically autonomous, with its own identity, language, and cultural pride. The region’s complicated relationship with Spain has evolved from the violent separatist movements of the past to today’s peaceful coexistence, secured through agreements giving the region control over its tax revenue.
San Sebastián isn’t just known for Michelin-starred dining. Here, food culture thrives in the pintxo bars—standing-room-only spots where locals gather to graze on small bites, socialize, and sip cider or txakoli, the region’s signature crisp white wine. These aren’t just bar snacks; they’re edible art pieces, usually perched on bread and held together with a wooden spike (pintxo means “spike” in Basque). Jamon Ibérico, anchovies, seared foie gras, squid, spider crab, and beef cheeks—all fair game.
We dove into this culture at Ganbara, a family institution that’s been part of San Sebastián’s culinary fabric since 1984. But its roots go deeper—the family’s hospitality legacy began in 1941 when Manolo Martínez and Juliana Gil opened Bar Martinez on 31 de Agosto street. Today, three generations shape Ganbara’s story, with Jose Ignacio and his wife Amaia transforming their parents’ legacy, while their daughter Nagore carries the torch forward.
The place was packed when we arrived. We stood behind diners, eyeing tables like hawks, waiting for our moment. After twenty minutes, we finally slid into two seats at the counter. The mushroom and egg yolk pintxo was silky, rich, and deeply umami. The grilled prawns, bursting with sweetness and char, dripped down our fingers. The Txangurro (spider crab) tartlets? Buttery, delicate, perfect. Robb, always leaning pescatarian, was in his element.
The next night, we craved something beyond pintxos but still short of the Michelin-starred spectacle. A friend recommended Casa 887, and it delivered exactly what we needed—warm atmosphere, thoughtful lighting, and a wine list that made decision-making delightfully difficult. The kitchen’s creativity showed in every dish, and even the background music caught our attention—we found ourselves Shazaming songs and adding them to our Apple Music for future road-trip soundtracks.
Eager to understand more about the city, we hired a local guide, Martin, who led us through San Sebastián’s historic heart. The ornate floral clock in Alderdi Eder Gardens caught the day’s rare glimpse of sunlight, its precision mechanics hidden beneath a blanket of living colors. At the Cathedral of the Good Shepherd, Martin explained how this Neo-Gothic masterpiece, completed in 1897, marked San Sebastián’s golden age when the city transformed itself into a sophisticated resort town rivaling France’s Biarritz.
At the steps of the old church in the Parte Vieja, we came across an unexpected scene that captured the city’s spirit perfectly—two young lovers sharing a bottle of wine, seemingly oblivious to both the light drizzle and passing tourists. It was one of those moments that reminded me how sacred spaces often serve as more than just religious landmarks; they become part of the city’s living, breathing social fabric.
Martin then introduced us to one of San Sebastián’s most fascinating institutions: the txokos—private gastronomic societies where families and friends gather to cook and experiment with local ingredients. These societies aren’t open to the public, but Martin, noticing our genuine interest, led us to a partially open door in the old town. “No photos,” he whispered, letting us peek inside one of these culinary sanctuaries. Many of the city’s top chefs honed their skills in these hidden kitchens before launching their own restaurants. The txokos are part of the DNA of Basque food culture—a place where tradition meets innovation, behind closed doors.
For our final night, after considerable research and countless fully-booked restaurants, I managed to secure a table at Zazpi STM. Finding it proved challenging—our GPS kept rerouting us through narrow alleyways until we finally spotted the San Telmo Museum sign and realized what STM meant. While the museum itself was closed for the evening, its restaurant buzzed with life, occupying two distinct spaces: a casual bar area and a more refined dining room, with a few brave souls dining outside despite the threatening skies.
Our waitress guided us through both the menu and wine list with genuine enthusiasm. While Robb limited himself to a glass, she insisted on sending us home with the unfinished bottle and a proper wine glass, ensuring I could enjoy it properly later—a gesture that perfectly captured the warmth we’d encountered throughout our stay.
Back at the hotel, I felt that familiar restlessness—the photographer’s itch to capture a city after dark. With my camera bag slung over my shoulder, I ventured into the night. The old town was far from sleeping; its plazas pulsed with energy. Young people sprawled across ancient cobblestones, their laughter mixing with the clinking of glasses from café terraces. After days of rain, the dry evening had drawn everyone out to celebrate.
I found myself caught up in the city’s nocturnal charm when a wedding party spilled into my frame. A young woman, noticing my camera, waved me over. She shared that while her family was from San Sebastián, she’d grown up outside Chicago and was here for her friend’s wedding. Before I knew it, she was sharing pintxos and introducing me to her friends. The night dissolved into laughter, inevitable selfies, and that traveler’s promise to meet again somewhere, sometime—those fleeting connections that make journeys memorable.
The next morning, as rain continued to drum against the windows, we climbed back into the Audi and pointed it toward Andorra—soon to become my 100th country visited. It struck me how quickly I’d adapted to four wheels, the memory of Doc, my trusty BMW F650GS Dakar, already feeling distant. The comfort of the car’s heated seats and the protection from the elements felt particularly welcome as we left the culinary capital behind, carrying with us memories of pintxos, wine, and Basque hospitality.
October 2024: San Sebastián to Barcelona
Pintxos, Pyrenees & the 100th Country
Nestled in the Pyrenees between Spain and France, the small enclave country of Andorra is known for its dramatic mountain scenery, its ski resorts, and—less glamorously—its duty-free shopping. Andorra la Vella, the capital, felt like one giant, overpriced mall. If the weather had been better and time more forgiving, I might have sought out its smaller villages, wandered its hiking trails, or uncovered its lesser-known secrets. But for this trip, I was content to say I’d been there, had a little fun, and moved on.
Still buzzing from pintxos, sea air, and that spontaneous wedding party encounter in San Sebastián, I stayed up much longer than I’d planned. Still, I knew Robb would be knocking on my door, eager to get an early start on the road. Despite my late-night overindulgence, I found myself packing in the early morning before Robb came a knocking. I looked out the window of my hotel. The skies were still gray, the streets damp, umbrellas colored the landscape, and the raindrops on my window and the echo of footsteps on cobblestone reminded me: our journey was far from over.
This was the first time I truly missed the bike. Sort of. Had the skies been blue and the streets dry, yeah. I’d be bummed. One thing I didn’t miss? The daily loading and unloading of the bike. Except this morning, everything felt too easy. Motorcycle luggage isn’t exactly roller-bag friendly, and here I was, tossing panniers and dry bags into the back of an Audi SUV. Still, we had space. No helmets to strap on. No rain gear to zip up. Just music cued, seats warmed, and a sense of anticipation for what was next.
Today was a big day. I was heading to my 100th country.
Next stop: Andorra.
But first, we had a detour in mind.
We set the GPS for Pamplona. The heart of Basque Country and home of the infamous Running of the Bulls. Not that we were here to run—far from it. But we figured it was worth a coffee break and a quick wander. We followed signs, some emblazoned in stone or painted on buildings, that marked the path of the bull run.
While the city hustled and bustled, it was nothing like the scene I’ve watched on television and social media. The alleyways where bulls charge through crowds were eerie and calm. Streets now silent where, months before, chaos reigned.
As for the coffee? Robb is not a coffee guy, but he does have his own ritual. And since we’ve been traveling, Robb has been on a mission. He’d been chasing the perfect cup of hot chocolate. But here in Spain, as it was in Portugal, hot chocolate often means a thick, pudding-like drink that you don’t sip so much as scoop. Starbucks was oddly closed, and no café offered what he was after. We left Pamplona amused and a little empty-handed.
Back on the road, hunger caught up with us.
Jaca, nestled in the foothills of the Pyrenees, became our lunch target. We aimed for the main square near the cathedral, but the first restaurant was packed, and another place refused to seat us. Outside tables were drenched from the lingering drizzle. We wandered, disheartened until we found Biarritz—a surprisingly packed local spot with a heated tent-covered patio. We waited 20 minutes and were rewarded with an excellent meal. Robb went pescatarian, I warmed up with a rich soup and jamón Ibérico.
And then there was the bathroom.
I’ve seen all kinds of vending machines in men’s restrooms around the world—condoms, cologne, gum—but this was a first: a toothbrush dispenser. A relic from the past, still stocked and waiting, as if the town of Jaca anticipated an influx of forgetful travelers.
From there, the road twisted upward. Robb at the wheel, we climbed higher into the Pyrenees—up, down, around bends, switchback after switchback. Then the red light blinked on the dash. Low fuel.
More miles. More climbing. Still no sign of civilization. My Apple Maps showed a gas station 20 miles away. But nothing appeared on the horizon—just peaks, valleys, and the occasional medieval fortress perched on a hill. No sign of commerce. No villages. No gas.
Robb’s voice tensed. “I don’t believe it,” he muttered. “There’s nothing out here.”
I kept my eyes on the screen, my gut trusting the digital map. There had to be something—too many cars, too many signs of life. Finally, as we rounded a bend into a small village, there it was: a gas station. The relief on Robb’s face was unmistakable. He cracked a smile and exhaled. We made it.
We crossed into Andorra just as the light began to fade. The capital, Andorra la Vella, is a narrow strip of city wedged between towering mountains. We arrived in the dark, and while our hotel offered charm and comfort, parking was a mission. The receptionist handed Robb a map, which only made things worse. After looping the city and navigating a labyrinth of one-way streets, he finally found the garage—practically under the hotel, but impossible to access directly.
Andorra la Vella is a curious place. Known for its ski slopes and duty-free shopping, it felt more like an overpriced mall than a mountain escape. We wandered the wide pedestrian boulevards, where high-end brands shared space with tacky souvenir shops. At the far end of town, we stumbled upon a cantilevered glass-bottom swimming pool that jutted out from a hotel facade. Pedestrians below could look up and see flailing limbs and floating bodies suspended in blue. It was a blend of architectural marvel and yet an eerie lucid dream.
One night, while Robb made calls, I walked along the north side of the river until I found a cozy wine bar—13,5 Winebar. The owner, Robert, a soft-spoken man with easy eyes, and his charming wife Judit shared wine and stories with me—this wine bar had long been a dream. The space was beautiful, with an outdoor patio, an upstairs loft, and even a cuvinet for pouring fresh wines. He’d spent many months in Newport Beach, California, working for The Sutton Place Hotel before returning to Europe and starting his own venture in Andorra. While a group of locals smoked and chatted outside, we talked about life, travel, and wine. He offered us restaurant recommendations, and we took his advice the next night—indulging in roasted pork for me, whole fish for Robb, and a fun and whimsical conversation with the chef and staff.
The following day, just before crossing back into Spain, we were flagged for a secondary inspection by Andorran border authorities.
“Did you buy anything?” they asked.
“A couple pieces of luggage,” we admitted.
“How much cash do you have on you?”
“None,” I said.
They laughed. “That’s what we like to hear. No one leaves Andorra with money.”
They waved us through. The true story is I never carry cash, and I’m hardly a shopper. Yet, for most travelers coming from Spain or France, they visit Andorra to shop. I imagine my experience would be different if I were to visit in the winter with my skis; Andorra is known for its alpine scenery and winter sports, none of which I experienced on this brief visit.
With a smile and a smirk, we moved on, effortlessly passing the Spanish border and headed south.
A few hours later, Barcelona came into view.
Bill, whom we last saw in Madrid, was waiting for us. He had spent the past week touring Spain with his wife and in-laws, but now it was just him. The three of us—old friends from dusty race tracks and strange adventures—were reunited to explore one of Spain’s most iconic cities.
We hired a private guide to show us Barcelona—and, naturally, the genius of Gaudí. The swirling balconies of Casa Batlló, the skeletal curves of La Pedrera, and the playful expanse of Park Güell.
We wandered through Parc de la Ciutadella, one of Barcelona’s grand public spaces with shaded paths, broad lawns, and a surprising amount of energy for a weekday morning. At the center of it all stands the Cascada Monumental, a wild, theatrical fountain inspired by Rome’s Trevi. Though the project wasn’t Gaudí’s, a young Antoni worked under Josep Fontsere and lent his hand—designing elements of the hydraulic system and likely some of the ornamentation.
The details are what pull you in—gripping lions, winged griffins, sea gods, and the golden chariot of Aurora perched triumphantly at the top. We paused there, soaking in the scene as the morning light glinted off the fountain’s spray and rippled across the oddly green pool below.
After more than two hours wandering through Barcelona’s neighborhoods and absorbing its colorful history from our guide, Robb returned to the hotel to make calls. Bill and I, on the other hand, treated ourselves to a scoop—or maybe two—of gelato, before ducking into one of Gaudí’s lesser-known works: Palau Güell.
An early commission designed for his patron Eusebi Güell, the mansion sits tucked into the Raval district. Less crowded and equally fascinating, it offered a more intimate look at Gaudí’s evolving mind—blending Gothic revival with industrial flair.
Güell himself was a wealthy industrialist and influential art patron. His legacy is both celebrated and debated. Some accounts suggest his family’s fortune was tied to colonial trade in Cuba—and possibly slavery. While the historical record is murky, what’s clear is that Güell recognized Gaudí’s genius early on and gave him opportunities that helped define the Modernisme movement.
And then there was La Sagrada Família.
Still under construction after more than a century, its spires reach skyward like twisted stalagmites. I had last visited the Sagrada Familia some fifteen years ago, where I climbed the endless steps to the top of one of those spires. This time, however, tickets were sold out, so we admired it from outside, craning our necks and circling the entire block in awe. The details, the scale, the madness of it all—it left an impression even from the sidewalk—I could see some of the changes from years ago, but most of what I missed this time were behind closed doors and the hordes of tourists lined up—those with tickets, of course!
Barcelona pulsed with the same rhythm I remembered from past visits—familiar, yet always shifting. Even in November, the city buzzed with tourists, street performers, locals weaving through alleyways, and the ever-present scent of sea air mixed with something sizzling from a nearby café. La Rambla still had its magnetism, but this time we were drawn deeper—into the alleys of the Gothic Quarter, the golden light of late afternoons, the layered stories of Catalan pride with a splash of cosmopolitan pizzazz.
Our nights were equally rich. One standout was dinner at Gourmet Sensi, a cozy and inventive spot where the food was memorable, but it was Robb’s instant connection with our server—thanks to their matching salt-and-pepper manes—that really kicked the evening into high gear. The constant flow of tapas, table-side laughs, and the warmth of spontaneous connection felt real and authentic—far from the throngs of tourists clamoring for their selfie Instagram moments with the city’s iconic symbols. Here, we savored moments with food, conversation, and connection.
Another night brought us to Els Quatre Gats (4 Gats), the legendary modernist-era haunt tucked into a side street near the cathedral. It’s where a young Picasso held his first exhibition, where intellectuals and bohemians once gathered over wine and fierce debate. You feel the weight of that legacy in the wood-paneled walls and soft lighting, even if today’s crowd leans more visitor than visionary.
There were other meals, plenty of walking, and so much laughter. Somewhere between the clink of wine glasses and the sounds of shoes walking on centuries-old stone, we felt it—that pull. A shift. Time. As our days in Barcelona wound down, and with the last days of October fading, I felt like this chapter would soon close. No, not an ending, really, but the close of this act—the final hours of our Iberian adventure.
Because our true final stop wasn’t Barcelona.
It would be Montenegro.
Robb had recently bought a home in Porto Montenegro, a luxe community on the Bay of Kotor. For years, we had talked about meeting there. Now, it was real. Initially, we planned to continue our SUV cruise across Western Europe. But our companions who were to meet us in Barcelona fell ill and couldn’t make the trip. Instead, Robb, Bill, and I would board a flight, leave Spain behind, and write the next chapter of this adventure on the other side of the Adriatic.
November 2024 — Montenegro,The Black Hills, Washington, D.C., and Beyond
Reunions, Reflections, and a Thanksgiving Feast for the Ages
From the Bay of Kotor to the Vineyards: A Reunion in Montenegro
Due to our last-minute itinerary change, the only decent flight we could get would take us to Split, several hours north of Montenegro. So, after a long drive down the Adriatic coast from Split, Croatia, we finally crossed the border into Montenegro and made our way to Porto Montenegro. Once there, we settled into our rooms before heading out to dinner along the boardwalk. Robb took us to one of his favorite eateries, Al Posto Giusto, where we dined on a patio right at the water’s edge.
Here, we met Sasha—once a high-fashion runway model, then an exclusive private guide, and now a real estate expert. Sasha had played a key role in Robb’s original introduction to Montenegro, and it showed. The welcome was warm, easy, and celebratory. She’d already selected a crisp local white wine for the table, and soon enough, Robb, Sasha, Bill, and I were laughing like longtime friends, mapping out plans for the week ahead.
One stop I insisted on—perhaps more than once—was a return visit to Radevic Estate, a boutique winery tucked in the hills north of Podgorica. I’d been there years before, and Goran Radevic, its passionate owner and winemaker, left a lasting impression. Despite wine tasting not exactly being Robb’s thing, he agreed to the nearly two-hour drive. Bill, ever game, was in without hesitation.
When we arrived, Goran greeted us like old friends. Before we could step inside, we donned surgical-style booties—hospital-grade. Goran, after all, is a doctor by training, and now treats his wines with the same meticulous care. He walked us through his cellar, his pristine tanks and barrels, and then invited us to sit and taste.
We sipped his elegant Chardonnay, the bold and brooding Vranac, and a surprisingly restrained Syrah. Each pour came with a story—of vines, vintages, politics, and passion. As always, Goran paired the wines with generous helpings of local cheese, bread, and charcuterie. Even Robb, usually more reserved around wine, couldn’t help but smile.
After leaving Radević, we motored north, bound for a pilgrimage of sorts—to visit Ostrog Monastery, one of Montenegro’s most sacred and surreal sites. Carved into a sheer vertical cliff face more than 900 meters above the Zeta Valley, the 17th-century monastery was founded by Vasilije, the Bishop of Herzegovina—later canonized as Saint Basil of Ostrog. Fleeing Ottoman persecution, he sought sanctuary in this hidden and seemingly unreachable place, carving out a spiritual refuge beneath a massive limestone overhang. Over the centuries, Ostrog became a magnet for pilgrims across the Balkans, especially within the Serbian Orthodox tradition, drawn by its legends of healing, miracles, and divine presence.
The road up was as dramatic as the monastery itself—narrow, winding, and steep. But a sudden roadblock near the top meant we’d have to walk the final stretch. After a few hundred meters, a minibus rolled up the incline and offered us a lift—either opportunistic or perfectly timed. When we reached the upper terrace, the sun had dipped low, casting golden light across the stone façade. We wandered through the small chapel carved directly into the cliff and then up to a viewing area tucked beneath the rock face itself. It was quiet, reverent. I couldn’t stop thinking about how something so impossibly situated had been built in such isolation, by faith and will alone.
The descent was less poetic. With no ride down and dusk turning to darkness, we navigated our way on foot—carefully, cautiously—down rough stone steps when we could find them, and slick earth when we couldn’t. It was steep, uneven, and at times a little treacherous. But the hush of the night, broken only by the sound of our footsteps and the occasional gust of wind off the valley, added a kind of quiet gravity to the experience—equal parts pilgrimage and adventure.
The next morning, we all met for breakfast along the boardwalk in Porto Montenegro. Just minutes after ordering coffee, juice, and pastries, a scruffy dog ambled up to Robb.
“Oh my God,” he said, eyes wide. It was the same dog he used to see on his morning walks the last time he and his wife, Tara, visited Montenegro. He thought the pup had vanished—perhaps adopted, hit by a car, or worse. But here he was, tail wagging, alive and well—though still clearly in need of a bath. Robb, of course, made sure he got one.
Later that week, I had my own run-in with a furry local—a sleek, affectionate cat who took to me immediately, curling around my legs and purring with such intensity it made me miss my own Bengal, Dar, back home.
It seems even the animals in Montenegro know how to make you feel welcome.
But the real celebration was still to come. Robb, in cahoots with Katie—a savvy real estate investor and one of Sasha’s closest friends—had quietly planned something special: a private boat tour of the Bay of Kotor to celebrate Sasha’s birthday.
The full birthday crew aboard and cruising the bay.
The next afternoon, we boarded a sleek motorboat under soft autumn skies. Sasha, surprised and radiant, was greeted by longtime friends she hadn’t expected—Lili and her husband, who’d come in from Croatia, and Zvonka, another friend and colleague. Champagne flowed. Hugs were exchanged. The engine hummed. And just like that, we were gliding into the heart of the bay, the mountains rising all around, the water catching every glint of the sun.
After about an hour, we docked in Herceg-Novi, a small seaside village at the mouth of the Bay of Kotor, where a long table had already been set for lunch at Ribarsko Selo, a lovely seaside restaurant with stunning views. The chefs presented fresh fish, uncooked and glistening, for our approval before preparing the meal. The sun illuminated the bay in golden hues as we enjoyed grilled seafood, crisp local wine, and endless laughter.
After stuffing ourselves with the ubiquitous birthday cake and singing the song, we walked down to the waterside and sat as the sun dipped low in the sky. Sailboats drifted by, their sails silhouetted against the shimmering water. Small islands hovered in the distance, and the entire bay sparkled like glass lit from within.
Back at Porto, no one was ready to say goodnight. Katie invited us to her home, where the celebration continued. In the warm glow of candlelight, I opened a bottle of California wine I’d carried for weeks. Katie, with a wink, brought out two special bottles from her own cellar.
“Wow, Allan,” she said after the first sip, “you have great taste. And yes—California really does make great wine.”
The evening stretched into laughter and stories. When it finally ended, the hugs and double kisses—on both cheeks, the European way—felt more like beginnings than goodbyes.
The next day, our group reconvened in Kotor’s Old Town. Enclosed entirely by stone walls and brimming with medieval charm, the city is a UNESCO World Heritage Site and a time capsule of Adriatic history. Sasha, once a highly sought-after guide, came out of retirement for a few hours to give us a private tour. She walked us through the old churches, past windows framed in carved stone, and along ancient cobbled steps.
Man and cat on a green bench—locals, both.
And the cats—Kotor’s legendary feline residents—were everywhere. Much like their cousins in Cyprus or Istanbul, they are revered by locals and adored by travelers. Shops sell souvenirs in their image. There’s even a museum dedicated to them. Sasha explained that in this walled town, where seafarers once came and went, cats were guardians of the grain, the port, and the people.
That night, we dined at Restaurant Galion, perched over the water just outside the Old Town. The harbor—yes, it’s officially a harbor—was dotted with sleek yachts and fishing boats alike. Our table overlooked it all. We toasted with a bottle of Pošip, a dry white from Croatia’s Dalmatian coast—a nod to Lili’s home country. The fish was fresh, the pasta rich, and the farewell hugs bittersweet. The women kissed both my cheeks in tandem, lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.
New faces. New friendships. And yet another thread woven into this journey’s ever-expanding tapestry.
Though I had to leave the next morning, Robb and Bill would stay a few more days. My time was up. I had to get back—first to the Black Hills, then to Florida to escort my mom on her annual migration to Marco Island. But before I left, there was one last adventure.
Robb, Bill, and I took the Kotor Cable Car, a recent addition that now soars high above the bay and Old Town. The views were staggering—terraced cliffs, snaking roads, and the gleaming Adriatic. The last time I was in Kotor, the cable car hadn’t yet been built. Now, here we were.
At the top, we found something unexpected: a self-powered alpine coaster—individual cars you steer and brake yourself as they twist and dive along the cliffs. We couldn’t resist. It was exhilarating, silly, and just what we needed.
Later, Bill and I snuck away for one final dinner—outside the walls of Porto, tucked into a quiet, local spot. We lingered over grilled meat, rustic sides, and a bottle of red. The next morning, the two of them walked me to the lobby to say goodbye.
Another journey wrapped. But the band? We’ll get back together. Maybe here. Maybe Florida. Maybe Dubai, Puerto Rico, or Antigua. Or maybe someplace we haven’t even imagined yet.
For now, I had one more stop before landing back in the United States—just in time for the 2024 presidential election. Because my journeys each year are spontaneous, I rarely book a return flight in advance. Why? Because I’m never sure where I’ll be or where I’ll fly from. This year, I found myself in Montenegro.
Montenegro isn’t a major hub. Few airlines offer direct flights to or from it, so finding a route back to San Diego proved challenging. Most options came with two layovers, long waits, or both. Total travel time on some itineraries approached 30 hours.
But in the spirit of turning lemons into lemonade, I found one flight—priced right—with an 18-hour layover in Vienna. The best part? It landed around 3 p.m. and left early the next morning. Even better, Vienna offers a nonstop train that zips travelers from the airport into the heart of the city.
So I thought, why not have dinner in Vienna, explore Old Town, and then head back to the airport in the morning? The route even included a short stop in Munich, followed by a direct flight to San Diego.
It felt like the perfect send-off: wandering Vienna’s cobbled streets, taking photos, connecting with locals, and—of course—finding a great meal paired with a local wine.
Vienna called. I answered. I booked the flight. (Check out the photo gallery here for documentation of some of my Vienna findings.)
Home Before the Hills
After nearly two months abroad—six countries, countless conversations, plates of food, bottles of wine—it wasn’t easy leaving Montenegro. Saying goodbye to Bill, Robb, Katie, Sasha, and the rest of the gang felt like leaving mid-scene. But I had things to do. Namely, Mom.
So I flew from Montenegro, did that long layover in Vienna, and finally landed in San Diego.
I didn’t think I’d fall right back into rhythm. Jet lag still fogging my brain. Suitcase only half-unpacked. Memories swirling, all jumbled up with to-dos and a lingering overdose of life on the road. But somehow, I did. Or maybe rhythm found me.
I rolled my bike out from the cottage and followed the coast, chasing sunsets. Those evening rides are part meditation, part addiction—the sound of the tires, the salt air, that last golden hour before everything dims. One ride, then another. I was back.
And the kitchen—after weeks of restaurant meals, just stepping into my space again felt like a reset. A sharp knife in hand. Garlic crushed beneath the blade. Olive oil heating in a pan. That first hiss and sizzle—familiar, anchoring. I cooked like I hadn’t in months. Because I hadn’t.
Yes, I was back home. I played pickleball. Hit up the Biergarten and The Third Corner with Janet and the usual crew. Not the full monty, but the essential bits—the pieces that make up my life when I’m not out wandering—and wondering—about the world. It’s like this every year. But this time? My brain was swirling more than usual. Perhaps my vertigo was rising, then subsiding. There was a long list of things to do, some not even written down but still taking up space in my mind.
And then, right on cue—reminders started rolling in.
Turns out, I had tickets. Plural. Months earlier—maybe even a year—I’d grabbed them the way I often do, when a tour gets announced and the impulse hits. No actual tickets anymore, of course. Nothing to stick on the fridge or tuck into your wallet as a reminder. But thankfully, Ticketmaster and TicketWeb remember when you don’t. They only give you a day or two notice: “Hey, you’ve got tickets…” And suddenly, your calendar fills itself in.
First up: Richard Thompson at the Belly Up. I’ve seen him many times over the years. Still, he never disappoints. A Scottish legend, founder of Fairport Convention, and one of the most inventive, expressive guitarists alive. His fingers tell stories. So do his lyrics—dry, sharp, sometimes dark, always honest. Quicksilver (Jeff) Rose joined me for this one—Jeanette’s husband. A perfect match. Quick’s quite the guitarist himself, plays with a local band called the Seaside Ramblers. He’s also a sommelier and fellow wine geek, so yeah—he got it. We leaned into the music, talked about tone and tannins, and let the night play out.
A week later: Big Head Todd and the Monsters at The Sound in Del Mar. I’d seen them a few times over the years. Always tight, always fun. But this show was different—because Bob Schneider opened. Somehow, I’d never seen Bob live. The legendary Austin-based songwriter, full of whimsy and wit, shifting effortlessly between absurdity and heartbreak. One moment he’s singing about robots or Fruit Bats, the next he’s tugging at the heartstrings. First time seeing him. Won’t be the last.
For this show, Kellie, Jeanette, and Quicksilver were all in tow. We grabbed food, shared a bottle—a magnum of Flora Springs Rutherford Reserve—and sank into the night. Somewhere between the opener and encore, I even bumped into Eric and Sandy—pickleball friends I didn’t expect to see at a concert. Snap the photo, have a laugh. That kind of night.
Then came Carla King. Longtime friend. Fellow rider. Author, adventurer, and self-publishing whisperer. She showed up on her Kawasaki KLR, en route to Baja—taking a pit stop before her adventure. I cooked—again. We also grabbed a seat at the bar at Herb & Sea in Encinitas. Oysters, champagne, and conversations that roamed from motorcycle packing strategies, to border crossings and books, to the bizarre timeline of our lives.
Her adventure didn’t last long. Baja turned cold and wet. The bike acted up. So she turned around and came back. Before she headed north to Santa Cruz, we shared one more meal. And in a perfectly timed moment, Dar—my cat—jumped onto her motorcycle and posed for a farewell photo like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Somewhere in that swirl, I finally tackled the wine locker.
After more than twenty years, I shut down the offsite wine storage up in Irvine. That locker had been with me since the old Newport Beach days—back when everything was boxed, bottled, and waiting for some undefined “later.” I packed it all—carefully, like a game of wine-lover’s Jenga—and moved it to Vintage Wine Storage in Carlsbad. Closer. Smarter. Done.
Then, just like that, it was time again.
Another bag. Another plane.
Mom was waiting.
Closing the Chapter in the Black Hills
Back in May, when Jonathan and I helped Mom settle in for another summer in the Black Hills, it felt like we’d tucked her into a story still unfolding. A new reading lamp. A hike beneath the giant “M” overlooking Rapid City. A toast to Crazy Horse with Jack Daniels in Korczak Ziolkowski’s old studio. And, of course, the Madeira—a 1929 vintage, pulled from the cellar in Howard’s honor, to mark yet another return to these granite hills that hold so much of our family’s story.
Now, just over six months later, I was back. Same house. Same view. But a different feeling.
This time, I wasn’t unpacking lamps or settling in. I was packing boxes, draining hoses, and watching as autumn surrendered to winter. Mom’s annual migration to Marco Island was later than usual this year—our schedules jammed with travel, obligations, and in Jonathan’s case, a relentless election season. So instead of escorting her straight to Florida, I’d accompany her to Virginia, where we’d all reunite for Thanksgiving before she continued on to her Marco Island winter retreat.
When I arrived, the chill in the air was unmistakable—a sharp reminder that winter was coming fast. And sure enough, on my first morning, I woke to soft, swirling snowflakes. Through Mom’s picture window, I watched flurries drift across the backyard, dusting the bare branches and settling onto the last remnants of autumn.
Outside, the bird feeder swung gently, tiny visitors unfazed by the cold. Wooden wind chimes dangled from the garage, tapping out a soft, hollow melody with each gust. I took it all in—the familiar rhythms of shutting down the house for the season, the little rituals of packing up a life that would be waiting for her again in the spring.
And that morning snow? It didn’t just dust the trees. It fell quietly, steadily, blanketing the lawn and frosting *Frustration*—a sculpture by local artist Mike Tuma that stands in the backyard. The figure’s fist raised to the sky, locked in some kind of silent standoff with the gods, or maybe just the weather. I’d always liked that piece. But seeing it with snow settling on its shoulders, softening the edges of its defiance, I liked it even more.
Later that afternoon, I built a fire. A real one. Not gas, not button-ignited, but logs and kindling and the satisfaction of striking a match. The flames curled and cracked and threw just enough heat to settle in. Chardonnay in the glass. Manchego on the board. A crisp Honeycrisp sliced thin, because that’s how Mom likes it. And for a moment, time slowed in all the right ways.
Paul stopped by that evening—one of our last in the Black Hills. He joined us for dinner and, true to form, helped with the final shut-down. Packing boxes. Winterizing. Laughing about things I already can’t remember, but the warmth lingers just the same.
There’s always something about that last night. When the bags are nearly zipped, the refrigerator empty, the patio furniture stashed, the garage clear, and the wind starting to turn sharp. You know it’s time. Still, it never quite feels like enough. So you pour another glass. You sit by the fire. And you let the quiet do what it does best.
From the Black Hills to the Hearth of Virginia
November 2024: A Thanksgiving Feast & a Blind Tasting for the Ages
From the Black Hills, we headed east to Virginia, where Thanksgiving at Jonathan and Maria’s would bring the family together.
We landed at Dulles, barely off those wild people-mover shuttles before Maria scooped us up at the curb. She filled us in: that evening, Jonathan would be grilling his signature steaks—a cozy kickoff to the holiday. But the next night, Wednesday, we had plans. Big ones.
Jon had arranged for Mom and me to join him at the taping of Washington Week with The Atlantic, where he’d sit in as a guest panelist. The show, hosted by Jeffrey Goldberg, taped earlier in the day and would air Friday, the day after Thanksgiving. We spent time in the green room, met the other panelists—Dan Balz from The Washington Post, and Elisabeth Bumiller from The New York Times—and even took a few photos with the crew after the taping wrapped. And despite the heaviness of the current politics, from an election decided just weeks ago, the conversation was sharp, the vibe fun, and the smiles everlasting. For Mom, it was a thrill.
Later that evening, the scene shifted from studio lights to candlelight.
Café Milano—that Georgetown institution where power lunches turn to wine-soaked dinners, and everyone seems to know your name. Thanks to Jon’s longtime friendship with owner Franco Nuschese (who greeted us like family), we were seated at the power table—reserved for VIPs. There would be no menus, no decisions—just a steady rhythm of dishes flowing from the kitchen: truffle-topped pasta, filet mignon, delicate greens, impeccable fresh fish, all perfectly paced. Jon and I must’ve spent an hour in his wine cellar—battling decision fatigue, wondering what to bring to Milano. In the end, it was an all-star duo—both decanted tableside with care: a 2000 Fattoria Galardi Terra di Lavoro Campania IGT and a 2013 Casanova di Neri Cerretalto. This wasn’t dinner. It was a celebration. The winner? Easy. The Galardi. Amazing.
Like so many dinners we’ve all shared at Café Milano, tonight the conversation never dipped, our glasses never emptied, and each bite reminded us how important it is to be together. For me? Even after a year of wild roads and roaring clouds, I was right where I needed to be.
The next day, it was on. Anna stepped up as head chef, taking command of the kitchen with a mix of intention, authority, and controlled chaos. If you wanted to lend a hand, you had to tread carefully—she moved fast, flitting from dish to dish like a hummingbird in motion. Her roast turkey? Perfection. The sweet potatoes, thinly sliced with a mandolin and roasted to golden softness, melted in your mouth. Mashed potatoes and stuffing—rich, textured, nutty, packed with flavors that made each bite worth savoring. And the gravy? The kind that demands reverence.
The Cow Gravy Vessel.
Which is exactly why it’s poured from its own sacred vessel—a porcelain cow-shaped gravy boat. Years ago, when Anna was at UVA, Maria would regularly snap photos of a fiberglass cow perched above a quirky café near a local dairy. It became a running joke. So when I spotted a porcelain cow at Williams Sonoma, I knew it was the only gift that would make sense. Now it returns each year, front and center. A tradition born from a roadside laugh, now elevated to culinary ritual.
Maria’s table setting, meanwhile, as usual, was a masterclass in warmth and intention—candles flickering against soft light, delicate pumpkin soup bowls anchoring each place, and tiny Thanksgiving figurines tucked between floral arrangements. Maria knows how ambiance enhances the feast.
No Thanksgiving in our family is complete without wine—great wine—and this year, Jon and I pulled out all the stops. We orchestrated a blind tasting, three bottles, three legendary heritage wines full of expectation:
• 2000 Château Ausone (Bordeaux, France)
• 2000 Harlan Estate (Napa Valley, CA)
• 1991 Beringer Private Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon (Napa Valley, magnum)
The Beringer was my wildcard. I’d carried that magnum across the country for a reason—I bought this wine when it was released nearly thirty years ago—especially for this occasion. You see, Jonathan and Maria were married in 1991, and I wanted to see how that wine, like their marriage, had aged. But would it show up tired and faded? Or would it surprise us all?
Early sips sparked conversation and curiosity. Jon, at first cagey, couldn’t hide his admiration for the Beringer’s depth. “I think this one might be it,” he mused, swirling and sniffing, before backing off, as if to not tip the scales too early. It was the minty, eucalyptus undertone that fooled everyone. Several of us pegged it as the Château Ausone. But no—California over France, at least in disguise.
Anna, who loved the Beringer, was still glowing from her kitchen marathon and just relished being at the table. Emily floated between sips and conversation, soaking in the evening. Mom gave her nod to the Harlan. Jon ultimately crowned the Harlan his favorite, but the Beringer—with its aged grace and unexpected power—claimed a strong second.
No clear winner. Just a table full of surprises. Like all the best wines—and families—it wasn’t about perfection. It was about evolution, about what lingers after the glass is empty.
And speaking of lingering, there was Brooklyn—their black-and-white pup in red plaid—ever-present and ever-loved. More than just a pet, she’s the heartbeat and dominates attention throughout the household, weaving through legs, gnawing at her noisy dog toys, sniffing for scraps, and catching every cuddle, kiss, and crumb tossed her way.
After the dishes were cleared and the fire flickered low, we leaned back—content, full, reflective.
Another year nearing its close. And one more story around the table.
For me, this year had already been filled with wild roads and roaring clouds, deep toasts and deeper talks. Yet, what mattered most was this: We were together.
Because, in the end, wine is like life.
The best ones? You take your time with them. You share them. And the ones that surprise you?
Those are the ones you never forget. And hey—that’s why I embarked on this long, yearlong reflection. To share it. And to hold onto what matters.
Thanks for joining me.
December 2024 — A Year Lived Large
Closing the Year, Weaving the Tapestry
December – Closing the Year, Weaving the Tapestry
We barely had time to digest that sumptuous Thanksgiving feast before we were walking down the jetway for our flight to Fort Myers and the journey back to Marco Island.
I planned to stay in Florida for a week so I could celebrate Mom’s birthday on December 5th—just one week before mine. It felt fitting to hang out, help open up her house, and share some good meals together. We even made our way back to Arturo’s, but Vlad, our favorite Serbian waiter, wasn’t working that night. Still, the familiar warmth of the restaurant, the laughter over shared plates, and the easy rhythm of conversation made it special.
But truly, the best part of being in Marco with Mom are our happy hours on the lanai. We sit outside, watching the sun dip low over the creek in her backyard, catching glimpses of herons gliding past or turtles poking their heads above water. The light shifts, the breeze settles in, and we toast with something crisp. I love cooking for Mom, and she loves assembling her signature boards—cheese, charcuterie, and lately, our shared indulgence: ahi tuna, sliced thin and shimmering with freshness from our favorite local fishmonger.
And this year, we had company.
Ellie—who lives just south of Tampa when she’s not traveling—happened to be in town, so we made a plan for her to join us in Marco for a couple of days. It’s only a few hours’ drive, and I sold her on the idea of a Sunday at Stan’s Idle Hour, Southwest Florida’s most eccentric and beloved institution.
I first connected with Ellie nearly ten years ago during my book tour for FORKS: A Quest for Culture, Cuisine, and Connection. That journey took me across the country in my custom Springer Van, wrapped with graphics and photos from my journey and the book. One stop was the Travel & Adventure Show in Washington, D.C., where I was booked to speak, give cooking demos, and sign books. Ellie was there—drawn in by the motorcycles, adventure, and the stories—she bought the book and I signed it for her. We didn’t know it then, but this would be the beginning of a long and rich friendship.
Years later, during the pandemic, we reconnected under far different circumstances. Ellie was living in D.C. at the time, but her best friend Janya—an equestrian—was badly injured in a freak accident in Oceanside, not far from me in Encinitas. While riding a friend’s horse, the animal reared and fell backwards on her. She suffered life-threatening internal injuries—punctured organs, shattered ribs—and due to COVID restrictions, no one could visit her in the hospital in Escondido.
That’s when Ellie called me.
She remembered my cooking and my love for comfort food. Janya had been longing for her mom’s home cooking. So Ellie wondered if I’d be willing to make some homemade chicken soup for Janya and deliver it to the hospital. I rose to the task—and to this day, both Ellie and Janya insist that soup saved her life.
Since then, Ellie’s become a bit of a regular in Encinitas—especially when I’m off wandering around the globe. She likes to take a break each year from the heat and humidity of Tampa for the mild climate of Encinitas, and she stays in my cottage to look after my cat, Dar, while I’m off on my annual motorcycle adventures. It’s a win-win. There’s no doubt Dar loves her.
Last October, Ellie stayed in my place while I was riding around Europe with Robb. Sadly, that visit got cut short when Hurricane Milton hit Tampa hard, and she had to rush back home.
So it was a treat—finally—to see her again.
She joined Mom and me for our lanai happy hour—cheese, tuna, wine, and long-overdue stories—and then Sunday rolled around. We hit Stan’s. Music, dancing, and people-watching at its finest. We closed down the place, then cruised down the road for one last cocktail and a few bites at Little Bar Restaurant. The next morning, Ellie zipped back to Tampa. A quick visit but full of the good stuff.
Then it was back to just Mom and me, prepping for her birthday.
This year, we wouldn’t go out for Mom’s birthday. Nope. She wanted me to cook. And I was more than up for the challenge.
Back at the fishmonger again—we got ahi for the starter, and for the main course, our monger recommended Triple Tail. Mom was up for it. Though I’d never cooked it before, I was up for the challenge. I pan-seared it and whipped up a sauce inspired by shallots, garlic, white wine, and butter. Simple, clean, and delicious. We lit candles, poured a crisp white, and toasted her birthday with a quiet dinner that felt exactly right.
Of course, we still went out—just not that night. When we did, it was to our tried-and-true favorites. Mom remains loyal to Arturo’s, where the menu and décor hasn’t changed in years, and the staff treats her like a queen. And I always make the case for 844 Gulf & Prime—where their rack of lamb is cooked to perfection. Mom usually orders a fresh fish or one of their well-crafted salads, and between the two of us, we cover all the bases.
And yes—there was Stan’s.
Always Stan’s.
Back at Stan’s Idle Hour, the scene hadn’t changed—music, dancing, Harleys, and a crowd reveling in their own brand of Americana—a Florida-infused Americana. Only this time, they weren’t just cheering for good times; they were toasting and gloating in celebration that their candidate, Mr. Trump, would soon be back in the White House. Mom and I exchanged glances—curiosity, bemusement, maybe a little bit of wonder. How? Why?
Meanwhile, the murmur of quiet side conversations, mostly from snowbirds and a few locals, told another story. People wondering where to escape to, still dizzy from the election only a month ago. Maybe Portugal? Spain? Italy? Canada? The idea of a self-imposed exile seems real for some.
But me?
I don’t stay put because I’ve traveled enough. I stay because I’ve built a life that moves fluidly through all of this, wherever I am. We will survive.
Back to California – Pickleball, Birthdays, and a Bit of Wondering
The best part of returning to San Diego is the flight schedule—it’s always easier going west. I land early, the whole day still ahead of me, and on this particular day, I even made it back in time for my Friday night Pickleball game under the lights at Bobby Riggs. Of course, there would be the usual post-pickleball after-party at Third Corner—the best Friday night combo: friends, laughs, competitive play, and good food, wine, and conversation to wind the night down.
Just when I thought I’d have a little time to relax, I was off to another party. This one? A “Friendsgiving” potluck at Nicki’s house—with who? You guessed it: a bunch of the Pickleball Gang. So fun.
December rolled forward, the year winding down, and for the first time in a long while, I found myself with open space—no travel, no major plans.
For my birthday on December 12th, instead of throwing a big celebration or taking off for some far-flung adventure, I did something different—I accepted a last-minute invitation from my longtime friend Marilee.
She had a new puppy, a kitchen full of baking ingredients, and an idea: “Come bake Christmas cookies with me.”
I met Marilee over a decade ago at a party at Jeff Salz’s home in Encinitas. Jeff, an adventurer, storyteller, and one of the most fascinating people I’ve known, was a force of nature. When COVID hit, he was living in Ecuador, and once admitted to a local hospital, he never came out. This was the first time I’d seen Marilee since we lost him.
So, between batches of sugar cookies and gingerbread, between sips of wine and stolen bites of dough, we talked. We caught up on years, on the people we’d lost, on what life had given, what it had taken, since those wild parties and even wilder dreams. It was a simple night, but it carried weight. A reminder that time moves, people come and go, but real connections never fade.
And then—I found myself wondering about Christmas.
With a year of nonstop movement, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. Maybe a motorcycle ride to the desert, capturing the golden hues of Joshua Tree at sunset, sending off the year with a creative spark. Maybe take the drone out, film a holiday greeting, wrap the year in sound, words, and images.
And then—Jon called.
“Mom’s coming to DC for Christmas. You should come too.”
Another plane. Another last-minute flight. More family, more celebration.
Christmas in Washington, D.C. – Good Food, Good Wine, and Family
Back in Washington, D.C., Christmas unfolded in the best possible way—family gathered, laughter around the table, and incredible meals.
On Christmas Eve, once again as we did on Thanksgiving eve, we dined at Café Milano, a Washington institution, where Franco, the owner, was in full form, orchestrating the evening with charm and flair. The staff catered to our palates, pouring exceptional wines that Jon and I had chosen earlier and plating up course after course of indulgence. As usual, no menu. The place buzzed with energy—a mix of power players, familiar faces, and those simply soaking in the magic of the season. Cafe Milano does it right.
And then, on Christmas Day, we piled into the car and headed to the movies to watch A Complete Unknown, the Bob Dylan biopic starring Timothée Chalamet as Dylan and Edward Norton as Pete Seeger. Jon and I, longtime Dylan fanatics, exchanged knowing glances at certain moments in the film, catching details, quirks, bits of history woven into the narrative. In the car ride home, we let it linger for a while, marveling at how a man who’s been writing and performing for over 60 years could have a movie that only captures five of them. Would there be a follow-up? Probably not—Dylan himself would likely loathe the idea. But still, we wondered.
New Year’s Eve – Dressed to Impress, Toasting to 2025
Back in California, I closed out the year at Kika’s New Year’s Eve party. But Kika had one rule:
“This is New Year’s. No Vuori. No Lululemon. Dress to impress.”
I liked that. And everyone delivered. The women looked stunning, the guys actually put in effort, and the night felt elevated. But, after the ball dropped in New York City, Kika was done. The rest of us? No one wanted it to end. So we kept going.
On the way to Papagayo, I called Audrey, a fellow pickleballer, and pulled her into the fold. Because this was one of those nights—you just knew nobody in our little crew was heading to bed anytime soon. Just before midnight, the band stopped, the servers passed around glasses of champagne, and just like that, it was 2025.
As the lights dimmed and the chairs were going on top of the tables, we headed to my cottage.
We danced. We popped another cork. Made more toasts—some heartfelt, some hilarious. Snapped blurry photos, traded stories, and laughed until we lost track of the hour. Then Kenny reached for a guitar; another grabbed a shaker. The music didn’t stop—it just shifted venues. We jammed, passed around one last bottle, and let the rhythm carry us deeper into the night.
2025 had already arrived—but now, it was ours.
Eventually, as the last of my friends trickled out into the night, I stood there in the quiet, still elated, still buzzing with that end-of-year high.
I scooped up Dar, my cat—the one constant in my life since she found me eleven years ago, just as another year was coming to a close. With one more song playing, I held her to my chest and danced around the room. Just me and my favorite feline, waltzing into 2025.
Reflections on 2024 – The Tapestry Woven
And just like that, another year is in the books.
From rain-slicked roads in Portugal to candlelit dinners in San Sebastián, from the echo of live music in backyard Shangri-Las to quiet nights with Mom by the fireplace in the Black Hills—this was a year of movement, of moments, of showing up.
Writing this was an exercise in memory, in gratitude, in pulling together the threads that wove this past year into something rich, textured, and so full of love and light.
Because that’s the thing—it’s always about people.
It’s the people who make the journey.
It’s the friends I’ve known for decades and the ones I just met but somehow feel like I’ve known forever. It’s the chance encounters, the unexpected reunions, the conversations over wine, the laughter echoing in candlelit rooms, the hands clasped in greeting, in farewell, in celebration.
It’s the servers who remember my name, the winemakers who welcome me into their cellars, the musicians who play the songs that transport me, the strangers who become friends in the span of a single meal, a single ride, a single moment of understanding.
It’s the love and light you bring into my life.
I live my life with no regrets—taking chances, stepping outside my comfort zone, finding opportunities instead of obstacles, embracing life with all its changes, challenges, and uncertainties.
And in doing so, I am continually amazed—again and again—by the sheer magic of how the universe blesses me.
With good friends, a warm and loving family—and you.
Because in the end, this life, this great adventure—it’s a tapestry.
One that keeps weaving. One that keeps surprising. One that keeps proving, time and time again, that there are no coincidences—only connections waiting to happen, and there are no strangers—only friends you haven’t met.
And no matter where it takes me next, or which of you will surprise me with an amazing circumstance that I know isn’t chance, I know it’s that—you—that brings me back to the things that matter most.
So here’s to you.
Here’s to love and light.
I told you it was going to be a long one.
How long? Well, 25,000 words, give or take. More stories than I could count. And yet, I know there are plenty of moments I’ve missed—glances exchanged across a dinner table, the weight of a hug after years apart, the quiet click of a shutter capturing something too fleeting for words.
And yes, I told you—it would be a long one.
But a year this full deserves a reflection this rich.
Here’s to all that we’ve shared—and all the adventures waiting ahead.
See you out there.
I love you all.
I love you.
Let’s make 2025 unforgettable.
