We're on the Road to Everywhere

We spent two weeks in Antalya, Türkiye, and the mountains alone made the trip worthwhile. These were not ordinary mountains. They rose straight up from the sea with a strength that was impossible to ignore. Powerful, yet calm at the same time, they carried a presence that stayed with you. Being near them reminded me how much beauty and mystery still exist in this world when we slow down long enough to notice.

Yes, winter brings colder air, wind, and rain. Warm coats aren’t optional. But what you receive in return feels worth it every single time. The streets open up again, and the towns settle into a softer rhythm. The city feels like it truly belongs to the people who live there, and instead of pushing your way in, you’re invited into their world. The pace slows, the experience deepens, and the true character of a place begins to shine through.

A traditional Turkish breakfast isn’t a single plate set in front of you. It arrives more like a small celebration. The table slowly fills with small dishes, each with its own color and texture, until the table feels warm, abundant, and inviting. Nothing is piled high. Everything is meant to be shared, tasted, and enjoyed at a leisurely pace.

A friend encouraged me to express my reflections on travel through a poem. I wouldn't consider myself a poet by any means; although I wrote poetry in my younger years, that was decades ago. I don't usually share any poetry in these blogs, but today, I'm stepping out of my comfort zone.

Yep . . .  we’ve changed our plans again. Originally, we were going to South America, then we pivoted to Asia. And now - we’re heading back to Europe. At this point, we promise (and hope) - no more changes. With our flight just around the corner in early December, it’s too late for revisions anyway. So what prompted this latest shift?

There’s something fascinating that happens every time we start planning a long international journey. At a certain point, it begins to feel as though we’re not entirely the ones steering the ship. Sure, we make the initial choices - deciding which region to explore, where to base ourselves, and how long to stay in each country - but once those pieces are in place, something shifts. It’s as if the trip takes on a life of its own and begins planning itself. It's the journey bef

Carla and I almost always fly when we travel. We love our adventures, but we’re painfully aware of the environmental cost. Still, I don’t believe the solution is to stop traveling altogether. Because while staying put might lower emissions, it would also lower something just as important: our tolerance for people who don’t look like us, think like us, or believe like us. Imagine a world where we all stayed within our own borders.

Carla and I had our 2026 plans all set. And then, as often happens in life, something shifted. Another door opened. Without warning, an entirely different adventure presented itself, and we felt the unmistakable pull to step through. Instead of heading into the Southlands, we’ve decided to turn east - to Asia.

For me, being in nature is like stepping into a sanctuary. It has always been my spiritual center - the place where I find peace, perspective, and connection. Nature gives me what religion gives to many people: humility, reverence, and awe.

Whenever Carla and I travel - especially in Europe - there’s one question we hear again and again. It’s asked with genuine sincerity, often in quiet moments over coffee or during a conversation with someone we’ve just met: "Why, in the United States, do you choose your guns over the lives of your children?"